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Childhood in literature and art | Project Gutenberg
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<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75367 ***</div>
<div class="ad">
<p class="center larger gothic">Horace E. Scudder</p>
<p class="hanging">JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL; A Biography. With portraits
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<p class="hanging">MEN AND LETTERS. Essays in Characterization and
Criticism. 12mo, gilt top, $1.25.</p>
<p class="hanging">CHILDHOOD IN LITERATURE AND ART: With some
Observations on Literature for Children, 12mo, gilt top,
$1.25.</p>
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Portrait. 16mo, $1.25.</p>
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<p class="hanging">SEVEN LITTLE PEOPLE AND THEIR FRIENDS. Illustrated.
16mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hanging">STORIES FROM MY ATTIC. For Children. Illustrated.
16mo, $1.00.</p>
<p class="hanging">BOSTON TOWN. The Story of Boston told to Children.
Illustrated. Square 8vo, $1.50.</p>
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for Children. Illustrated. Small 4to, $2.50.</p>
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<p class="hanging">THE BODLEY BOOKS. Including Doings of the Bodley
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<p class="center">HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY<br>
<span class="smcap">Boston and New York</span></p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<p class="titlepage larger">CHILDHOOD<br>
<span class="smaller">IN LITERATURE AND ART</span></p>
<p class="titlepage"><i>WITH SOME OBSERVATIONS ON<br>
LITERATURE FOR CHILDREN</i></p>
<p class="titlepage gothic">A Study</p>
<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BY</span><br>
HORACE E. SCUDDER</p>
<figure class="figcenter titlepage illowp60" id="riverside-press" style="max-width: 12.5em;">
<img class="w100" src="images/riverside-press.jpg" alt="The Riverside Press">
</figure>
<p class="titlepage"><span class="smaller">BOSTON AND NEW YORK</span><br>
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY<br>
<span class="smaller gothic">The Riverside Press, Cambridge</span></p>
<p class="titlepage smaller">Copyright, 1894,<br>
<span class="smcap">By HORACE E. SCUDDER</span></p>
<p class="center smaller"><i>All rights reserved.</i></p>
<p class="titlepage smaller"><i>The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass. U. S. A.</i><br>
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p class="center">TO<br>
<br>
<span class="larger">S · C · S ·</span><br>
<br>
WHO WAS A CHILD WHEN THIS BOOK
WAS WRITTEN</p>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2>
</div>
<table>
<tr>
<td class="tdr"></td>
<td></td>
<td class="tdpg smaller">PAGE</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">I.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">Introduction</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#I">3</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">II.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">In Greek and Roman Literature</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#II">6</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">III.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">In Hebrew Life and Literature</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#III">39</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">IV.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">In Early Christianity</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#IV">53</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">V.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">In Mediæval Art</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#V">81</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VI.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">In English Literature and Art</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#VI">104</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VII.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">In French and German Literature</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#VII">180</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">VIII.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">Hans Christian Andersen</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#VIII">201</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr">IX.</td>
<td><span class="smcap">In American Literary Art</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#IX">217</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="tdr"></td>
<td><span class="smcap">Index</span></td>
<td class="tdpg"><a href="#INDEX">247</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span></p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span></p>
<h1>CHILDHOOD IN LITERATURE AND ART</h1>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="I">I<br>
<span class="smaller">INTRODUCTION</span></h2>
</div>
<p>There was a time, just beyond the memory
of men now living, when the Child was
born in literature. At the same period
books for children began to be written.
There were children, indeed, in literature
before Wordsworth created Alice Fell and
Lucy Gray, or breathed the lines beginning,</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“She was a phantom of delight,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">and there were books for the young before
Mr. Day wrote Sandford and Merton;
especially is it to be noted that Goldsmith,
who was an <i>avant-courier</i> of Wordsworth,
had a very delightful perception of the
child, and amused himself with him in the
Vicar of Wakefield, while he or his double
entertained his little friends in real life with
the Renowned History of Goody Two Shoes.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span>
Nevertheless, there has been, since the day
of Wordsworth, such a succession of childish
figures in prose and verse that we are justified
in believing childhood to have been
discovered at the close of the last century.
The child has now become so common that
we scarcely consider how absent he is from
the earlier literature. Men and women are
there, lovers, maidens, and youth, but these
are all with us still. The child has been
added to the <i>dramatis personæ</i> of modern
literature.</p>
<p>There is a correlation between childhood
in literature and a literature for children,
but it will best be understood when one has
considered the meaning of the appearance
and disappearance of the child in different
epochs of literature and art; for while a
hasty survey certainly assures one that the
nineteenth century regards childhood far
more intently than any previous age, it is
impossible that so elemental a figure as the
child should ever have been wholly lost to
sight. A comparison of literatures with reference
to this figure may disclose some of
the fundamental differences which exist
between this century and those which have
preceded it; it may also disclose a still<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span>
deeper note of unity, struck by the essential
spirit in childhood itself. It is not worth
while in such a study to have much recourse
to the minor masters; if a theme so elemental
and so universal in its relations is
not to be illustrated from the great creative
expositors of human nature, it cannot have
the importance which we claim for it.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="II">II<br>
<span class="smaller">IN GREEK AND ROMAN LITERATURE</span></h2>
</div>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>When Dr. Schliemann with his little
shovel uncovered the treasures of Mycenæ
and Ilium, a good many timid souls rejoiced
exceedingly over a convincing proof of the
authenticity of the Homeric legends. There
always will be those who find the proof of
a spiritual fact in some corresponding material
fact; who wish to see the bones of
Agamemnon before they are quite ready to
believe in the Agamemnon of the Iliad; to
whom the Bible is not true until its truth
has been confirmed by some external witness.
But when science has done its utmost,
there still remains in a work of art a certain
testimony to truth, which may be illustrated
by science, but cannot be superseded by it.
Agamemnon has lived all these years in the
belief of men without the aid of any cups,
or saucers, or golden vessels, or even bones.
Literature, and especially imaginative literature,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span>
is the exponent of the life of a
people, and we must still go to it for our
most intimate knowledge. No careful antiquarian
research can reproduce for us the
women of early Greece as Homer has set
them before us in a few lines in his pictures
of Helen and Penelope and Nausikaä.
When, therefore, we ask ourselves of childhood
in Greek life, we may reconstruct it
out of the multitudinous references in Greek
literature to the education of children, to
their sports and games; and it is no very
difficult task to follow the child from birth
through the nursery to the time when it
assumes its place in the active community:
but the main inquiries must still be, What
pictures have we of childhood? What part
does the child play in that drama which is
set before us in a microcosm by poets and
tragedians?</p>
<p>The actions of Homer’s heroes are spiritualized
by reflection. That is, as the tree
which meets the eye becomes a spiritual tree
when one sees its answering image in the
pool which it overhangs, so those likenesses
which Homer sets over against the deeds of
his heroes release the souls of the deeds, and
give them wings for a flight in the imagination.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span>
A crowd of men flock to the assembly:
seen in the bright reflection of
Homer’s imagination, they are a swarm of
bees:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent4">“Being abroad, the earth was overlaid</div>
<div class="verse indent0">With flockers to them, that came forth, as when of frequent bees</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Swarms rise out of a hollow rock, repairing the degrees</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Of their egression endlessly, with ever rising new</div>
<div class="verse indent0">From forth their sweet nest; as their store, still as it faded, grew,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And never would cease sending forth her clusters to the spring,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">They still crowd out so; this flock here, that there, belaboring</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The loaded flowers.”<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>So Chapman, in his Gothic fashion, running
up his little spires and pinnacles upon
the building which he has raised from Homer’s
material; but the idea is all Homer’s,
and Chapman’s “repairing the degrees of
their egression endlessly,” with its resonant
hum, is hardly more intentionally a reflex
of sound and motion than Homer’s αἰεὶ νέον
ἐρχομενάων.</p>
<p>We look again at Chapman’s way of rendering
the caressing little passage in the
fourth book of the Iliad, where Homer,
wishing to speak of the ease and tenderness<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span>
with which Athene turns aside the arrow
shot at Menelaos, calls up the image of a
mother brushing a fly from the face of her
sleeping child:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Stood close before, and slack’d the force the arrow did confer</div>
<div class="verse indent0">With as much care and little hurt as doth a mother use,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And keep off from her babe, when sleep doth through his powers diffuse</div>
<div class="verse indent0">His golden humor, and th’ assaults of rude and busy flies</div>
<div class="verse indent0">She still checks with her careful hand.”<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>Here the Englishman has caught the
notion of ease, and emphasized that; yet
he has missed the tenderness, and all because
he was not content to accept the simple
image, but must needs refract it into
“assaults of rude and busy flies.” Better
is the rendering of the picturesque figure in
which Ajax, beset by the Trojans, is likened
to an ass belabored by a pack of boys:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“As when a dull mill ass comes near a goodly field of corn,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Kept from the birds by children’s cries, the boys are overborne</div>
<div class="verse indent0">By his insensible approach, and simply he will eat</div>
<div class="verse indent0">About whom many wands are broke, and still the children beat,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">And still the self-providing ass doth with their weakness bear,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Not stirring till his paunch be full, and scarcely then will steer.”<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>Apollo, sweeping away the rampart of the
Greeks, does it as easily as a boy, who has
heaped a pile of sand upon the seashore
in childish sport, in sport razes it with feet
and hands. Achilles half pities, half chides,
the imploring, weeping Patroclos, when he
says,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent18">“Wherefore weeps my friend</div>
<div class="verse indent0">So like a girl, who, though she sees her mother cannot tend</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Her childish humors, hangs on her, and would be taken up,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Still viewing her with tear-drowned eyes, when she has made her stoop.”<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Chapman’s “hangs on her” is hardly so
particular as Homer’s εἱανοῦ ἀπτομένη, plucks
at her gown; and he has quite missed the
picture offered by the poet, who makes the
child, as soon as she discovers her mother,
beg to be taken up, and insistently stop her
as she goes by on some errand. Here again
the naïve domestic scene in Homer is
charged in Chapman with a certain half-tragic
meaning.</p>
<p>This, we think, completes the short catalogue<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span>
of Homer’s indirect reference to childhood,
and the comparison with the Elizabethan
poet’s use of the same forms brings
out more distinctly the sweet simplicity and
native dignity of the Greek. When childhood
is thus referred to by Homer, it is used
with no condescension, and with no thought
of investing it with any adventitious property.
It is a part of nature, as the bees are
a part of nature; and when Achilles likens
his friend in his tears to a little girl wishing
to be taken up by her mother, he is not
taunting him with being a “cry-baby.”</p>
<p>Leaving the indirect references, one recalls
immediately the single picture of childhood
which stands among the heroic scenes
of the Iliad. When Hector has his memorable
parting with Andromache, as related
in the sixth book of the Iliad, the
child Astyanax is present in the nurse’s
arms. Here Chapman is so careless that
we desert him, and fall back on a simple
rendering into prose of the passage relating
to the child:—</p>
<p>“With this, famous Hector reached forth
to take his boy, but back into the bosom of
his fair-girded nurse the boy shrank with
a cry, frightened at the sight of his dear<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span>
father; for he was afraid of the brass,—yes,
and of the plume made of a horse’s
mane, when he saw it nodding dreadfully at
the helmet’s peak. Then out laughed his
dear father and his noble mother. Quick
from his head famous Hector took the helmet
and laid it on the ground, where it
shone. Then he kissed his dear son and
tossed him in the air, and thus he prayed
to Zeus and all the gods.... These were
his words, and so he placed the boy, his
boy, in the hands of his dear wife; and
she received him into her odorous bosom,
smiling through her tears. Her husband
had compassion on her when he saw it, and
stroked her with his hand, spoke to her, and
called her by her name.”<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p>
<p>Like so many other passages in Homer,
this at once offers themes for sculpture.
Flaxman was right when he presented
his series of illustrations to the Iliad and
Odyssey in outline, and gave a statuesque
character to the groups, though his interpretation
of this special scene is commonplace.
There is an elemental property
about the life exhibited in Homer which
the firm boundaries of sculpture most fitly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span>
inclose. Thus childhood, in this passage, is
characterized by an entirely simple emotion,—the
sudden fear of an infant at the sight
of his father’s shining helmet and frowning
plume; while the relation of maturity to
childhood is presented in the strong man’s
concession to weakness, as he laughs and
lays aside his helmet, and then catches and
tosses the child.</p>
<p>It is somewhat perilous to comment upon
Homer. The appeal in his poetry is so direct
to universal feeling, and so free from the
entanglements of a too refined sensibility,
that the moment one begins to enlarge upon
the sentiment in his epic one is in danger
of importing into it subtleties which
would have been incomprehensible to Homer.
There is preserved, especially in the Iliad,
the picture of a society which is physically
developed, but intellectually unrefined. The
men weep like children when they cannot
have what they want, and the passions which
stir life are those which lie nearest the physical
forms of expression. When we come
thus upon this picture of Hector’s parting
with Andromache, we are impressed chiefly
with the fact that it is human life in outline.
Here are great facts of human experience,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span>
and they are so told that not one of them
requires a word of explanation to make it
intelligible to a child. The child, we are
reminded in a later philosophy, is father of
the man, and Astyanax is a miniature Hector;
for we have only to go forward a few
pages to find Hector, when brought face
to face with Ajax, confessing to a terrible
thumping of fear in his breast.</p>
<p>There is one figure in early Greek domestic
life which has frequent recognition in literature.
It helps in our study of this subject
to find the nurse so conspicuous; in the
passage last quoted she is given an epithet
which is reserved for goddesses and noble
women. The definite regard paid to one so
identified with childhood is in accord with
the open acceptance of the physical aspect
of human nature which is at the basis of the
Homeric poems. The frankness with which
the elemental conditions of life are made to
serve the poet’s purpose, so that eating and
drinking, sleeping and fighting, weeping and
laughing, running and dancing, are familiar
incidents of the poem, finds a place for the
nurse and the house-dog. Few incidents in
the Odyssey are better remembered by its
readers than the recognition of the travel-worn<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span>
Odysseus by the old watch-dog, and
by the nurse who washes the hero’s feet and
discovers the scar of the wound made by the
boar’s tusk when the man before her was a
youth.</p>
<p>The child, in the Homeric conception, was
a little human creature uninvested with any
mystery, a part of that society which had itself
scarcely passed beyond the bounds of
childhood. As the horizon which limited
early Greece was a narrow one, and the
world in which the heroes moved was surrounded
by a vast <i>terra incognita</i>, so human
life, in its Homeric acceptance, was one
of simple forms; that which lay beyond tangible
and visible experience was rarely visited,
and was peopled with shapes which
brought a childish fright. There was, in a
word, nothing in the development of man’s
nature, as recorded by Homer, which would
make him look with questioning toward his
child. He regarded the world about him
with scarcely more mature thought than did
the infant whom he tossed in the air, and,
until life should be apprehended in its more
complex relations, he was not likely to see
in his child anything more than an epitome
of his own little round. The contrast between<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_16"></a>[16]</span>
childhood and manhood was too faint
to serve much of a purpose in art.</p>
<p>The difference between Homer and the
tragedians is at once perceived to be the
difference between a boy’s thought and a
man’s thought. The colonial growth, the
Persian war, the political development, the
commerce with other peoples, were witnesses
to a more complex life and the quick causes
of a profounder apprehension of human
existence. It happens that we have in the
Œdipus Tyrannus of Sophocles an incident
which offers a suggestive comparison with
the simple picture of the parting of Hector
and Andromache. In the earlier poem, the
hero, expecting the fortunes of war, disdains
all suggestions of prudence, and speaks as a
brave man must, who sets honor above ease,
and counts the cost of sacrifice only to stir
himself to greater courage and resolution.
He asks that his child may take his place in
time, and he dries his wife’s tears with the
simple words that no man can separate him
from her, that fate alone can intervene; in
Chapman’s nervous rendering:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent14">“Afflict me not, dear wife,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">With these vain griefs. He doth not live that can disjoin my life</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_17"></a>[17]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">And this firm bosom but my fate; and fate, whose wings can fly?</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Noble, ignoble, fate controls. Once born, the best must die.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>Here, the impending disaster to Troy,
with the inclusion of Hector’s fortune,
appears as one fact out of many, an incident
in life, bringing other incidents in its train,
yet scarcely more ethical in its relations
than if it followed from the throw of dice.
In the Œdipus, when the king, overwhelmed
by his fate, in the supreme hour of his
anguish takes vengeance upon his eyes, there
follows a passage of surpassing pathos. To
the mad violence has succeeded a moment of
tender grief, and the unhappy Œdipus
stretches out his arms for his children, that
he may bid them farewell. His own terrible
fate is dimmed in his thought by the suffering
which the inevitable curse of the house
is to bring into their lives. He reflects; he
dismisses his sons,—they, at least, can
fight their battles in the world; he turns to
his defenseless little daughters, and pours
out for them the tears of a stricken father.
The not-to-be-questioned fate of Homer, an
inexplicable incident of life, which men
must set aside from calculation and thought<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_18"></a>[18]</span>
because it is inexplicable, has become in
Sophocles a terrible mystery, connecting
itself with man’s conduct, even when that is
unwittingly in violation of divine decree, and
following him with such unrelenting vigilance
that death cannot be counted the end
of perilous life. The child, in the supreme
moment of Hector’s destiny, is to him the
restoration of order, the replacement of his
loss; the children, in the supreme moment
of the destiny of Œdipus, are to him only
the means of prolonging and rendering more
murky the darkness which has fallen upon
him. Hector, looking upon Astyanax, sees
the world rolling on, sunlight chasing
shadow, repeating the life he has known;
Œdipus, looking upon Antigone and Ismene,
sees new disclosures of the possibilities of
a dread power under which the world is
abiding.</p>
<p>In taking one step more from Sophocles
to Euripides, there is food for thought in a
new treatment of childhood. Whatever view
one may choose to take of Euripides and his
art in its relation to the heroic tragedy, there
can be no question as to the nearness in
which Euripides stands to the characters
of his dramas, and this nearness is shown<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_19"></a>[19]</span>
in nothing more than in the use which he
makes of domestic life. With him, children
are the necessary illustrations of humanity.
Thus, in the Medea, when Medea is pleading
with Creon for a respite of a day only
from banishment, the argument which prevails
is that which rests on pity for her
little ones, and in the very centre of Medea’s
vengeance is that passion for her children
which bids her slay them rather than
leave them</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Among their unfriends, to be trampled on.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Again, in Alkestis, the last words of the
heroine before she goes to her sacrifice are
a demand of Admetus that the integrity of
their home shall be preserved, and no step-dame
take her place with the children.
Both Alkestis and Admetus, in that wonderful
scene, are imaged to the eye as part of a
group, and, though the children themselves
do not speak, the words and the very gestures
are directed toward them.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> My children, ye have heard your father’s pledge</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Never to set a step-dame over you,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Or thrust me from the allegiance of his heart.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> What now I say shall never be unsaid.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> Then here our children I entrust to thee.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_20"></a>[20]</span></div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> And I receive them as the gage of love.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> Be thou a mother to them in my place.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> Need were, when such a mother has been lost.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> Children, I leave you when I fain would live.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> Alas! what shall I do, bereft of thee?</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> Time will assuage thy grief: the dead are nought.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> Take, take me with thee to the underworld.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> It is enough that I must die for thee.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> O Heaven! of what a partner I am reft!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> My eyes grow dim and the long sleep comes on.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> I too am lost if thou dost leave me, wife.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> Think of me as of one that is no more.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> Lift up thy face, quit not thy children dear.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> Not willingly; but, children, fare ye well.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> Oh, look upon them, look!</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> <span style="margin-left: 13.5em;">My end is come.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> Oh, leave us not.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Alkestis.</i> <span style="margin-left: 9em;">Farewell.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Admetus.</i> <span style="margin-left: 13.5em;">I am undone.</span></div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0"><i>Chorus.</i> Gone, gone; thy wife, Admetus, is no more.<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>A fragment of Danaë puts into the mouth
of Danaë herself apparently lines which send
one naturally to Simonides:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“He, leaping to my arms and in my bosom,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Might haply sport, and with a crowd of kisses</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Might win my soul forth; for there is no greater</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Love-charm than close companionship, my father.”<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>It cannot have escaped notice how large a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_21"></a>[21]</span>
part is played by children in the spectacular
appointments of the Greek drama. Those
symbolic processions, those groups of human
life, those scenes of human passion, are rendered
more complete by the silent presence
of children. They serve in the temples;
their eyes are quick to catch the coming
of the messenger; they suffer dumbly in the
fate that pulls down royal houses and topples
the pillars of ancestral palaces. It
was impossible that it should be otherwise.
The Greek mind, which found expression in
tragic art, was oppressed by the problems,
not alone of individual fate, but of the subtle
relations of human life. The serpents winding
about Laokoön entwined in their folds
the shrinking youths, and the father’s anguish
was for the destiny which would not
let him suffer alone. Yet there is scarcely
a child’s voice to be heard in the whole
range of Greek poetic art. The conception
is universally of the child, not as acting, far
less as speaking, but as a passive member of
the social order. It is not its individual life
so much as its related life which is contemplated.</p>
<p>We are related to the Greeks not only
through the higher forms of literature, but<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_22"></a>[22]</span>
through the political thought which had
with them both historical development and
speculative representation. It comes thus
within the range of our inquiry to ask what
recognition of childhood there was in writings
which sought to give an artistic form
to political thought. There is a frequent
recurrence by Plato to the subject of childhood
in the state, and we may see in his
presentation not only the germinal relation
which childhood bears, so that education becomes
necessarily one of the significant functions
of government, but also what may not
unfairly be called a reflection of divinity.</p>
<p>The education which in the ideal state is
to be given to children is represented by
him, indeed, as the evolution from the sensations
of pleasure and pain to the perception
of virtue and vice. “Pleasure and pain,”
he says,<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> “I maintain to be the first perceptions
of children, and I say that they are
the forms under which virtue and vice are
originally present to them. As to wisdom
and true and fixed opinions, happy is the
man who acquires them, even when declining
in years; and he who possesses them,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_23"></a>[23]</span>
and the blessings which are contained in
them, is a perfect man. Now I mean by
education that training which is given by
suitable habits to the first instincts of virtue
in children; when pleasure and friendship
and pain and hatred are rightly implanted
in souls not yet capable of understanding
the nature of them, and who find them,
after they have attained reason, to be in
harmony with her. This harmony of the
soul, when perfected, is virtue; but the
particular training in respect of pleasure
and pain which leads you always to hate
what you ought to hate, and love what you
ought to love, from the beginning to the
end, may be separated off, and, in my view,
will be rightly called education.”</p>
<p>In the Republic, Plato theorizes at great
length upon a possible selection and training
of children, which rests for its basis
upon a too pronounced physical assumption,
so that one in reading certain passages might
easily fancy that he was considering the
production of a superior breed of colts, and
that the soul was the product of material
forces only; but the fifth book, which contains
these audacious speculations, may fairly
be taken in the spirit in which Proudhon is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_24"></a>[24]</span>
said to have thrown out some of his extravagant
assertions,—he expected to be beaten
down in his price.</p>
<p>There are other passages, especially in
the Laws, in reading which one is struck by
a certain reverence for childhood, as that
interesting one where caution is given
against disturbing the uniformity of children’s
plays on account of their connection
with the life of the state. The modern
theories of the Kindergarten find a notable
support in Plato’s reasoning: “I say that
in states generally no one has observed that
the plays of childhood have a great deal to
do with the permanence or want of permanence
in legislation. For when plays are
ordered with a view to children having the
same plays and amusing themselves after
the same manner and finding delight in the
same playthings, the more solemn institutions
of the state are allowed to remain undisturbed.
Whereas, if sports are disturbed
and innovations are made in them, and they
constantly change, and the young never
speak of their having the same likings or
the same established notions of good and
bad taste, either in the bearing of their
bodies or in their dress, but he who devises<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_25"></a>[25]</span>
something new and out of the way in figures
and colors and the like is held in special
honor, we may truly say that no greater evil
can happen in a state; for he who changes
the sports is secretly changing the manners
of the young, and making the old to be dishonored
among them, and the new to be
honored. And I affirm that there is nothing
which is a greater injury to all states
than saying or thinking thus.”<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></p>
<p>It is, however, most germane to our purpose
to cite a striking passage from the
Laws, in which Plato most distinctly recognizes
the power resident in childhood to assimilate
the purest expression of truth. The
Athenian, in the dialogue, is speaking, and
says: “The next suggestion which I have
to offer is that all our three choruses [that
is, choruses representing the three epochs
of life] shall sing to the young and tender
souls of children, reciting in their strains all
the noble thoughts of which we have already
spoken, or are about to speak; and the sum
of them shall be that the life which is by the
gods deemed to be the happiest is the holiest,
and we shall affirm this to be a most certain
truth; and the minds of our young disciples<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_26"></a>[26]</span>
will be more likely to receive these words of
ours than any others which we might address
to them....</p>
<p>“First will enter, in their natural order,
the sacred choir, composed of children, which
is to sing lustily the heaven-taught lay to the
whole city. Next will follow the chorus of
young men under the age of thirty, who will
call upon the God Pæan to testify to the
truth of their words, and will pray to him to
be gracious to the youth and to turn their
hearts. Thirdly, the choir of elder men, who
are from thirty to sixty years of age, will
also sing. There remain those who are too
old to sing, and they will tell stories illustrating
the same virtues, as with the voice
of an oracle.”<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a></p>
<p>Plato used human society as material from
which to construct an organization artistically
perfect and representing political order,
just as Pheidias or Praxiteles used clay as
a material from which to construct the human
being artistically perfect and representing
the soul of man. With this fine organism
of the ideal state Plato incorporated his
conception of childhood in its two relations
of singing and being sung to. He thought<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_27"></a>[27]</span>
of the child as a member of the three-fold
chorus of life: and when he set these choirs
hymning the divine strain, he made the recipients
of the revelation to be themselves
children, the forming elements of the growing,
organic state. Certainly it is a wide arc
which is spanned by these three great representatives
of Greek art, and in passing from
Homer to Sophocles, and from Sophocles to
Plato, we are not merely considering the
epic, the tragic, and the philosophic treatment
of childhood in literature; we are discovering
the development of the conception
of childhood in a nation which has communicated
to history the eidolon of the fairest
humanity. It is scarcely too much to speak
of it as the evolution of a soul, and to find,
as one so often finds in his study of Greece,
the outline of the course of the world’s
thought.</p>
<p>The old, formal view of antiquity, which
once placed Grecian life almost beyond the
pale of our human sympathy, and made
the men and women cold marble figures
in our imagination, has given place to a
warmer regard. Through literary reproduction,
which paraphrases Greek life in the
dramatic art of Browning and Fitzgerald,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_28"></a>[28]</span>
gives us Spencerian versions of Homer, or,
better still, the healthy childlike recital in
Mr. Palmer’s version of the Odyssey, and
enables us to sit down after dinner with
Plato, Mr. Jowett being an idiomatic interpreter;
through the discoveries of Schliemann
and others, by which the mythic and
heroic ages of Greece are made almost
grotesquely familiar,—we are coming to
read Grecian history, in Niebuhr’s felicitous
phrase, as if it really happened, and to lay
aside our artificial and distant ways of becoming
familiar with Greek life. Yet the
means which have led to this modern attitude
toward classic antiquity are themselves
the product of modern life; the secrets of
Greek life are more open to us now because
our own life has become freer, more hospitable,
and more catholic. It is a delight to
us to turn from the marble of Pheidias to
the terra cotta of the unknown modelers of
the Tanagra figurines, while these homelike,
domestic images serve as interpreters, also,
of the larger, nobler designs. So we have
recourse to those fragments of the Greek
Anthology which give us glimpses of Greek
interiors, and by means of them we find a
side-light thrown upon the more majestic
expressions of poetic and dramatic art.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_29"></a>[29]</span></p>
<p>The Anthology gathers for us the epigrams,
epitaphs, proverbs, fables, and little
odds and ends which have been saved from
the ruins of literature, and in turning its
leaves one is impressed by the large number
of references to childhood. It is as when,
rambling through the streets of the uncovered
Pompeii, one comes upon the playthings
of children dead nigh two thousand years.
Here are tender memorials of lost babes in
inscriptions upon forgotten tombs, and laments
of fathers and mothers for the darkness
which has come upon their dwellings.
We seem to hear the prattle of infancy and
the mother’s lullaby. The Greeks, as we,
covered their loss with an instinctive trust in
some better fortune in store for the child,
and hushed their skepticism with the song
of hope and the remembrance of stories
which they had come in colder hours to disbelieve.
Here, for example, is an anonymous
elegy:—</p>
<p>“Thou hast not, O ruler Pluto, with pious
intent, stolen for thy underground world a
girl of five years, admired by all. For thou
hast cut, as it were, from the root, a sweet-scented
rose in the season of a commencing
spring, before it had completed its proper<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_30"></a>[30]</span>
time. But come, Alexander and Philtatus;
do not any longer weep and pour forth lamentations
for the regretted girl. For she
had, yes, she had a rosy face which meant
that she should remain in the immortal dwellings
of the sky. Trust, then, to stories of
old. For it was not Death, but the Naiads,
who stole the good girl as once they stole
Hylas.”<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a></p>
<p>Perhaps the most celebrated of these tender
domestic passages is to be found in the
oft-quoted lines from Simonides, where
Danaë sings over the boy Perseus:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“When in the ark of curious workmanship</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The winds and swaying waters fearfully</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Were rocking her, with streaming eyes, around</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Her boy the mother threw her arms and said:</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent2">“‘O darling, I am very miserable;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But thou art cosy-warm and sound asleep</div>
<div class="verse indent0">In this thy dull, close-cabin’d prison-house,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Stretched at full ease in the dark, ebon gloom.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Over thy head of long and tangled hair</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The wave is rolling; but thou heedest not;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nor heedest thou the noises of the winds,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Wrapt in thy purple cloak, sweet pretty one.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent2">“‘But if this fearful place had fear for thee,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Those little ears would listen to my words;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But sleep on, baby, and let the sea-waves sleep,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_31"></a>[31]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">And sleep our own immeasurable woes.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">O father Zeus, I pray some change may come;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But, father, if my words are over-bold,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Have pity, and for the child’s sake pardon me.’”<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>As before we stopped in front of the
charming group which Homer gives us in
the parting of Hector and Andromache,
with the child Astyanax set in the midst, so
in taking the poet who occupies the chief
place in Latin literature we find a significant
contrast. The picture of Æneas bearing
upon his shoulders the aged Anchises and
leading by the hand the young Ascanius is
a distinct Roman picture. The two poems
move through somewhat parallel cycles, and
have adventures which are common to both;
but the figure of Odysseus is essentially a
single figure, and his wanderings may easily
be taken to typify the excursions of the
human soul. Æneas, on the other hand,
seems always the centre of a family group,
and his journeyings always appear to be
movements toward a final city and nation.
The Greek idea of individuality and the
Roman of relationship have signal illustration<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_32"></a>[32]</span>
in these poems. Throughout the Æneid
the figure of Ascanius is an important one.
There is a nice disclosure of growth in personality,
and one is aware that the grandson
is coming forward into his place as a
member of the family, to be thereafter representative.
The poet never loses sight of
the boy’s future. Homer, in his shield of
Achilles, that microcosm of human life, forgets
to make room for children. Virgil, in
his prophetic shield, shows the long triumphs
from Ascanius down, and casts a light upon
the cave wherein the twin boys were suckled
by the wolf. One of the most interesting
episodes in the Æneid is the childhood of
Camilla, in which the warrior maid’s nature
is carried back and reproduced in diminutive
form. The evolutions of the boys in
the fifth book, while full of boyish life,
come rather under the form of mimic soldiery
than of spontaneous youth. In one of
the Eclogues, Virgil has a graceful suggestion
of the stature of a child by its ability to
reach only the lowest branches of a tree.</p>
<p>Childhood, in Roman literature, is not
contemplated as a fine revelation of nature.
In the grosser conception, children are reckoned
as scarcely more than cubs; but with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_33"></a>[33]</span>
the strong hold which the family idea had
upon the Roman mind, it was impossible
that in the refinement which came gradually
upon life childhood should not play a part
of its own in poetry, and come to represent
the more spiritual side of the family life.
Thus Catullus, in one of his nuptial odes,
has a charming picture of infancy awaking
into consciousness and affection:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Soon my eyes shall see, mayhap,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Young Torquatus on the lap</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Of his mother, as he stands</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Stretching out his tiny hands,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And his little lips the while</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Half open on his father’s smile.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“And oh! may he in all be like</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Manlius, his sire, and strike</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Strangers when the boy they meet</div>
<div class="verse indent0">As his father’s counterfeit,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And his face the index be</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Of his mother’s chastity.”<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>The epitaphs and the elegies of the Greek
Anthology have their counterpart in Latin.
Mr. Thompson has tried his hand at a passage
from Statius:<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a>—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="center">ON THE DEATH OF A CHILD.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">Shall I not mourn thee, darling boy? with whom,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Childless I missed not children of my own;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I, who first caught and pressed thee to my breast,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_34"></a>[34]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">And called thee mine, and taught thee sounds and words,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And solved the riddle of thy murmurings,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And stoop’d to catch thee creeping on the ground,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And propp’d thy steps, and ever had my lap</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ready, if drowsy were those little eyes,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To rock them with a lullaby to sleep;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Thy first word was my name, thy fun my smile,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And not a joy of thine but came from me.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>There is, too, that epitaph of Martial on
the little girl Erotion, closing with the lines
which may possibly have been in Gray’s
mind when he wrote the discarded verse of
his Elegy, Englished thus:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Let not the sod too stiffly stretch its girth</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Above those tender limbs, erstwhile so free;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Press lightly on her form, dear Mother Earth,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Her little footsteps lightly fell on thee.”<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>In the literature which sounds the deeper
waters of life, we find references to childhood;
but the child rarely, if ever, draws
the thought outside of the confines of this
world. As near an approach as any to a perception
of the mystery of childhood is in a
passage in Lucretius, where the poet looks
down with compassion upon the new-born
infant as one of the mysteries of nature:
“Moreover, the babe, like a sailor cast
ashore by the cruel waves, lies naked on the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_35"></a>[35]</span>
ground, speechless, in need of every aid to
life when first nature has cast him forth by
great throes from his mother’s womb, and he
fills the air with his piteous wail, as befits
one whose doom it is to pass through so
much misery in life.”<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a> Lucretius displayed
a profound reverence for human affection.
Scattered through his great poem are fine
lines in which childhood appears. “Soon,”
he says, in one mournful passage,—“soon
shall thy home receive thee no more with
glad welcome, nor thy dear children run to
snatch thy first kiss, touching thy heart with
silent gladness.”<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p>
<p>Juvenal, with the thought of youth as the
possible restoration of a sinking world, utters
a cry, which has often been taken up by
sensualists even, when he injects into his
pitiless satire the solemn words, “the greatest
reverence is due to the boy.”<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a></p>
<p>Any survey of ancient Greek and Roman
life would be incomplete which left out of
view the supernatural element. We need
not inquire whether there was a conscious<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_36"></a>[36]</span>
materialization of spiritual forces, or an
idealization of physical phenomena. We
have simply to do with certain shapes and
figures which dwelt in the mind and formed
a part of its furniture; coming and going
like shadows, yet like shadows confessing a
forming substance; embodying belief and
symbolizing moods. In that overarching
and surrounding world, peopled by the
countless personages of Greek and Roman
supernaturalism, we may discover, if we will,
a vague, distorted, yet sometimes transcendent
reflection of the life which men and
women were living upon the more palpable
and tangible earth.</p>
<p>What, then, has the childhood of the gods
to tell us? We have the playful incident
of Hermes, or Mercurius, getting out of his
cradle to steal the oxen of Admetos, and the
similar one of Herakles strangling the snakes
that attacked him just after his birth; but
these are simply stories intended to carry
back into childhood the strength of the one
and the cunning of the other. It is more to
our purpose to note the presence in the Pantheon
of the child who remains always a
child, and is known to us familiarly as Eros,
or Cupid, or Amor. It is true that the myth<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_37"></a>[37]</span>
includes the union of Cupid and Psyche;
nevertheless, the prevailing conception is of
a boy, winged, armed with bow and arrows,
the son and messenger of Venus. It may
be said that the myth gradually adapted
itself to this form, which is not especially
apparent in the earlier stories. The figure
of Love, as thus presented, has been more
completely adopted into modern poetry than
any other in the old mythology, and it cannot
be said that its characteristics have been
materially altered. It is doubtful whether
the ancient idea was more simple than the
same when reproduced in Thorwaldsen’s
sculpture, or in Ben Jonson’s Venus’ Runaway.
The central conception is essentially
an unmoral one; it knows not right or
wrong, good or evil; the mischief-making is
capricious, and not malicious. There is the
idea only of delight, of an innocence which
is untutored, of a will which is the wind’s
will. It would seem as if, in fastening upon
childhood as the embodiment of love, the
ancients, as well as their modern heirs, were
bent upon ridding life of conscience and
fate,—upon making love to have neither
memory nor foresight, but only the joy of
the moment. This sporting child was a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_38"></a>[38]</span>
refuge, in their minds, from the ills of life,
a residence of the one central joy of the
world. There is an infinite pathos in the
erection of childhood into a temple for the
worship of Love. There was, indeed, in the
reception of this myth, a wide range from
purity to grossness, as the word “love” itself
has to do service along an arc which subtends
heaven and hell; but when we distill
the poetry and art which gather about the
myth of Cupid, the essence will be found in
this conception of love as a child,—a conception
never wholly lost, even when the
child was robbed of the purity which we recognize
as its ideal property. It should be
noted, also, that the Romans laid hold of
this idea more eagerly than did the Greeks;
for the child itself, though more artistically
set forth in Greek literature, appears as a
more vital force in Roman literature.<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a></p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_39"></a>[39]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="III">III<br>
<span class="smaller">IN HEBREW LIFE AND LITERATURE</span></h2>
</div>
<p>The literature of Greece and Rome is a
possession of the modern world. For the
most part it has been taken as an independent
creation, studied indeed with reference
to language as the vehicle of thought, but
after all chiefly as an art. It is within a
comparatively recent time that the conception
of an historical study of literature has
been prominent, and that men have gone to
Greek and Roman poetry with an eager
passion for the discovery of ancient life.
The result of these new methods has been
to humanize our conception of the literature
under examination.</p>
<p>Singularly enough, while the modern world
has been influenced by the classic world
chiefly through its language, literature, and
institutions, the third great stream of influence
which has issued from ancient
sources has been one in which literature as
such has been almost subordinated to the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_40"></a>[40]</span>
religious and ethical ideas of which it was
the vehicle; even the strong institutional
forces inherent in it have had only exceptional
attention. There was a time, indeed,
when the history of the Jews, as contained
in the books of the Old Testament, was isolated
from the history of mankind and
treated in an artificial manner, at its best
made to illustrate conduct, somewhat as
Latin literature was made to exemplify
syntax. The old distinction of sacred and
profane history did much to obscure the
human element in what was called sacred
history, and to blot out the divine element
in what was called profane history. There
are many who can remember the impression
made upon their minds when they learned
for the first time of the contemporaneousness
of events in Jewish and Grecian history; and
it is not impossible that some can even recall
a period in their lives when Bible people
and the Bible lands were almost as distinct
and separate in their conception as if they
belonged to another planet.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, the reality of Old Testament
history, while suffering from lack of proportion
in relation to other parts of human history,
has been impressed upon modern civilization<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_41"></a>[41]</span>
through its close identification with
the religious life. The inheritance of these
scriptures of the ancient Hebrew has been
so complete that the modern Jew is regarded
almost as a pretender when he sets up a
claim to special possession. We jostle him
out of the way, and appropriate his national
documents as the old title-deeds of Christianity.
There is, indeed, an historic truth
involved in this; but, however we may regard
it, we are brought back to the significant
fact that along with the Greek and the Roman
influence upon modern life has been
the mighty force of Hebraism. The Greek
has impressed himself upon our modes and
processes of thought, the Roman upon our
organization, the Hebrew upon our religious
and social life.<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p>
<p>It is certain that the Bible has been a
storehouse from which have been drawn
illustrations of life and character, and that
these have had an authority beyond anything
in classic history and literature. It
has been the book from which youth with us
has drawn its conceptions of life outside of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_42"></a>[42]</span>
the limited circle of human experience; and
the geographical, historical, and archæological
apparatus employed to illustrate it has
been far more considerable than any like
apparatus in classical study. The Bible has
been the university to the person of ordinary
culture; it has brought into his life a foreign
element which Greece and Rome have
been powerless to present; and though the
images of this remote foreign life often
have been distorted, and strangely mingled
with familiar notions, there can be no doubt
that the mind has been enlarged by this
extension of its interests and knowledge.</p>
<p>It is worth while, therefore, to ask what
conceptions of childhood are discoverable in
the Old Testament literature. The actual
appearances of children in the narrative
portions are not frequent. We have the
incident of the exposure of Moses as a babe
in the bulrushes; the sickness and death of
Bathsheba’s child, with the pathetic story
of the erring father’s fasting and prayer;
the expulsion of Ishmael; the childhood
of Samuel in the temple; the striking narrative
of the restoration of the son of the
widow of Zarephath by Elijah; and the still
more graphic and picturesque description<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_43"></a>[43]</span>
of the bringing back to life by Elisha of
the child who had been born at his intercession
to the Shunamite, and had been
sunstruck when in the field with his father.
Then there is the abrupt and hard to be
explained narrative of the jeering boys who
followed the prophet Elisha with derisive
cries, as they saw how different he was in
external appearance from the rugged and
awe-inspiring Elijah. Whatever may be
the interpretation of the fearful retribution
which befell those rude boys, and the indication
which was shown of the majesty of the
prophetic office, it is clear that the Jew of
that day would not have felt any disproportion
between the guilt of the boys and their
dire and speedy punishment; he would have
been impressed by the sanctity of the prophet,
and the swiftness of the divine demonstration.
Life and death were nothing
before the integrity of the divine ideal, and
the complete subordination of children to
the will of their parents accustomed the
mind to an easy assent to the exhibition of
what seems to us almost arbitrary will.</p>
<p>No attentive reader of the Old Testament
has failed to remark the prominence given
to the preservation of the family succession,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_44"></a>[44]</span>
and to the birth of male children. That
laugh of Sarah—at first of scorn, then of
triumph—sounds out from the early records
with a strange, prophetic voice; and one
reads the thirtieth chapter of the book of
Genesis with a sense of the wild, passionate
rivalry of the two wives of Jacob, as they
bring forth, one after another, the twelve
sons of the patriarch. The burst of praise
also from Hannah, when she was freed from
her bitter shame and had brought forth her
son Samuel, has its echo through history
and psalm and prophecy until it issues in
the clear, bell-like tones of the Magnificat,
thenceforward to be the hymn of triumph of
the Christian church. The voice of God,
as it uttered itself in commandment and
prophetic warning, was for children and
children’s children to the latest generation.
It is not the person so much as the family
that is addressed, and the strongest warnings,
the brightest promises to the fathers,
are through the children. The prophet Hosea
could use no more terrible word to the
people than when, speaking as the mouthpiece
of God, he says: “Seeing thou hast
forgotten the law of thy God, I will also
forget thy children;”<a id="FNanchor_21" href="#Footnote_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> and Zechariah, inspiriting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_45"></a>[45]</span>
the people, declares: “They shall
remember me in far countries; and they
shall live with their children.”<a id="FNanchor_22" href="#Footnote_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a> The promise
of the golden age of peace and prosperity
has its climax in the innocence of
childhood. “There shall yet old men and
old women dwell in the streets of Jerusalem,
and every man with his staff in his hand for
very age. And the streets of the city shall
be full of boys and girls playing in the
streets thereof;”<a id="FNanchor_23" href="#Footnote_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> while the lofty anticipation
of Isaiah, in words which still serve
as symbols of hopeful humanity, reaches its
height in the prediction of a profound peace
among the very brutes, when the wolf and
the lamb, the leopard and the kid, the calf,
the young lion, and the fatling shall not only
lay aside their mutual hate and fear, but
shall be obedient to the tender voice and
gentle hand of a little child, and even the
noxious reptiles shall be playmates for the
infant.<a id="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> In the Greek fable, Hercules in
his cradle strangled the snakes by his might;
in the Jewish picture, the child enters fearlessly
the very dens of the asp and the
adder, secure under the reign of a perfect
righteousness.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_46"></a>[46]</span></p>
<p>Milton, in his Ode on the Morning of
Christ’s Nativity, has pointed out this parallel:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“He feels from Judah’s land</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The dreaded infant’s hand,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nor all the gods beside</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Longer dare abide,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Our babe, to show his Godhead true,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Can in his swaddling bands control the damnëd crew.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>To the Jew, childhood was the sign of fulfillment
of glorious promises. The burden
of psalm and prophecy was of a golden age
to come, not of one that was in the dim past.
A nation is kept alive, not by memory, but
by hope. The God of Abraham and of Isaac
and of Jacob was the God of a procession of
generations, a God of sons and of sons’ sons;
and when we read, in the last words of the
last canonical book of the Old Testament,
that “he shall turn the heart of the fathers
to the children, and the heart of the children
to their fathers,”<a id="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> we are prepared for
the opening, four centuries later, of the last
chapter in the ancient history of this people.
In the adoration there of the child we seem
to see the concentration of Jewish hope<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_47"></a>[47]</span>
which had for centuries found expression in
numberless ways. The Magnificat of Mary
is the song of Hannah, purified and ennobled
by generations of deferred hope, and in
all the joy and prophecy of the shepherds,
of Simeon and of Anna, we listen to strains
which have a familiar sound. It is indeed
the expectation of what this child will be
and do which moves the pious souls about it,
but there is a direct veneration of the babe
as containing the hope of the people. In
this supreme moment of the Jewish nation,
age bows itself reverently before childhood,
and we are able by the light which the event
throws backward to perceive more clearly
how great was the power of childhood,
through all the earlier periods, in its influence
upon the imagination and reason. We
may fairly contend that the apprehension of
the sanctity of childhood was more positive
with the Jew than with either the Greek or
the Roman.</p>
<p>It remains, however, that this third great
stream of humanity passes out, in the New
Testament, from its Hebraic limitations, and
we are unable, except by a special effort, to
think of it as Jewish at all. The Gospels
transcend national and local and temporal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_48"></a>[48]</span>
limits, and we find ourselves, when considering
them, reading the beginnings of modern,
not the close of Jewish history. The incidents
lying along the margin of the Gospels
and relating to the birth of the Christ do,
as we have seen, connect themselves with the
earlier national development, but the strong
light which comes at the dawn of Christianity
inevitably draws the mind forward to the
new day.</p>
<p>The evangelists record no incidents of the
childhood of Jesus which separate it from
the childhood of other of the children of
men. The flight into Egypt is the flight
of parents with a child; the presence of the
boy in the temple is marked by no abnormal
sign, for it is a distorted imagination which
has given the unbiblical title to the scene,—Christ
disputing with the Doctors, or Christ
teaching in the Temple. But as the narrative
of the Saviour’s ministry proceeds, we
are reminded again and again of the presence
of children in the multitudes that flocked
about him. The signs and wonders which
he wrought were more than once through
the lives of the young, and the suffering
and disease of humanity which form the
background in the Gospels upon which we<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_49"></a>[49]</span>
see sketched in lines of light the outline of
the redeeming Son of Man are shown in the
persons of children, while the deeper life of
humanity is disclosed in the tenderness of
parents. It is in the Gospels that we have
those vignettes of human life,—the healing
of the daughter of Jairus, the delivery of the
boy possessed with devils, that striking antithesis
to the transfiguration which Raphael’s
genius has served to fix in the mind,
the healing of the nobleman’s son, and the
blessing of children brought to the Master
by their fond mothers. Most notable, too,
is the scene of the final entry into Jerusalem,
when the Saviour appeared to accept
from children the tribute which he shunned
when it came from their elders.</p>
<p>Here, as in other cases, we ask what was
the attitude of the Saviour toward children,
since the literature of the New Testament is
so confessedly a revelation of life and character
that we instinctively refuse to treat it
otherwise. In vain do we listen to those
who point out the ethical beauty of the Sermon
on the Mount, or the pathos of this or
that incident; our minds break through all
considerations of style and form, to seize
upon the facts and truths in their relation to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_50"></a>[50]</span>
life. We do not ask, what is the representation
of childhood to be found in the writings
of certain Jews known as Matthew, Mark,
Luke, and John; we ask, what is there between
children and the central figure disclosed
in those writings. We ask purposely,
for, when we leave behind this ancient world,
we enter upon the examination of literature
and art which are never beyond the horizon
lying under the rays of the Sun of Righteousness.
The attitude which Christ took
toward children must contain the explanation
of the attitude which Christianity takes
toward the same, for the literature and art
of Christendom become the exponents of
the conception had of the Christ.</p>
<p>There are two or three significant words
and acts which leave us in no doubt as to
the general aspect which childhood wore to
Jesus Christ. In the conversation which he
held with the intellectual Nicodemus, he
asserted the necessity of a new birth for
mankind; in the rite of baptism he symbolized
the same truth; he expanded this word
again, accompanying it by a symbolic act,
when he placed a child in the midst of his
disciples and bade them begin life over
again; he illustrated the truth by an acted<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_51"></a>[51]</span>
parable, when he called little children to
him with the words, “Of such is the kingdom
of heaven;” he turned from the hard,
skeptical men of that generation with the
words of profound relief: “I thank thee,
O Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that
thou hast hid these things from the wise
and prudent, and hast revealed them unto
babes;” he symbolized the charity of life
in the gift of a cup of cold water to a child.</p>
<p>The eyes of this Jesus, the Saviour of
men, were ever upon the new heavens and
the new earth. The kingdom of heaven
was the burden of his announcement; the
new life which was to come to men shone
most plainly in the persons of young children.
Not only were the babes whom he
saw and blessed to partake of the first
entrance into the kingdom of the spirit, but
childhood possessed in his sight the potency
of the new world; it was under the protection
of a father and mother; it was fearless
and trusting; it was unconscious of self; it
lived and did not think about living. The
words of prophets and psalmists had again
and again found in the throes of a woman
in labor a symbol of the struggle of humanity
for a new generation. By a bold and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_52"></a>[52]</span>
profound figure it was said of the great central
person of humanity: “He shall see of
the travail of his soul and be satisfied.” A
foregleam of that satisfaction is found in
his face as he gazes upon the children who
are brought to him. There is sorrow as
he gazes upon the world, and his face is
set toward Jerusalem; there is a calm joy
as he places a child before him and sees in
his young innocence the promise of the
kingdom of heaven; there is triumph in
his voice as he rebukes the men who
would fain shut the mouths of the shouting
children that run before him.</p>
<p>The pregnant words which Jesus Christ
used regarding childhood, the new birth,
and the kingdom of heaven become indicative
of the great movements in life and literature
and art from that day to this. The
successive gestations of history have their
tokens in some specific regard of childhood.
There have been three such periods, so
mighty that they mark each the beginning
of a new heaven and a new earth. The first
was the genesis of the Christian church;
the second was the Renaissance; the third
had its great sign in the French Revolution.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_53"></a>[53]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="IV">IV<br>
<span class="smaller">IN EARLY CHRISTIANITY</span></h2>
</div>
<p>The parabolic expression, “Destroy this
temple, and in three days I will raise it up,”
has been applied with force to the destruction
of Judaism, and the reconstruction
upon its ruins of a living Christianity. It
may be applied with equal justice, though
in more recondite sense, to the death of the
old literature and art, and the resurrection
of the beautiful creations of the human
mind in new form. The three days were
more than a thousand years, and during
that long sleep what had become of those
indestructible forces of imagination and reason
which combine in literature and art?
Roughly speaking, they were disjoined, and
only when reunited did they again assert
themselves in living form. The power
which kept each in abeyance was structural
Christianity, and only when that began to
be burst asunder by the vital force inherent
in spiritual Christianity was there opportunity<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_54"></a>[54]</span>
for the free union of the imagination
and reason. As the Jewish temple could
no longer inclose divinity, but was thrust
apart by the expansive power of the Christianity
which was fostered within it, so the
Christian church, viewed as an institution
which aimed at an inclosure of humanity,
was in its turn disrupted by the silent
growth of the human spirit which had fed
within its walls upon the divine life. After
the birth of Christianity the parallel continuity
of the old world was broken. The
Greek, the Roman, and the Hebrew no
longer carried forward their separate movements.
Christianity, professing to annul
these forces, had taken their place in history.
Again, at the Renaissance, it was found
that the three great streams of human
thought had been flowing underground;
they reissued to the light in a generous
flood, each combining with the others.</p>
<p>It was during this long period of apparent
inaction in literature and art that the imagination,
dissevered from reason, was in a
state of abnormal activity. The compression
of its field caused the faculty to find expression
through forms which were very closely
connected with the dominant sphere of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_55"></a>[55]</span>
human life. Before religious art and ecclesiastical
architecture had become the abundant
expression of Christian imagination,
there was generated a great mass of legend
and fable, which only by degrees became
formally embodied in literature or perpetuated
in art and symbol. The imaginative
faculty had given it, for material in which
to work the new life, the soul of man as
distinctly related to God. An ethical principle
lay at the foundation of Christianity,
and the imagination, stimulated by faith,
built with materials drawn from ethical life.
The germinal truth of Christianity, that
God had manifested himself to men in the
person of Jesus Christ, however it might be
obscured or misunderstood, was the efficient
cause of the operations of the Christian
imagination. This faculty set before itself
the perfect man, and in that conceived not
the physical and intellectual man of the
Greek conception, nor the Cæsar of the
Roman ideal, nor even the moral man of
the Jewish light, but a man whose perfection
was the counterpart of the perfection of
God and its great exemplar, the man Jesus
Christ. In his life the central idea of service,
of victory through suffering and humiliation,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_56"></a>[56]</span>
of self-surrender, and of union with
God was perceived with greater or less
clearness, and this idea was adumbrated in
that vast gallery of saints constructed by
Christianity in its ceaseless endeavor to
reproduce the perfect type. Through all
the extravagance and chaotic confusion of
the legendary lore of the mediæval church,
one may discover the perpetually recurring
notes of the perfect life. The beatitudes—those
spiritual witnesses of the redeemed
human character—are ever floating before
the early imagination, and offering the standards
by which it measures its creations.
It was by no fortuitous suggestion, but by a
profound sense of fitness, that the church
made the gospel of All Saints’ Day to consist
of those sentences which pronounce the
blessedness of the poor in spirit, the meek,
and the persecuted for righteousness sake;
while the epistle for the same day is the
roll-call of the saints who are to sit on the
thrones of the twelve tribes, and of the multitudes
who have overcome the world.</p>
<p>It is not strange, therefore, that the imagination,
busying itself about the spiritual
life of man, should have dwelt with special
emphasis upon those signs of the new life<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_57"></a>[57]</span>
brought to light in the Gospels, which
seemed to contain the promise of perfection.
It seized upon baptism as witnessing to a
regeneration; it traced the lives of saints
back to a childhood which began with baptism;
it invested the weak things of the
world with a mighty power; and, keeping
before it the pattern of the Head of the
church, it traced in the early life of the Saviour
powers which confounded the common
wisdom of men. It dwelt with fondness
upon the adoration of the Magi, as witnessing
to the supremacy of the infant Redeemer;
and, occupied as it was with the idea of a
suffering Saviour, it carried the cross back
to the cradle, and found in the Massacre of
the Innocents the type of a substitution and
vicarious sacrifice.</p>
<p>The simple annals of the Gospels shine
with great beauty when confronted by the ingenuity
and curious adornment of the legends
included in the so-called Apocryphal Gospels.
Yet these legends illustrate the eagerness
of the early Christian world to invest
the person of Jesus with every possible charm
and power; and since the weakness of infancy
and childhood offers the strongest contrast
to works of thaumaturgy, this period is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_58"></a>[58]</span>
very fully elaborated. A reason may also be
found in the silence of the evangelists, which
needed to be broken by the curious. Thus,
when, in the flight into Egypt, the Holy
Family was made to seek rest in a cave, there
suddenly came out many dragons; and the
children who were with the family, when they
saw the dragons, cried out in great terror.</p>
<p>“Then Jesus,” says the narrative, “went
down from the bosom of his mother, and
stood on his feet before the dragons; and
they adored Jesus, and thereafter retired....
And the young child Jesus, walking
before them, commanded them to hurt no
man. But Mary and Joseph were very much
afraid lest the child should be hurt by the
dragons. And Jesus said to them; ‘Do not
be afraid, and do not consider me to be a
little child; for I am and always have been
perfect, and all the beasts of the field must
needs be tame before me.’ Lions and panthers
adored him likewise, and accompanied
them in the desert. Wherever Joseph and
the blessed Mary went, these went before
them, showing them the way and bowing
their heads, and showing their submission by
wagging their tails; they adored him with
great reverence. Now at first, when Mary<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_59"></a>[59]</span>
saw the lions and the panthers, and various
kinds of wild beasts coming about them, she
was very much afraid. But the infant Jesus
looked into her face with a joyful countenance,
and said: ‘Be not afraid, mother; for
they come not to do thee harm, but they
make haste to serve both thee and me.’
With these words he drove all fear from
her heart. And the lions kept walking with
them, and with the oxen and the asses and
the beasts of burden which carried their
baggage, and did not hurt a single one of
them; but they were tame among the sheep
and the rams which they had brought with
them from Judæa, and which they had with
them. They walked among wolves and feared
nothing, and no one of them was hurt by
another.”<a id="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></p>
<p>So, too, when Mary looked helplessly up
at the fruit of a palm-tree hanging far out
of her reach, the child Jesus, “with a joyful
countenance, reposing in the bosom of his
mother, said to the palm, ‘O tree, bend thy
branches, and refresh my mother with thy
fruit.’ And immediately at these words the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_60"></a>[60]</span>
palm bent its top down to the very feet of
the blessed Mary; and they gathered from
its fruit, with which they were all refreshed.
And after they had gathered all its fruit, it
remained bent down, waiting the order to
rise from him who had commanded it to stoop.
Then Jesus said to it, ‘Raise thyself, O palm-tree,
and be strong, and be the companion
of my trees which are in the paradise of my
Father; and open from thy roots a vein of
water which has been hid in the earth, and
let the waters flow, so that we may be satisfied
from thee.’ And it rose up immediately,
and at its root there began to come forth a
spring of water, exceedingly clear and cool
and sparkling. And when they saw the
spring of water they rejoiced with great joy,
and were satisfied, themselves and all their
cattle and their beasts. Wherefore they
gave thanks to God.”</p>
<p>The legends which relate to the boyhood
of Jesus carry back with a violent or confused
sense the acts of his manhood. Thus
he is represented more than once as willing
the death of a playmate, and then contemptuously
bringing him to life again. A favorite
story grossly misconceives the incident
of Christ with the Doctors in the temple, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_61"></a>[61]</span>
makes him turn his schoolmaster into ridicule.
There are other stories, the incidents
of which are not reflections of anything in
the Gospels, but are used to illustrate in a
childish way the wonder-working power of
the boy. Here is one which curiously mingles
the miraculous power with the Saviour’s
doctrine of the Sabbath:—</p>
<p>“And it came to pass, after these things,
that in the sight of all Jesus took clay from
the pools which he had made, and of it made
twelve sparrows. And it was the Sabbath
when Jesus did this, and there were very
many children with him. When, therefore,
one of the Jews had seen him doing this, he
said to Joseph, ‘Joseph, dost thou not see
the child Jesus working on the Sabbath at
what it is not lawful for him to do? For
he has made twelve sparrows of clay.’ And
when Joseph heard this, he reproved him,
saying, ‘Wherefore doest thou on the Sabbath
such things as are not lawful for us to
do?’ And when Jesus heard Joseph he
struck his hands together, and said to his
sparrows, ‘Fly!’ and at the voice of his
command they began to fly. And in the
sight and hearing of all that stood by he said
to the birds, ‘Go and fly through the earth,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_62"></a>[62]</span>
and through all the world, and live.’ And
when those that were there saw such miracles
they were filled with great astonishment.”</p>
<p>It is interesting to note how many of these
stories connect the child with animals. The
passage in Isaiah which prophesied the
great peace in the figure of a child leading
wild beasts had something to do with this;
so had the birth of Jesus in a manger, and
the incident of the entry into Jerusalem:
but I suspect that the imagination scarcely
needed to hunt very far or very curiously
for suggestions, since the world over childhood
has been associated with brute life,
and the writers of the Apocryphal Gospels
had only to make these animals savage when
they would illustrate the potency of the
childhood of Jesus.</p>
<p>“There is a road going out of Jericho,”
says the Pseudo-gospel of Matthew, “and
leading to the river Jordan, to the place
where the children of Israel crossed; and
there the ark of the covenant is said to have
rested. And Jesus was eight years old,
and he went out of Jericho and went towards
the Jordan. And there was beside the
road, near the banks of the Jordan, a cave,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_63"></a>[63]</span>
where a lioness was nursing her cubs; and
no one was safe who walked that way.
Jesus, then, coming from Jericho, and knowing
that in that cave the lioness had brought
forth her young, went into it in the sight
of all. And when the lions saw Jesus they
ran to meet him, and adored him. And
Jesus was sitting in the cavern, and the
lion’s cubs ran hither and thither round his
feet, fawning upon him and sporting. And
the older lions, with their heads bowed
down, stood at a distance and adored him,
and fawned upon him with their tails.
Then the people, who were standing afar
off, not seeing Jesus, said, ‘Unless he or his
parents had committed grievous sins, he
would not of his own accord have offered
himself up to the lions.’ And when the
people were thus reflecting within themselves,
and were lying under great sorrow,
behold, on a sudden, in the sight of the
people, Jesus came out of the cave, and the
lions went before him, and the lion’s cubs
played with each other before his feet.
And the parents of Jesus stood afar off,
with their heads bowed down, and watched;
likewise, also, the people stood at a distance,
on account of the lions; for they did not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_64"></a>[64]</span>
dare to come close to them. Then Jesus
began to say to the people, ‘How much better
are the beasts than you, seeing that they
recognize their Lord and glorify him; while
you men, who have been made after the
image and likeness of God, do not know
him! Beasts know me, and are tame; men
see me, and do not acknowledge me.’”</p>
<p>To the mind of these early Christians the
life of Jesus was compounded of holiness
and supernatural power; so far as they distinguished
these, the holiness was the cause
of the power, and hence, when the imagination
fashioned saints out of men and women,
it followed the same course which it had
taken with the Master. The childhood of
the saints was an anticipation of maturer
virtues and powers, rather than a manifestation
of ingenuous innocence. There was a
tendency to explain exceptional qualities in
lives by extending them backward into
youth, thereby gaining for them an apparent
corroboration. The instances of this in the
legends are frequent. Mothers, like the
Virgin Mary, have premonitions that their
children are to be in some special manner
children of God, and the characteristics of
later life are foreshadowed at birth. The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_65"></a>[65]</span>
Virgin herself was thus dealt with. The
strong human feeling which subsequently,
when the tenderness of Christ had been petrified
into judgment, interposed the Virgin
as mediator, found gratification in surrounding
Mary’s infancy and childhood with a
supernatural grace and power, the incidents
in some cases being faint reflections of incidents
in the life of her son; as when we are
told that Joachim and Anna carried Mary,
then three years old, to place her among the
virgins in the temple of God. “And when
she was put down before the doors of the
temple, she went up the fifteen steps so
swiftly that she did not look back at all;
nor did she, as children are wont to do, seek
for her parents. Whereupon her parents,
each of them anxiously seeking for the child,
were both alike astonished until they found
her in the temple, and the priests of the
temple themselves wondered.”</p>
<p>In like manner a halo of light played
about S. Catherine’s head when she was
born. The year of the birth of S. Elizabeth
of Hungary was full of blessings to her country;
the first words she uttered were those
of prayer, and when three years old she gave
signs of the charity which marked her life<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_66"></a>[66]</span>
by giving her toys and garments to those
less fortunate than herself. A pretty story
is told of her betrothal to Prince Louis of
Thuringia. Herman of Thuringia sent an
embassy to the king of Hungary, desiring
the little Elizabeth, then only four years
old, for his son; and the maiden accompanied
the embassy, carrying with her a silver
cradle and silver bath, which her father had
given her. She was betrothed to Louis, and
the little pair played happily together in the
same cradle. S. Genevieve of Paris was
a maiden of seven, who tended a flock of
sheep at the village of Narterre. Hither
came S. Germain, and when the inhabitants
were assembled to receive his benediction
his eyes rested on the little shepherdess, and
seeing her saintliness he set her apart as a
bride of Christ. S. Gregory Nazianzen had
a dream when he was a boy, in which two
heavenly virgins of celestial beauty visited
him: they were Chastity and Temperance,
and so captivating was their presence, so
winning were their words, that he awoke to
take perpetual vows of continence. S. John
Chrysostom was a dull boy at school, and so
disturbed was he by the ridicule of his fellows
that he went into a church to pray to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_67"></a>[67]</span>
the Virgin for help. A voice came from the
image: “Kiss me on the mouth, and thou
shalt be endowed with all learning.” He
did this, and when he returned to his school-fellows
they saw a golden circle about his
mouth, and his eloquence and brilliancy astounded
them. Martyrdom was the portion
of these saintly children as well as of their
elders. The story is told of Hilarion, one
of the four children of Saturninus the priest,
that when the proconsul of Carthage thought
to have no difficulty in dealing with one of
tender age, the child resisted all cajolings
and threats. “I am a Christian,” said the
little fellow. “I have been at the collect
[that is, assisted as an acolyte], and it was
of my own voluntary choice, without any
compulsion.” Thereupon the proconsul, who
was probably a father, threatened him, as
the story runs, “with those little punishments
with which children are accustomed
to be chastised,” but the child only laughed
at the idea of giving up his faith for fear of
a whipping. “I will cut off your nose and
ears!” shouted the exasperated inquisitor.
“You may do it, but I shall be a Christian
still,” replied the undaunted boy; and when
he was ordered off to prison with the rest,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_68"></a>[68]</span>
he was heard to pipe forth, “God be
thanked,” and so was led away.</p>
<p>These random incidents are, for the most
part, mainly anticipatory of mature experience.
They can be matched with the details
of Protestant hagiology as recorded in a
class of books more common forty years ago
than now. It is their remoteness that lends
a certain grace and charm to them. The
life of a little Christian in the fourth century
is invested with an attraction which is
wanting in the circumstance of some juvenile
saint living in the midst of indifferent scoffers
of the early part of the nineteenth century.</p>
<p>Occasionally, however, the legends inclose
the saintly attributes in some bit of romance,
or betray a simple, ingenuous sympathy with
childish nature. The legend of S. Kenelm
has a faint suspicion of kinship with the
story of the babes in the wood. King Kenwulf
of Wessex died, and left two daughters,
Cwendrida and Burgenilda, and a son
of seven years, named Kenelm. The elder
of the daughters wished the child out of the
way, that she might reign; so she gave
money to Askbert, his guardian, the wicked
uncle of the story, and bade him privily slay<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_69"></a>[69]</span>
the boy. So Askbert took Kenelm into a
wood, as if for a hunt, and by and by the
child, tired with the heat, fell asleep under
the shade of a tree. Askbert, seeing his
time had come, set to work to dig a grave,
that all might be in readiness; but Kenelm
woke, and said, “It is in vain that you think
to kill me here. I shall be slain in another
spot. In token whereof, see this rod blossom;”
and so saying, he stuck a stick into
the ground, and it instantly took root and
began to flower. In after days it was a
great ash-tree, known as S. Kenelm’s ash.
Then Askbert took the little king to another
spot, and the child, now wide awake, began
to sing the Te Deum. When he came to the
verse, “The noble army of martyrs praise
Thee,” Askbert cut off his head, and then
buried him in the wood. Just as he did
this, a white dove flew into the church of S.
Peter in Rome, and laid on the high altar a
letter, which it bore in its beak. The letter
was in English, and it was some time before
any one could be found who could read it.
Then it was discovered that Kenelm had
been killed and his body hidden away. The
Pope thereupon wrote letters into England
telling of this sorry affair, and men went<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_70"></a>[70]</span>
forth to find the body of the little king.
They were led by a pillar of light, which
stood over the place where the body lay.
So they bore it off and buried it; but they
built a chapel over the spot where they had
found the body, which is known as S. Kenelm’s
chapel to this day. There the chapel
stands near Hales Owen; how else did it
get its name? and as Mr. Freeman sagely
remarks, “It is hard to see what should
have made anybody invent such a tale, if
nothing of the kind had ever happened.”</p>
<p>Another of the stories which has a half
fairy-tale character is that of the martyrdom
of the little S. Christina, who was shut up in
a high tower by her father, and bidden spend
her time before gold and silver gods; his private
purpose being to keep her out of the
way of troublesome lovers. Christina tired
of her divine playthings, and in spite of her
father’s indulgence, since he obligingly took
away all the images but three, would have
nothing to do with false gods. She was visited
by angels and instructed in Christianity.
She combined courage in her new faith with
a fine spirit of adventure; for she is represented
as smashing the idols, letting herself
down by a rope from her tower-prison, distributing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_71"></a>[71]</span>
the fragments of the idols among
the poor, and clambering up again before
morning. Her martyrdom showed various
ingenious inventions of torture, but the odd
part of the story is the manner in which the
gold and silver idols always suggest a girl’s
playthings. We are told that when she was
taken into the temple of Apollo she bade
the idol step down and walk about the temple
until she sent it back to its place. Then,
proceeds the story gravely, she was put in a
cradle filled with boiling pitch and oil, and
four soldiers were set to rocking her.</p>
<p>In these and similar stories which abound
in the Acta Sanctorum, the simple attributes
of childish nature rarely shine through the
more formal covering of churchly investiture.
Nature could not always be expelled, but
the imagination, busy with the construction
of the ideal Christian life, was more concerned,
as time went on, to make that conform
to an ecclesiastical standard. It is
pathetic to see the occasional struggle of
poor humanity to break through the meshes
in which it was entangled. The life of S.
Francis of Assisi is full of incidents which
illustrate this. His familiar intercourse
with birds and beasts was but one of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_72"></a>[72]</span>
signs of an effort to escape from the cage in
which he was an unconscious prisoner. One
night, we are told, he rose suddenly from
the earthen floor which made his bed and
rushed out into the open air. A brother
monk, who was praying in his cell, looked
through his window and saw S. Francis,
under the light of the moon, fashion seven
little figures of snow. “Here is thy wife,”
he said to himself: “these four are thy sons
and daughters; the other two are thy servant
and handmaid: and for all these thou
art bound to provide. Make haste, then,
and provide clothing for them, lest they
perish with cold. But if the care of so
many trouble thee, be thou careful to serve
the Lord alone.” The injunction to give up
father and mother and family for the Lord’s
sake, when obeyed by one so tremulously
alive to human sympathy as was S. Francis,
had in it a power suddenly to disclose the
depths of the human soul; nor can it be
doubted that those who, like S. Francis,
were eagerly thrusting aside everything
which seemed to stand between them and
the realization of the divine life paid heed
to the significant words of the Lord which
made a child the symbol of that life. In<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_73"></a>[73]</span>
practical dealing with the evils of the world
the early church never lost sight of children.
Orphans, especially the orphans of martyrs,
were a sacred charge, and when monasteries
arose and became, at least in the West,
centres of civilization, they were refuges for
foundlings as well as schools for the young.
It is one of the distinct signs of the higher
life which Christianity was slowly bringing
into the world that the church adopted and
protected children as children, for their own
sakes. Foundlings had before been nurtured
for the sake of profit, and we can
easily do poor human nature the justice to
believe in instances where pity and love had
their honest sway; but it certainly was left
to the church to incorporate in its very constitution
that care of helpless childhood
which springs from a profound sense of the
dignity of life, and a growing conviction of
the rights which pertain to personality.</p>
<p>For the history of Christianity is in the
development of personality, and childhood
has, from the beginning, come under the
influence of a power which has been at work
lifting the world into a recognition of its
relation to God. It was impossible that the
few significant words spoken by Christ<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_74"></a>[74]</span>
should be forgotten; nevertheless, they do
not seem to have impressed themselves upon
the consciousness of men. At least it may
be said that in the growth of Latin Christianity
they do not come forward specifically
as furnishing the ground and reason for a
regard for childhood. The work to be done
by the Latin church was largely one of
organizing human society under an anthropomorphic
conception of God. It gave a
certain fixed objectivity to God, placed him
at a distance from the world, and made the
approach to him to be by a succession of
intermediary agents. Nevertheless, the hierarchy
which resulted rested upon ethical
foundations. The whole grand scheme did,
in effect, rivet and fix the sense of personal
responsibility and personal integrity. It
made each man and woman aware of his and
her relation to law in the person of its ministers,
and this law was a law which reached
to the thoughts of the heart.</p>
<p>The system, as such, had little to do with
childhood. It waited for its close, but it
pushed back its influence over the line of
adolescence, making as early as might be
the day when the child should come into
conscious relation with the church. Through<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_75"></a>[75]</span>
the family, however, it powerfully affected
the condition of childhood, for by its laws
and its ritual it was giving religious sanction
to the family, even while it was gradually
divorcing itself from humanity under plea
of a sanctity which was more than human.
Its conception of a religious devotedness
which was too good for this world, whereby
contempt of the body was put in place of
redemption of the body, and celibacy made
more honorable than marriage, undermined
its hold upon the world, which it sought to
govern and to furnish with ideals.</p>
<p>Inasmuch as this great system dealt with
persons in relations which could be exactly
defined and formulated, it would be idle to
seek in the literature which reflects it for
any considerable representation of that period
of human life in which the forms are as
yet undetermined. Nevertheless, childhood
exercises even here its subtle power of recalling
men to elemental truths. Dante was
the prophet of a spiritual Rome, which he
saw in his vision outlined against the background
of the existing hierarchy. It would
be in vain to search through the Divine
Comedy for many references to childhood.
As he says himself in the Inferno,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_76"></a>[76]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“For this is not a sportive enterprise</div>
<div class="verse indent2">To speak the universe’s lowest hold,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nor suits a tongue that Pa and Mammy cries.”<a id="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">And the only picture of childhood in that
vision is the melancholy one of the horrid
sufferings of Count Ugolino and his children
in the Tower of Hunger. In the Paradiso
there are two passages of interest.
Near the close of the twenty-seventh canto,
Beatrice, breaking forth into a rapt utterance
of the divine all in all, suddenly checks
herself as she remembers how the curse of
covetousness shuts men out from entrance
into the full circle of divine movement, and
then, with a swift and melancholy survey of
the changes in human life, cries bitterly:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Faith, Art, and Innocence are found alone</div>
<div class="verse indent2">With little children; then they scatter fast</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Before the down across the cheek have grown.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">There is that lispeth, and doth learn to fast,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Who afterward, with tongue untied from May</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To April, down his throat all meats will cast.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">There is that, lisping, loveth to obey</div>
<div class="verse indent2">His mother, and he’ll wish her in the tomb,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">When sentences unbroken he can say.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Again, in the thirty-second canto, S. Bernard
is pointing out the circles of the Rose,
and after denoting the degrees of saints
before Christ and after, proceeds:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_77"></a>[77]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“And from the seats, in midway rank, that knit</div>
<div class="verse indent2">These double files, and downwards, thou wilt find</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That none do for their own deserving sit,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But for another’s under terms assigned;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">For every one of these hath been set free</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ere truly self-determined was the mind.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">This by the childish features wilt thou see,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">If well thou scan them, and if well thou list</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Wilt hear it by the childlike symphony.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Dante is perplexed by the difference even
in these innocent babes, but S. Bernard
reminds him that there is difference in endowment,
but that all are subject to the
divine all-embracing law:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“And therefore these, who took such hasty flight,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Into the true life not without a cause</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Are entered so, these more, and those less, bright,”—</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">an interpretation of the vision which is
really less scholastic than suggested by the
deeper insight of the poetic mind.</p>
<p>The most significant passage, however, is
found in the famous words at the beginning
of the Vita Nuova, which fix Dante’s first
sight of Beatrice when he was nine years old.
“And since,” he closes, “to dwell upon the
passions and actions of such early youth
seems like telling an idle tale, I will leave
them, and, passing over many things which
might be drawn from the original where<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_78"></a>[78]</span>
these lie hidden, I will come to those words
which are written in my memory under
larger paragraphs.”<a id="FNanchor_28" href="#Footnote_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> In these last words
is apparent Dante’s own judgment upon the
worth of his recollections of childhood: one
page only in that book of his memory he
deems worthy of regard,—the page upon
which fell the image of Beatrice. It will be
said with truth that the childhood of Dante
and Beatrice is in reality the beginning of
maturity, for it is counted only as the initiation
of a noble passion. The time, indeed,
had not yet come in the history of human
life when the recollection of that which is
most distinctive of childhood forms the basis
of speculation and philosophic dream.</p>
<p>The absence of childhood from the visions
of Dante is a negative witness to the absence
from the world, in the age prior to the Renaissance,
of hope and of simple faith and
innocence. Dante’s faint recognition of these
qualities throws them back into a quickly
forgotten and outgrown childhood. The lisping
child becomes the greedy worldling, the
cruel and unloving man, and the tyranny of
an empire of souls is hinted at in the justification
by the poet of the presence of innocent<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_79"></a>[79]</span>
babes in Paradise; they are there by
the interposition of a sacrificial act. The
poet argues to still the doubts of men at finding
these children in Paradise. It would
almost seem as if the words had been forgotten
which characterized heaven through the
very image of childhood.</p>
<p>Indeed, it is not to be wondered at that
childhood was little regarded by an age
which found its chief interest in a thought
of death. “Even the gay and licentious
Boccaccio,” we are reminded by Mr. Pater,
“gives a keener edge to his stories by putting
them in the mouths of a party of people
who had taken refuge from the plague in
a country house.”<a id="FNanchor_29" href="#Footnote_29" class="fnanchor">[29]</a> The great Florentine
work was executed under this dominant
thought; nevertheless, an art which is
largely concerned about tombs and sepulchral
monuments implies an overweening
pride in life and a weightier sense of the
years of earth. The theology which had furnished
the panoply within which the human
soul was fighting its battle emphasized the
idea of time, and made eternity itself a prolongation
of human conditions. The imagination,
at work upon a future, constructed<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_80"></a>[80]</span>
it out of the hard materials of the present,
and was always looking for some substantial
bridge which should connect the two worlds;
seeing decay and change here, it transferred
empires and powers to the other side of the
gulf, and sought to reërect them upon an
everlasting basis.</p>
<p>Such thought had little in common with
the hope, the fearlessness, the faith, of childhood,
and thus childhood as an image had
largely faded out of art and literature. One
only great exception there was,—the representation
in art of the child Jesus; and in
the successive phases of this representation
may be read a remarkable history of the
human soul.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_81"></a>[81]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="V">V<br>
<span class="smaller">IN MEDIÆVAL ART</span></h2>
</div>
<p>The power of Christianity lies in its
prophecy of universality, and the most significant
note of this power is in its comprehension
of the poor and the weak, not
merely as the objects of a benediction proceeding
from some external society, but as
themselves constituent members of that
society, sharing in all its rights and fulfilling
its functions. When the last great
prophet of Israel and forerunner of Judaic
Christianity sent to inquire what evidence
Jesus of Nazareth could give that he was
the Christ, the answer which came back had
the conclusive words, “To the poor the gospel
is preached.” The same Jesus, when he
would give his immediate followers the completest
type of the kingdom which was to
prevail throughout the world, took a child,
and set him in the midst of them. There
is no hardly gained position in the development
of human society which may not<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_82"></a>[82]</span>
find its genetic idea in some word or act of
the Son of Man, and the proem to the great
song of an expectant democracy is in the
brief hour of the first Christian society,
which held all things in common.</p>
<p>The sketch of a regenerated human society,
contained in the New Testament, has
been long in filling out, and the day which
the first generation of Christians thought so
near at hand has thus far had only a succession
of proleptic appearances; but from the
first the note of the power of Christianity,
which lies in the recognition of poverty and
weakness, has never been wanting, and has
been most loudly struck in the great epochs
of Christian revival. In the struggle after
purity of associated life, which had its witness
in the orders of the church, poverty
was accepted as a necessary condition, and
the constructive genius of the human mind,
dealing with the realities of Christian faith,
rose to its highest point in presenting, not
the maturity, but the infancy of Jesus
Christ. Each age offers its contribution to
the perfection of the Christian ideal, and
while, in the centuries lying on either side
of the Renaissance, the church as an ecclesiastical
system was enforcing the dogma of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_83"></a>[83]</span>
mediatorial sacrifice as something outside of
humanity, the spirit of God, in the person
of great painters, was drawing the thoughts
of men to the redemption of the world,
which lies in the most sacred of human relations.
The great efflorescence of art, which
we recognize as the gift of these centuries,
has left as its most distinctive memorial the
type of Christianity expressed in the Madonna.</p>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>In the Holy Family the child is the essential
figure. In the earliest examples of the
mother and child, both Mary and Jesus are
conceived as symbols of religious faith, and
the attitude of the child is unchildlike, being
that of a dispenser of blessings with uplifted
hand. The group is not distinctly of the
mother and child, but of the Virgin and the
Saviour, the Saviour being represented as
a child in order to indicate the ground of
the adoration paid to the Virgin. They
stand before one as possessed of coördinate
dignity. It is a curious and suggestive fact
that the Byzantine type of the Madonna,
which rarely departed much from this symbolic
treatment, has continued to be the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_84"></a>[84]</span>
preference of those whose conceptions of the
religious life are most closely identified with
a remote sacramentarianism. The Italian
lemonade-seller has a Byzantine Madonna
in his booth: the Belgian churches abound
in so-called sacred pictures: the Russian
merchant salutes an icon of the same type;
and the ritualistic enthusiast of the Anglican
revival modifies his æsthetic views by
his religious sympathy, and stops short in
his admiration with Cimabue and Giotto.</p>
<p>In the development of the Madonna from
its first form as a rigid symbol to its latest
as a realistic representation of motherhood,
we are aware of a change in the minds of
the people who worship before the altars
where the pictures are placed, and in the
minds of the painters who produce the
almost endless variations on this theme.
The worshipper, dispossessed of a belief in
the fatherhood of God, came to take refuge
in the motherhood of Mary. Formally
taught the wrath of God, he found in the
familiar relation of mother and child the
most complete type vouchsafed to him of
that love which the church by many informal
ways bade him believe lay somewhere
in the divine life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_85"></a>[85]</span></p>
<p>Be this as it may, the treatment of the
subject in a domestic and historical form
followed the treatment in a religious and
ecclesiological mode. In the earlier representations
of the Madonna there was a twofold
thought exhibited. The mother was
the queen of heaven, and she derived her
dignity from the child on her knee. Hence
she is sometimes shown adoring the child,
and the child looks up into the mother’s
face with his finger on his lip, expressive of
the utterance, I am the Word. This adoration
of the child by the mother was, however,
but a transient phase: the increasing worship
paid to the Virgin forbade that she
should be so subordinated; and in the gradual
expansion of the theme, by which saints
and martyrs and angels were grouped in attendant
ministry, more and more importance
was attached to the person of the Virgin.
The child looks up in wonder and affectionate
admiration. He caresses her, and
offers her a child’s love mingled with a
divine being’s calm self-content.</p>
<p>For throughout the whole period of the
religious presentation of the Madonna, even
when the Madonna herself is conspicuously
the occasion of the picture, we may observe<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_86"></a>[86]</span>
the influence of the child,—an influence
sometimes subtle, sometimes open and manifest.
It is not enough to say that this child
is Jesus, as it is not enough to say that the
mother is the Virgin Mary. The divine
child is the sign of an ever-present childhood
in humanity; the divine mother the
sign of a love which the religion of Christianity
never wholly forgot. The common
imagination was perpetually seeking to relieve
Mary and Jesus of all attributes which
interfered with the central and inhering relation
of mother and child: through this
type of love the mind apprehended the gospel
of Christianity as in no other way.</p>
<p>Indeed, this apotheosis of childhood and
maternity is at the core of the religion of
hope which was inclosed in the husk of
mediæval Christianity, and it was made the
theme of many variations. Before it had
ceased to be a symbol of worship, it was offering
a nucleus for the expression of a more
varied human hope and interest. The Holy
Family in the hands of painters and sculptors,
and the humbler class of designers
which sprang into notice with the introduction
of printing and engraving, becomes
more and more emblematic of a pure and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_87"></a>[87]</span>
happy domestic group. Joseph is more frequently
introduced, and John Baptist appears
as a playmate of the child Jesus;
sometimes they are seen walking in companionship.
Certain incidents in later life are
symbolically prefigured in the realistic treatment
of homely scenes, as in the Madonna
by Giulio Romano, where the child stands
in a basin, while the young S. John pours
water upon him, Mary washes him, S. Elizabeth
stands by holding a towel, and S.
Joseph watches the scene,—an evident prefigurement
of the baptism in the Jordan.
Or again, Mary, seated, holds the infant
Christ between her knees; Elizabeth leans
over the back of the chair; Joseph rests
on his staff behind the Virgin; the little
S. John and an angel present grapes, while
four other angels are gathering and bringing
them. By such a scene Ippolito Andreasi
would remind people that Jesus is
the true vine.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>The recognition of childhood as the heart
of the family is discoverable even more emphatically
in the art of the northern people,
among whom domestic life always had<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_88"></a>[88]</span>
greater respect. It may seem a trivial reason,
but I suspect nature holds the family
more closely together in cold countries,
which compel much indoor and fireside life,
than in lands which tempt to vagrancy. At
any rate, the fact remains that the Germanic
peoples have been home-cultivating. It did
not need the Roman Tacitus to find this out,
but his testimony helps us to believe that
the disposition was a radical one, which
Christianity reinforced rather than implanted.
Lord Lindsay makes the pregnant
observation, “Our Saviour’s benediction of
the little children as a subject [is] from
first to last Teutonic,—I scarcely recollect
a single Italian instance of it;”<a id="FNanchor_30" href="#Footnote_30" class="fnanchor">[30]</a> and in the
revival of religious art, at which Overbeck
and Cornelius assisted, this and similar subjects,
by their frequency, mark a differentiation
from art south of the Alps, whose
traditions, nevertheless, the German school
was consciously following.</p>
<p>Although of a period subsequent to the
Renaissance, an excellent illustration of the
religious representation of the childhood of
Jesus in northern art is contained in a series
of twelve prints executed in the Netherlands,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_89"></a>[89]</span>
and described in detail by Mrs. Jameson.<a id="FNanchor_31" href="#Footnote_31" class="fnanchor">[31]</a>
The series is entitled The Infancy of our
Lord God and Saviour Jesus Christ, and
the title-page is surrounded by a border
composed of musical instruments, spinning-wheels,
distaffs, and other implements of
female industry, intermixed with all kinds
of masons’ and carpenters’ tools. In the first
of the prints, the figure of Christ is seen in
a glory, surrounded by cherubim. In the
second, the Virgin is seated on the hill of
Sion; the infant in her lap, with outspread
arms, looks up to a choir of angels, and is
singing with them. In the third, Jesus slumbering
in his cradle is rocked by two angels,
while Mary sits by, engaged in needlework.
Beneath is a lullaby in Latin which has
been translated:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Mother sits beside thee, smiling,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Sleep my darling, tenderly!</div>
<div class="verse indent0">If thou sleep not, mother mourneth</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Singing as her wheel she turneth,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Come soft slumber, balmily!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">The fourth shows the interior of a carpenter’s
shop: Joseph is plying his work, while
Joachim stands near him; the Virgin is
measuring linen, and S. Anna looks on;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_90"></a>[90]</span>
two angels are at play with the infant Christ,
who is blowing soap-bubbles. In the fifth
picture, Mary prepares the family meal,
while Joseph is in the background chopping
wood; more in front, Jesus sweeps together
the chips, and two angels gather them. In
the sixth, Mary is seen reeling off a skein of
thread; Joseph is squaring a plank; Jesus
is picking up chips, again assisted by two
angels. The seventh shows Mary seated at
her spinning-wheel; Joseph, aided by Jesus,
is sawing through a large beam, the two
angels standing by. The eighth is somewhat
similar: Mary holds her distaff, while
Joseph saws a beam on which Jesus stands,
and the two angels help in the work. In
the ninth print, Joseph is busy building the
framework of a house, assisted by one of
the angels; Jesus is boring with a large
gimlet, the other angel helping him; and
Mary winds thread. In the next, Joseph is
at work roofing the house; Jesus, in company
with the angels, carries a beam up the
ladder; while below, in front, Mary is carding
wool or flax. The eleventh transfers
the work, with an apparent adaptation to
Holland, to the building of a boat, where
Joseph is helped by Jesus, who holds a hammer<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_91"></a>[91]</span>
and chisel, still attended by the angels;
the Virgin is knitting a stocking, and the
newly built house is seen in the background.
In the last of the series, Joseph is erecting
a fence round a garden; Jesus, with the
help of the angels, is fastening the palings
together; while Mary is weaving garlands
of roses.</p>
<p>Here is a reproduction of the childhood
of the Saviour in the terms of a homely
Netherland family life, the naturalistic treatment
diversified by the use of angelic machinery.
The prints were a part of the apparatus
used by the priests in educating the
people. However such instruction may have
fallen short of the highest truths of Christianity,
its recognition of the simple duties
of life and its enforcement of these by the
example of the Son of Man make us slow to
regard such interposition of the church as
remote from the spirit of Christ. If, as is
quite possible, these prints were employed
by the Jesuits, then their significance becomes
doubly noticeable. In that vigorous
attempt by Loyola and his order to maintain
an organic Christian unity against the
apparent disruption of Christianity, such a
mode as this would find a place as serving<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_92"></a>[92]</span>
to emphasize that connection between the
church and the family which the Jesuits instinctively
felt to be essential to the supremacy
of the former.</p>
<h3>III</h3>
<p>Whatever light the treatment of the Madonna
subject may throw upon the ages in
which it is uppermost in men’s thoughts,
the common judgment is sound which looks
for the most significance in the works of
Raphael. Even those who turn severely
away from him, and seek for purer art in
his predecessors, must needs use his name
as one of epochal consequence. So many
forces of the age meet in Raphael, who was
peculiarly open to influences, that no other
painter can so well be chosen as an exponent
of the idea of the time; and as one
passes in review the successive Madonnas,
one may not only detect the influence of
Perugino, of Leonardo, of Michelangelo,
and other masters, but may see the ripening
of a mind, upon which fell the spirit
of the age, busy with other things than
painting.</p>
<p>Of the early Madonnas of Raphael, it is<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_93"></a>[93]</span>
noticeable how many present the Virgin
engaged in reading a book, while the child
is occupied in other ways, sometimes even
seeking to interrupt the mother and disengage
her attention. Thus in one in the
Berlin museum, which is formal, though
unaffected, Mary reads a book, while the
child plays with a goldfinch; in the Madonna
in the Casa Connestabile, at Perugia,
the child plays with the leaves of the book;
in the Madonna del Cardellino, the little S.
John presents a goldfinch to Jesus, and the
mother looks away from her book to observe
the children; in that at Berlin, which is
from the Casa Colonna, the child is held on
the mother’s knee in a somewhat struggling
attitude, and has his left hand upon the top
of her dress, near her neck, his right upon
her shoulder, while the mother, with a look
of maternal tenderness, holds the book aside.
In the middle period of Raphael’s work this
motive appears once at least in the St.
Petersburg Madonna, which is a quiet landscape-scene,
where the child is in the Madonna’s
lap: she holds a book, which she
has just been reading; the little S. John
kneels before his divine companion with
infantine grace, and offers him a cross,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_94"></a>[94]</span>
which he receives with a look of tender
love; the Madonna’s eyes are directed to
the prophetic play of the children with a
deep, earnest expression.</p>
<p>The use of the book is presumably to
denote the Madonna’s piety; and in the
earlier pictures she is not only the object of
adoration to the worshipper, who sees her in
her earthly form, yet endowed with sinless
grace, but the object also of interest to the
child, who sees in her the mother. This
reciprocal relation of mother and child is
sometimes expressed with great force, as in
the Madonna della Casa Tempi, in the Pinacothek
at Munich, where the Virgin, who
is standing, tenderly presses the child’s head
against her face, while he appears to whisper
words of endearment. In these and
other of the earlier Madonnas of Raphael,
there is an enthusiasm, and a dreamy sentiment
which seems to seek expression chiefly
through the representation of holy womanhood,
the child being a part of the interpretation
of the mother. The mystic solemnity
of the subject is relieved by a lightness of
touch, which was the irrepressible assertion
of a strong human feeling.</p>
<p>Later, in what is called his middle period,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_95"></a>[95]</span>
a cheerfulness and happy contemplation of
life pervade Raphael’s work, as in the
Bridgewater Madonna, where the child,
stretched in the mother’s lap, looks up with
a graceful and lively action, and fixes his
eyes upon her in deep thought, while she
looks back with maternal, reverent joy.
The Madonna of the Chair illustrates the
same general sentiment, where the mother
appears as a beautiful and blooming woman,
looking out of the picture in the tranquil
enjoyment of motherly love; the child, full
and strong in form, leans upon her bosom
in a child’s careless attitude, the picture of
trust and content.</p>
<p>The works of Raphael’s third period, and
those executed by his pupils in a spirit and
with a touch which leave them sometimes
hardly distinguishable from the master’s,
show a profounder penetration of life, and
at the same time a firmer, more reasonable
apprehension of the divinity which lies inclosed
in the subject. Mary is now something
more than a young man’s dream of
virginal purity and maternal tenderness,—she
is also the blessed among women; the
infant Christ is not only the innocent, playful
child, but the prophetic soul, conscious<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_96"></a>[96]</span>
of his divinity and his destiny. These characteristics
pervade both the treatment which
regards them as historic personages and that
which invests them with adorable attributes
as having their throne in heaven. The
Holy Family is interpreted in a large,
serious, and dignified manner, and in the
exalted, worshipped Madonna there is a like
vision of things eternal seen through the
human form.</p>
<p>To illustrate this an example may be
taken of each class. The Madonna del Passegio,
in the Bridgewater gallery, is a well-known
composition, which represents the Madonna
and child walking through a field;
Joseph is in advance, and has turned to look
for the others. They have been stopped
by the infant S. John Baptist, clad in a
rough skin, who presses eagerly forward to
kiss Jesus. The mother places a restraining
hand upon the shoulders of S. John,
and half withdraws the child Jesus from his
embrace. A classic grace marks Jesus, who
looks steadfastly into the eyes of the impassioned
John. The three figures in the principal
group are conceived in a noble manner:
S. John, prophesying in his face the discovery
of the Lamb of God; Mary, looking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_97"></a>[97]</span>
down with a sweet gravity which marks the
holy children, and would separate Jesus as
something more than human from too close
fellowship with John; Jesus himself, a picture
of glorious childhood, with a far-reaching
look in his eye, as he gently thrusts
back the mother with one hand, and with
the other lays hold of the cross which John
bears.</p>
<p>On the other hand, an example of the
treatment of the adorable Madonna is that
of San Sisto, in the Dresden gallery. It
is not necessary to dwell on the details of
a picture which rises at once to every one’s
mind. The circumstance of innumerable
angels’ heads, of the attendant S. Sixtus
and S. Barbara, the sweep of cloud and
drapery, the suggestion of depths below and
of heights above, of heaven itself listening
at the Madonna’s feet,—all these translate
the mother and babe with ineffable sweetness
and dignity into a heavenly place, and
make them the centre of the spiritual universe.
Yet in all this Raphael has rested
his art in no elaborate use of celestial
machinery. He has taken the simple, elemental
relation, and invested it with its eternal
properties. He gives not a supernatural<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_98"></a>[98]</span>
and transcendent mother and child, but a
glorified humanity. Therefore it is that
this picture, and with it the other great Madonnas
of Raphael, may be taken entirely
away from altar and sanctuary, and placed
in the shrine of the household. The universality
of the appeal is seen in the unhesitating
adoption of the Sistine Madonna as an
expression of religious art by those who are
even antagonistic to the church which called
it forth.</p>
<h3>IV</h3>
<p>The concentration of Raphael’s genius to
so large an extent upon the subject of the
Madonna was not a mere accident of the
time, nor, when classic forms were renewing
their power, was it a solecism. The spirit
of the Renaissance entered profoundly into
Raphael’s work, and determined powerfully
the direction which it took. When he was
engaged upon purely classic themes, it is
interesting to see how frequently he turned
to the forms of children. His decorative
work is rich with the suggestion which they
bring. One may observe the graceful figures
issuing from the midst of flower and
leaf; above all, one may note how repeatedly<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_99"></a>[99]</span>
he presents the myth of Amor, and
recurs to the Amorini, types of childhood
under a purely naturalistic conception.</p>
<p>The child Jesus and the child Amor
appear side by side in the creations of
Raphael’s genius. In the great Renaissance,
of which he was so consummate an exponent,
the ancient classic world and the Christian
met in these two types of childhood:
the one a childhood of the air, unmixed
with good or evil; the other a childhood of
heaven and earth, proleptic of earthly conflict,
proleptic also of heavenly triumph.
The coincidence is not of chance. The new
world into which men were looking was not,
as some thought, to be in the submersion of
Christianity and a return to Paganism, nor,
as others, in a stern asceticism, which should
render Christianity an exclusive church,
standing aloof from the world as from a
thing wholly evil. There was to be room for
truth and love to dwell together, and the
symbol of this union was the child. Raphael’s
Christ child drew into its features a
classic loveliness; his Amor took on a Christ-like
purity and truthfulness.</p>
<p>Leslie, in his Handbook for Young Painters,
makes a very sensible reflection upon<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_100"></a>[100]</span>
Raphael’s children, as distinguished from the
unchildlike children of Francia, for example.
“A fault of many painters,” he says,
“in their representations of childhood is,
that they make it taking an interest in what
can only concern more advanced periods of
life. But Raphael’s children, unless the subject
requires it should be otherwise, are as
we see them generally in nature, wholly unconcerned
with the incidents that occupy the
attention of their elders. Thus the boy, in
the cartoon of the Beautiful Gate, pulls the
girdle of his grandfather, who is entirely
absorbed in what S. Peter is saying to the
cripple. The child, impatient of delay, wants
the old man to move on. In the Sacrifice at
Lystra, also, the two beautiful boys placed
at the altar, to officiate at the ceremony, are
too young to comprehend the meaning of
what is going on about them. One is
engrossed with the pipes on which he is
playing, and the attention of the other is attracted
by a ram brought for sacrifice. The
quiet simplicity of these sweet children has
an indescribably charming effect in this picture,
where every other figure is under the
influence of an excitement they alone do
not partake in. Children, in the works of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_101"></a>[101]</span>
inferior painters, are often nothing else than
little actors; but what I have noticed of Raphael’s
children is true, in many instances,
of the children in the pictures of Rembrandt,
Jan Steen, Hogarth, and other great painters,
who, like Raphael, looked to nature for
their incidents.”</p>
<p>There was one artist of this time who
looked to nature not merely for the incidents
of childhood, but for the soul of childhood
itself. It is impossible to regard the
work of Luca della Robbia, especially in
that ware which receives his name, without
perceiving that here was a man who saw
children and rejoiced in their young lives
with a simple, ingenuous delight. The very
spirit which led this artist to seek for expression
in homely forms of material, to domesticate
art, as it were, was one which would
make him quick to seize upon, not the incidents
alone, but the graces, of childhood.
Nor is it straining a point to say that the
purity of his color was one with the purity
of this sympathy with childhood. The Renaissance
as a witness to a new occupation
of the world by humanity finds its finest
expression in the hope which springs in the
lovely figures of Luca della Robbia.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_102"></a>[102]</span></p>
<p>It is significant of this Renaissance—it
is significant, I think we shall find, of every
great new birth in the world—that it turns
its face toward childhood, and looks into
that image for the profoundest realization
of its hopes and dreams. In the attitude of
men toward childhood we may discover the
near or far realization of that supreme hope
and confidence with which the great head
of the human family saw, in the vision of a
child, the new heaven and the new earth.
It was when his disciples were reasoning
among themselves which of them should be
the greatest that Jesus took a child, and set
him by him, and said unto them, “Whosoever
shall receive this child in my name receiveth
me.” The reception of the Christ
by men, from that day to this, has been
marked by successive throes of humanity,
and in each great movement there has been
a new apprehension of childhood, a new
recognition of the meaning involved in the
pregnant words of the Saviour. Such a recognition
lies in the children of Raphael and
of Luca della Robbia. There may have been
no express intimation on their part of the
connection between their works and the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_103"></a>[103]</span>
great prophecy, but it is often for later generations
to read more clearly the presence of
a thought by means of light thrown back
upon it. The course of Christianity since
the Renaissance supplies such a light.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_104"></a>[104]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="VI">VI<br>
<span class="smaller">IN ENGLISH LITERATURE AND ART</span></h2>
</div>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>To hunt through English literature and
art for representations of childhood would
seem to be like looking for the persons of
children in any place where people congregate.
How could there be any conspicuous
absence, except under conditions which necessarily
exclude the very young? Yet it is
impossible to follow the stream of English
literature, with this pursuit in mind, without
becoming aware that at one point in its
course there is a marked access of this force
of childhood. There is, to be sure, a fallacy
lurking in the customary study of the development
of literature. We fall into the way
of thinking of that literature as an organism
proceeding from simpler to more complex
forms; we are attent upon the transition of
one epoch into another; we come to regard
each period as essentially anticipatory of
the succeeding period. We make the same<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_105"></a>[105]</span>
mistake often in our regard of historical
sequence, looking at all past periods simply
and exclusively with reference to the present
stand from which we take our observations.
A too keen sensibility to the logic which
requires time for its conclusion, a too feeble
sense of the logic which dwells in the relation
between the seen and the unseen,—these
stand in the way of a clear perception of
the forces immanent in literature and life.</p>
<p>The distinction is worth bearing in mind
when one surveys English literature with
the purpose of recognizing the child in it.
There are certain elemental facts and truths
of which old and new cannot be predicated.
The vision of helpless childhood is no modern
discovery; it is no ancient revelation.
The child at play was seen by Homer and
by Cowper, and the latter did not derive
his apprehension from any study of the former.
The humanism which underlies all
literature is independent of circumstances
for its perception of the great moving forces
of life; it is independent of the great
changes in human history; even so great a
change as the advent of Christianity could
not interfere with the normal expression of
elemental facts in life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_106"></a>[106]</span></p>
<p>Wherein, then, lies the difference between
an antique and a modern apprehension of
childhood? For what may one look in a
survey of English literature that he would
not find in Greek or Roman authors? Is
there any development of human thought in
relation to childhood to be traced in a literature
which has reflected the mind of the
centuries since the Renaissance? The most
aggressive type of modern Christianity, at
any rate the most free type, is to be found
amongst English-speaking people; and if
Christianity has in any way modified the
course of thought regarding the child, the
effect will certainly be seen in English literature
and art.</p>
<p class="tb">A recollection of ballad literature, without
critical inquiry of the comparative age
of the writings, brings to light the familiar
and frequent incident of cruelty to children
in some form: of the secret putting away
of babes, as in the affecting ballad of the
Queen’s Marie; of the cold and heartless
murder, as in the Cruel Mother, and in the
tragic tale of The Child’s Last Will, where
a sudden dramatic and revealing turn is
given, after the child has willed its various
possessions, in the lines,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_107"></a>[107]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“‘What wish leav’st thou thy step-mother</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Little daughter dear?’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘Of hell the bitter sorrow</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Sweet step-mother mine</div>
<div class="verse indent0">For ah, all! I am so ill, ah!’</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“‘What wish leav’st thou thy old nurse</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Little daughter dear?’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘For her I wish the same pangs</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Sweet step-mother mine</div>
<div class="verse indent0">For ah, ah! I am so ill, ah!’”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">That grewsome story of Lamkin, with its
dripping of blood in almost every stanza,
gets half its curdling power from the slow
torture of the sensibilities, as the babe is
slain and then rocked in its cradle, and the
mother, summoned by its cries, meets her
own fate at the hands of the treacherous
nurse and Lamkin, whose name is a piece
of bald irony:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Then Lamkin’s ta’en a sharp knife</div>
<div class="verse indent2">That hang down by his gaire,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And he has gi’en the bonny babe</div>
<div class="verse indent2">A deep wound and a sair.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Then Lamkin he rocked,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And the fause nourice sang</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Till frae ilkae bore o’ the cradle</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The red blood out sprang.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Then out it spak the ladie</div>
<div class="verse indent2">As she stood on the stair,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘What ails my bairn, nourice,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">That he’s greeting sae sair?</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_108"></a>[108]</span>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“‘O still my bairn, nourice</div>
<div class="verse indent2">O still him wi’ the pap!’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘He winna still, lady,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">For this nor for that.’</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“‘O still my bairn, nourice;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">O still him wi’ the wand!’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘He winna still, lady,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">For a’ his father’s land.’</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“‘O still my bairn, nourice,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Oh still him wi’ the bell!’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘He winna still, lady,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Till ye come down yoursel.’</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“O the firsten step she steppit,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">She steppit on a stane;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But the neisten step she steppit,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">She met him, Lamkin.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>Another early and significant illustration
is found in the popular story of Hugh of
Lincoln; but instead of turning to the
ballad of that name, one may better have
recourse to Chaucer’s version as contained
in the Canterbury tale of the Prioress. In
the prologue to this tale appear the words
of Scripture, “Out of the mouths of babes
and sucklings,” in a paraphrase, and the
Prioress turns to the Virgin, beseeching her
to give words for the telling of the piteous
tale. The story of Hugh of Lincoln—that
in the reign of Henry III., the Jews of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_109"></a>[109]</span>
Lincoln stole a boy of eight years, named
Hugh, tortured and crucified him—was received
with great credit, for it concentrated
the venomous enmity with which Christians
regarded the Jews, and by a refinement
of cruelty pictured the Jews in a solitary
instance as behaving in a Christian-like
manner. Chaucer tells the story with exquisite
pathos, lingering upon the childish
ways of Hugh, and preparing the tears of
his readers by picturing the little boy as a
miniature saint. It can scarcely be called
a picture of artless childhood; for though
touches here and there bring out the prattler,
Chaucer appears to have meant that his
readers should be especially impressed by
the piety of this “litel clergeoun,” or chorister
boy:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“A litel clergeoun, seven yeer of age,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That day by day to scole was his wone;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And eek also, whereas he saugh thymage</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Of Cristes mooder, he hadde in usage,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">As hym was taught, to knele adoun and seye</div>
<div class="verse indent0">His <i>Ave Marie</i>, as he goth by the weye.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">And so we are told of the little fellow eager
to learn the Alma Redemptoris of his elders,
and conning it as he went to and from
school, his way leading through the Jews’
quarter:—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_110"></a>[110]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“As I have seyd, thurgh-out the Jewerie</div>
<div class="verse indent0">This litel child, as he cam to and fro,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Ful murily wolde he synge and crie</div>
<div class="verse indent0">O <i>Alma redemptoris</i> evere-mo</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The swetnesse hath his herte perced so</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Of Cristes mooder, that to hire to preye</div>
<div class="verse indent0">He kan nat stynte of syngyng by the weye.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">The wicked Jews, vexed by his singing,
kill him, and cast his body into a pit. His
weeping mother seeks him, and, happening
by the pit, is made aware of his presence by
the miracle of his dead lips still singing the
Alma Redemptoris.</p>
<p>In two other stories has Chaucer dwelt
upon the pathos of childhood and bereft or
suffering motherhood. In the Man of Law’s
tale of Custance, there is a touching passage
where Custance and her babe are driven
away from the kingdom, and exposed to the
sea in the ship which had brought them.
The mother kneels upon the sand before
embarking, and puts her trust in the Lord.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Her litel child lay wepying in hir arm,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And knelynge, pitously to hym she seyde,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘Pees litel sone, I wol do thee noon harm!’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">With that hir kerchief of hir heed she breyde,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And over hise litel eyen she it leyde,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And in-to hevene hire eyen up she caste.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Then she commits herself and her child to
Mary by the love of Mary’s child.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_111"></a>[111]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“And up she rist, and walketh doun the stronde</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Toward the ship,—hir folweth al the prees,—</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And evere she preyeth hire child to hold his pees.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Again, in the Clerk’s tale of Patient Griselda,
the effect of the story is greatly heightened
by the narrative of the successive partings
of the mother with her child; and the
climax is reached in the burst of gladness
and pent-up feeling which overtakes Griselda
at the restoration of her son and daughter.
It is noticeable that in these and other
instances childhood appears chiefly as an
appeal to pity, rarely as an object of direct
love and joy. This is not to be wondered
at when one considers the character of the
English race, and the nature of the redemption
which it has been undergoing in the
slow process of its submission to the spirit
of Christ. We say the English race, without
stopping to make nice distinctions between
the elements which existed at the time
of the Great Charter, just as we may properly
speak of the American people of the
time of the Constitution.</p>
<p>This character is marked by a brutality, a
murderous spirit, which lies scarcely concealed,
to-day, in the temper of every English
crowd, and has left its mark on literature<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_112"></a>[112]</span>
from the ballads to Oliver Twist. This
brutal instinct, this rude, savage, northern
spirit, is discovered in conflict with the disarming
power of the spirit of Christ, and
the stages of the conflict are most clearly
indicated in poetry, which is to England
what pictorial and sculpturesque art is to
the south, the highest exponent of its spiritual
life. More comprehensively, English
literature affords the most complete means
of measuring the advance of England in humanity.</p>
<p>It belongs to the nature of this deep conflict
that there should appear from time to
time the finest exemplars of the ideals formed
by the divine spirit, side by side with exhibitions
of the most willful baseness. English
literature abounds in these contrasts; it
is still more expressive of tides of spiritual
life, the elevation of thought and imagination
succeeded by almost groveling animalism.
And since one of the symbols of a
perfected Christianity is the child, it is not
unfair to seek for its presence in literature,
nor would it be a rare thing to discover it in
passages which hint at the conflict between
the forces of good and evil so constantly
going on.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_113"></a>[113]</span></p>
<p>It is not strange, therefore, that the earliest
illustrations of childhood should mainly
turn, as we have seen, upon that aspect
which is at once most natural and most
Christian. Pity, like a naked, new-born
babe, does indeed ride the blast in those
wild, more than half-savage bursts of the
English spirit which are preserved for us in
ballad literature; and in the first springs of
English poetic art in Chaucer, the child is
as it were the mediator between the rough
story and the melody of the singer. One
cannot fail to see how the introduction of
the child by Chaucer, in close union with
the mother, is almost a transfer of the Madonna
into English poetry,—a Madonna
not of ritual, but of humanity.</p>
<p class="tb">There are periods in the history of every
nation when the inner life is more completely
exposed to view, and when the student, if he
be observant, may trace most clearly the fundamental
arteries of being. Such a period
in England was the Elizabethan era, when
the tumultuous English spirit manifested
itself in religion, in politics, in enterprise,
in adventure, and in intellectual daring,—that
era which was dominated by the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_114"></a>[114]</span>
great master of English speech. It is the
fashion of every age to write its characteristics
in forms which have become obsolete,
and to resort to masquerade for a display of
its real emotions. It was because chivalry
was no longer the every-day habit of men
that Spenser used it for his purposes, and
translated the Seven Champions of Christendom
into a profounder and more impassioned
poem, emblematical of that great ethical
conflict which has been a significant feature
of English history from the first. In that
series of knightly adventures, The Faery
Queen, wherein the field of human character
is traversed, sin traced to its lurking-place,
and the old dragon of unrighteousness set
upon furiously, there is a conspicuous incident
contained in the second book. In each
book Spenser conceives the antagonist of
the knight, in some spiritual form, to have
wrought a mischief which needs to be repaired
and revenged. Thus a dragon occasions
the adventures of the Red Cross
knight, and in the legend of Sir Guyon the
enchantress Acrasia, or Intemperance, has
caused the death of a knight and his lady;
the latter slays herself because of her husband’s
death, and plunges her babe’s innocent<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_115"></a>[115]</span>
hands into her own bloody breast for a
witness. Sir Guyon and the Palmer, standing
over the dead bodies, hold grave discourse
upon the incident; then they bury the dead,
and seek in vain to cleanse the babe’s hands
in a neighboring fountain. The pure water
will not be stained, and the child bears
the name Ruddymane,—the Red-Handed,—and
shall so bear the sign of a vengeance
he is yet to execute.</p>
<p>It is somewhat difficult to see into the full
meaning of Spenser’s allegory, for the reason
that the poet breaks through the meshes of
his allegoric net and soars into a freer air;
but there are certain strong lines running
through the poem, and this of the ineradicable
nature of sin is one of them. To Spenser,
vexed with problems of life, that conception
of childhood which knit it closely with
the generations was a significant one, and in
the bloody hand of the infant, which could
not be suffered to stain the chaste fountain,
he saw the dread transmission of an inherited
guilt and wrong. The poet and the
moralist struggle for ascendency, and in this
conflict one may see reflected the passion for
speculation in divinity which was already
making deep marks in English literature.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_116"></a>[116]</span></p>
<p>But the Elizabethan era had its share of
light-heartedness. The songs of the dramatists
and other lyrics exhibit very clearly
the influence upon literature of the revival
of ancient learning. As the art of Italy
showed the old poetic grace risen again
under new conditions, so the dominant art
of England caught a light from the uncovered
glory of Greece and Rome. It was the
time of the great translations of Phaer,
Golding, North, and Chapman; and as those
translations are bold appropriations of antiquity,
not timid attempts at satisfying the
requisitions of scholarship, so the figures of
the old mythology are used freely and ingenuously;
they are naturalized in English
verse far more positively than afterwards in
the <i>elegantia</i> of the Queen Anne and Georgian
periods. Ben Jonson’s Venus’ Runaway
is an exquisite illustration of this rich,
decorative use of the old fable. It was
partly through this sportive appropriation
of the myth of Amor, so vital in all literature,
that the lullabies of the time came to
get their sweetness. The poet, in putting
songs into the mother’s mouth, is not so
much reflecting the Virgin and Child as he
is possessed with the spirit of Greek beauty,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_117"></a>[117]</span>
and his delicate fancy plays about the image
of a little Love. Thus may we read the
Golden Slumbers of Dekker, in his Patient
Grissel. By a pretty conceit George Gascoigne,
in his Lullaby of a Lover, captures
the sentiment of a mother and babe, to
make it tell the story of his own love and
content. There is a touching song by Robert
Greene in his Menaphon, where Sephestia
puts into her lullaby the story of
her parting with the child’s father:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">When thou art old, there’s grief enough for thee.</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The wanton smiled, father wept,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Mother cried, baby leapt,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">More thou crowed, more he cried,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Nature could not sorrow hide;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">He must go, he must kiss</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Child and mother, baby bless;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">For he left his pretty boy,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Father’s sorrow, father’s joy.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">When thou art old, there’s grief enough for thee.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>We are apt to look for everything in
Shakespeare, but in this matter of childhood
we must confess that there is a meagreness
of reference which almost tempts us into
constructing a theory to account for it. So
far as dramatic representation is concerned,
the necessary limitations of the stage easily<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_118"></a>[118]</span>
account for the absence of the young. Girls
were not allowed to act in Shakespeare’s
time, and it is not easy to reduce boys capable
of acting to the stature of young girls.
More than this, boys and girls are not themselves
dramatic in action, though in the more
modern drama they are sometimes used,
especially in domestic scenes, to heighten
effects, and to make most reasonable people
wish them in bed.</p>
<p>Still, within the limits enforced by his
art, Shakespeare more than once rested
much on youthful figures. The gay, agile
Moth has a species of femineity about him,
so that we fancy he would be most easily
shown on the stage by a girl; but one readily
recalls others who have distinct boyish
properties. In Coriolanus, when the mother
and wife go out to plead with the angry
Roman, they take with them his little boy.
Volumnia, frantic with fear, with love, and
with a woman’s changing passion, calls upon
one and another to join her in her entreaty.
Virgilia, the wife, crowds in a word at the
height of Volumnia’s appeal, when the voluble
grandmother has been rather excitedly
talking about Coriolanus treading on his
mother’s womb, that brought him into the
world. Virgilia strikes in,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_119"></a>[119]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent34">“Ay, and mine</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Living to time.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Whereupon young Marcius, with delicious
boyish brag and chivalry:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent24">“A’ shall not tread on me;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">In the same play there is a description of
the boy which tallies exactly with the single
appearance which he makes in person. Valeria
drops in upon the mother and grandmother
in a friendly way, and civilly asks
after the boy.</p>
<div class="blockquote">
<p>“<i>Vir.</i> I thank your ladyship; well, good madam.</p>
<p>“<i>Vol.</i> He had rather see the swords, and hear a drum,
than look upon his schoolmaster.</p>
<p>“<i>Val.</i> O’ my word, the father’s son: I’ll swear, ’tis
a very pretty boy. O’ my troth, I looked upon him o’
Wednesday half an hour together: has such a confirmed
countenance. I saw him run after a gilded butterfly;
and when he caught it, he let it go again; and after it
again: and over and over he comes, and up again;
catched it again; or whether his fall enraged him, or
how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it; O, I
warrant, how he mammocked it!</p>
<p>“<i>Vol.</i> One on ’s father’s moods.</p>
<p>“<i>Val.</i> Indeed, la, ’tis a noble child.</p>
<p>“<i>Vir.</i> A crack, madam.”</p>
</div>
<p>The most eminent example in Shakespeare
of active childhood is unquestionably the
part played by young Arthur in the drama<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_120"></a>[120]</span>
of King John. It is the youth of Arthur,
his dependence, his sorry inheritance of
misery, his helplessness among the raging
wolves about him, his childish victory over
Hubert, and his forlorn death, when he
leaps trembling from the walls, which
impress the imagination. “Stay yet,” says
Pembroke to Salisbury,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent24">“I’ll go with thee</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And find the inheritance of this poor child,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">His little kingdom of a forced grave.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Shakespeare, busy with the story of kings,
is moved with deep compassion for this child
among kings, who overcomes the hard heart
of Hubert by his innocent words, the very
strength of feeble childhood, and falls like a
poor lamb upon the stones, where his princedom
could not save him.</p>
<p>In that ghastly play of Titus Andronicus,
which melts at last into unavailing tears,
with what exquisite grace is the closing
scene humanized by the passage where the
elder Lucius calls his boy to the side of his
dead grandsire:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To melt in showers: thy grandsire loved thee well:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Many a matter hath he told to thee,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Meet and agreeing with thine infancy;</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_121"></a>[121]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">In that respect, then, like a loving child,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Shed yet some small drops from thy tender spring,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Because kind nature doth require it so.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>The relentless spirit of Lady Macbeth is
in nothing figured more acutely than when
the woman and mother is made to say,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent22">“I have given suck, and know</div>
<div class="verse indent0">How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">I would, while it was smiling in my face,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Have plucked my nipple from his boneless gums</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And dashed the brains out, had I sworn as you</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Have done to this.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">In the witch’s hell-broth one ingredient is
“finger of birth-strangled babe,” while in
the portents which rise to Macbeth’s vision
a bloody child and a child crowned, with a
tree in his hand, are apparitions of ghostly
prophecy. Then in that scene where Ross
discloses slowly and with pent-up passion
the murder of Macduff’s wife and children,
and Macduff hears as in a dream, waking to
the blinding light of horrid day, with what
a piercing shriek he cries out,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“He has no children!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">and then surges back to his own pitiful
state, transformed for a moment into an infuriated
creature, all instinct, from which a
hell-kite has stolen his mate and pretty brood.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_122"></a>[122]</span></p>
<p>By what marvelous flash of poetic power
Shakespeare in this mighty passage lifts
that humblest image of parental care, a hen
and chickens, into the heights of human passion.
Ah! as one sees a hen with a brood
of chickens under her,—how she gathers
them under her wings, and will stay in the
cold if she can but keep them warm,—one’s
mind turns to those words of profound pathos
spoken over the unloving Jerusalem;
there was the voice of a nature into which
was gathered all the father’s and the mother’s
love. In these two passages one sees
the irradiation of poor feathered life with
the glory of the image of the highest.</p>
<p>How important a part in the drama of
King Richard III. do the young princes
play; as princes, indeed, in the unfolding
of the plot, yet as children in the poet’s
portraiture of them. We hear their childish
prattle, we see their timid shrinking from
the dark Tower, and then we have the effect
of innocent childhood upon the callous murderers,
Dighton and Forrest, as related in
that short, sharp, dramatic account which
Tyrrel gives:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Dighton and Forrest, whom I did suborn</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To do this ruthless piece of butchery,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_123"></a>[123]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">Although they were flesh’d villains, bloody dogs,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Melting with tenderness and kind compassion</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Wept like two children in their deaths’ sad stories.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘Lo, thus,’ quoth Dighton, ‘lay those tender babes:’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">‘Thus, thus,’ quoth Forrest, ‘girdling one another</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Within their innocent alabaster arms:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Which in their summer beauty kiss’d each other.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A book of prayers on their pillow lay;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Which once,’ quoth Forrest, ‘almost changed my mind;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">But O! the devil’—there the villain stopp’d;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Whilst Dighton thus told on: ‘We smothered</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The most replenished sweet work of nature,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That from the prime creation e’er she framed.’</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Thus both are gone with conscience and remorse;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">They could not speak.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>The glances at infancy, though infrequent,
are touched with strong human feeling.
Ægeon, narrating the strange adventures of
his shipwreck, tells of the</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Piteous plainings of the pretty babes</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That mourned for fashion, ignorant what to fear;”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">and scattered throughout the plays are passages
and lines which touch lightly or significantly
the realm of childhood: as,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Pity like a naked, new-born babe;”</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent4">“’Tis the eye of childhood</div>
<div class="verse indent4">That fears a painted devil,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">in Macbeth;</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_124"></a>[124]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent20">“Love is like a child</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That longs for every thing that he can come by;”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent2">“How wayward is this foolish love</div>
<div class="verse indent2">That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And presently all humble kiss the rod,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">in Two Gentlemen of Verona;</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Those that do teach young babes</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Do it with gentle means and easy tasks,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">says Desdemona; and Cleopatra, when the
poisonous asp is planting its fangs, says with
saddest irony,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent18">“Peace! peace!</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Dost thou not see my baby at my breast</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That sucks the nurse asleep?”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>There is a charming illustration of the
blending of the classic myth of Amor with
actual childhood in these lines of A Midsummer-Night’s
Dream, where Helena says,</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nor hath Love’s mind of any judgment taste:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And therefore is Love said to be a child,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">As waggish boys in games themselves forswear,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">So the boy Love is perjured everywhere.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>In the noonday musing of Jaques, when
the summer sky hung over the greenwood,
and he fell to thinking of the round world<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_125"></a>[125]</span>
and all that dwell therein, the Seven Ages of
Man passed in procession before him:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent18">“At first the infant</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Muling and puking in the nurse’s arms.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And shining morning face, creeping like snail</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Unwillingly to school,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">until the last poor shambling creature is
borne off in second childhood.</p>
<p>There are doubtless other passages which
might be gleaned, but the survey is full
enough to show how scantily, after all,
Shakespeare has made use of the figure and
the image of childhood. The reflection has
led an ingenious writer to explain the fact
by the circumstances of Shakespeare’s life,
which hindered his study of children. “He
was clearly old for his age when still a boy,
and so would have associated, not with children,
but with young men. His marriage as
a mere lad and the scanty legends of his
youth all tend in the same direction. The
course of his life led him to live apart from
his children in their youth; his busy life in
London brought him into the interior of but
few families; his son, of whom he saw but
little, died young. If our supposition be
true, it is a pathetic thought that the great<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_126"></a>[126]</span>
dramatist was shut out from the one kind
of companionship which, even while it is in
no degree intellectual, never palls. A man,
whatever his mental powers, can take delight
in the society of a child, when a person
of intellect far more matured, but inferior
to his own, would be simply insufferable.”<a id="FNanchor_32" href="#Footnote_32" class="fnanchor">[32]</a></p>
<p>The explanation is rather ingenious than
satisfying. Where did Shakespeare get his
knowledge of the abundant life which his
dramas present? He had the privilege of
most people of remembering his own boyhood,
and the mind which could invent
Hamlet out of such stuff as experience and
observation furnished could scarcely have
missed acquaintance enough with children to
enable him to portray them whenever the
exigencies of his drama required. No, it is
simpler to refer the absence of children as
actors to the limitations of the stage, and to
ascribe the infrequent references to childhood
to the general neglect of the merely domestic
side of life in Shakespeare’s art. Shakespeare’s
world was an out-of-doors, public
world, and his men, women, and lovers carried
on their lives with no denser concealment
than a wood or an arras could afford.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_127"></a>[127]</span></p>
<p>The comprehensiveness of Shakespeare
found some place for children; the lofty
narrowness of Milton, none. The word
<i>child</i>, even, can scarcely be found on a page
of Milton’s verse. In his Ode on the
Morning of Christ’s Nativity, with its
Hymn, how slight is the mention of the
child Jesus! How far removed is the treatment
from that employed in the great procession
of Madonnas!</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Afford a present to the Infant God?”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">The Infant God!—that is Milton’s attitude,
more than half pagan. In L’Allegro
and in Comus the lightness, which denotes
the farthest swing of Milton’s fancy, is the
relief which his poetic soul found from the
high themes of theology, in Greek art. One
is aware that Milton’s fine scholarship was
the salvation of his poetry, as his Puritan
sense of personality held in check a nature
which else might have run riot in sportiveness
and sensuousness. When he permitted
himself his exquisite short flights of fancy,
the material in which he worked was not
the fresh spring of English nature, human
or earthly, but the remote Arcadian virginity<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_128"></a>[128]</span>
which he had learned of in his books.
Not dancing children, but winged sprites,
caught his poetic eye.</p>
<p>The weight of personal responsibility
which rests upon the Puritan conception of
life offers small play for the wantonness and
spontaneity of childhood. Moreover, the
theological substratum of Puritan morality
denied to childhood any freedom, and kept
the life of man in waiting upon the conscious
turning of the soul to God. Hence childhood
was a time of probation and suspense.
It was wrong, to begin with, and was repressed
in its nature until maturity should
bring an active and conscious allegiance to
God. Hence, also, parental anxiety was
forever earnestly seeking to anticipate the
maturity of age, and to secure for childhood
that reasonable intellectual belief which it
held to be essential to salvation; there followed
often a replacement of free childhood
by an abnormal development. In any event,
the tendency of the system was to ignore
childhood, to get rid of it as quickly as possible,
and to make the state contain only
self-conscious, determinate citizens of the
kingdom of heaven. There was, unwittingly,
a reversal of the divine message, and it was<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_129"></a>[129]</span>
said in effect to children: Except ye become
as grown men and be converted, ye cannot
enter the kingdom of heaven.</p>
<p>Nevertheless, though Puritanism in its
excessive anxiety may have robbed childhood
of its freedom, the whole spirit of the movement
was one conservative of family relations,
and the narratives of domestic life
under Puritanic control are often full of a
grave sweetness. Indeed, it may almost be
said that the domestic narrative was now
born into English literature. Nor could the
intense concern for the spiritual well-being
of children, a religious passion reinforcing
natural affection, fail to give an importance
to the individual life of the family, and
prepare the way for that new intelligence of
the scope of childhood which was to come
later to an England still largely dominated
by Puritan ideas.</p>
<p>Milton expressed the high flight of the
soul above earthly things. He took his
place upon a summit where he could show
the soul all the confines of heaven and earth.
Bunyan, stirred by like religious impulses,
made his soul trudge sturdily along toward
an earthly paradise. The realism of his
story often veils successfully the spiritual<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_130"></a>[130]</span>
sense, and makes it possible for children to
read the Pilgrim’s Progress with but faint
conception of its religious import. In the
second part of the allegory, Christian’s wife
and children set out on their ramble, in
Christian’s footsteps. There is no lack of
individuality in characterization of the persons.
The children are distinctly conceived
as children; they are, to be sure, made to
conform occasionally to the demands of the
spiritual side of the allegory, yet they
remain children, and by their speech and
action betray the childish mind.</p>
<p>They come in sight of the lions, and “the
boys that went before were glad to cringe
behind, for they were afraid of the lions, so
they stepped back and went behind.” When
they come to the Porter’s Lodge, they abide
there awhile with Prudence, Piety, and
Charity; Prudence catechizes the four children,
who return commendably correct answers.
But Matthew, the oldest boy, falls
sick of the gripes; and when the physician
asks Christiana what he has been eating
lately, she is as ignorant as any mother
can be.</p>
<p>“Then said Samuel,” who is as communicative
as most younger brothers, “‘Mother,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_131"></a>[131]</span>
mother, what was that which my brother
did gather up and eat, so soon as we were
come from the Gate that is at the head of
this way? You know that there was an orchard
on the left hand, on the other side of
the wall, and some of the trees hung over
the wall, and my brother did plash and did
eat.’</p>
<p>“‘True, my child,’ said Christiana, ‘he
did take thereof and did eat, naughty boy as
he was. I did chide him, and yet he would
eat thereof.’” So Mr. Skill, the physician,
proceeds to make a purge. “You know,”
says Bunyan, in a sly parenthesis, “physicians
give strange medicines to their patients.”
“And it was made up,” he goes
on, “into pills, with a promise or two, and a
proportionable quantity of salt. Now he was
to take them three at a time, fasting, in
half a quarter of a pint of Tears of Repentance.
When this Portion was prepared and
brought to the boy, he was loth to take it,
though torn with the gripes as if he should
be pulled in pieces. ‘Come, come,’ said the
physician, ‘you must take it.’ ‘It goes
against my stomach,’ said the boy. ‘I must
have you take it,’ said his mother. ‘I shall
vomit it up again,’ said the boy. ‘Pray,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_132"></a>[132]</span>
sir,’ said Christiana to Mr. Skill, ‘how does
it taste?’ ‘It has no ill taste,’ said the
doctor, and with that she touched one of the
pills with the tip of her tongue. ‘O Matthew,’
said she, ‘this Portion is sweeter than
honey. If thou lovest thy mother, if thou
lovest thy brothers, if thou lovest Mercy, if
thou lovest thy life, take it.’ So with much
ado, after a short prayer for the blessing of
God upon it, he took it, and it wrought
kindly with him. It caused him to purge,
it caused him to sleep and rest quietly, it put
him into a fine heat and breathing sweat,
and did quite rid him of his gripes.”</p>
<p>The story is dotted with these lifelike
incidents, and the consistency is rather in
the basis of the allegory than in the allegory
itself. In truth, we get in the Pilgrim’s
Progress an inimitable picture of social life
in the lower middle class of England, and
in this second part a very vivid glimpse of
a Puritan household. The glimpse is corrective
of a too stern and formal apprehension
of social Puritanism, and in the story
are exhibited the natural charms and graces
which not only could not be expelled by a
stern creed, but were essentially connected
with the lofty ideals which made Puritanism<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_133"></a>[133]</span>
a mighty force in history. Bunyan had a
genius for story-telling, and his allegory is
very frank; but what he showed as well as
what he did not show in his picture of
Christiana and the children indicates the
constraint which rested upon the whole Puritan
conception of childhood. It is seen at
its best in Bunyan, and this great Puritan
poet of common life found a place for it in
his survey of man’s estate; nature asserted
itself in spite of and through Puritanism.</p>
<p class="tb">Milton’s Christmas Hymn has the organ
roll of a mind moving among high themes,
and making the earth one of the golden
spheres. Pope’s sacred eclogue of the Messiah
is perhaps the completest expression of
the religious sentiment of an age which was
consciously bounded by space and time. In
Pope’s day, the world was scarcely a part of
a greater universe; eternity was only a prolongation
of time, and the sense of beauty,
acute as it was, was always sharply defined.
Pope’s rhymed couplets, with their absolute
finality, their clean conclusion, their epigrammatic
snap, are the most perfect symbols
of the English mind of that period.
When in the Messiah we read,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_134"></a>[134]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Rapt into future times the bard begun,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a son!</div>
<div class="center">...</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Swift fly the years and rise the expected morn!</div>
<div class="verse indent0">O spring to light, auspicious babe, be born!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">we remember Milton’s Infant God. The
two poets touch, with a like faintness, the
childhood of Jesus, but the one through awe
and grandeur of contemplation, the other
through the polite indifference of a man of
the world. Or take Pope’s mundane philosophy,
as exhibited most elaborately in his
Essay on Man, and set it beside Shakespeare’s
Seven Ages of Man:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Behold the child, by Nature’s kindly law</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Some livelier plaything gives his youth delight,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A little louder, but as empty quite:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Pleased with this bauble still, as that before;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Till tired he sleeps and life’s poor play is o’er.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">This is the only passage in the Essay hinting
at childhood, and suffices to indicate how
entirely insignificant in the eyes of the philosophy
underlying Pope and his school was
the whole thought of childhood. The passage,
while not perhaps consciously imitative
of Shakespeare, suggests comparison, and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_135"></a>[135]</span>
one finds in Jaques under the greenwood a
more human feeling. Commend us to the
tramp before the drawing-room philosopher!</p>
<p class="tb">The prelusive notes of a new literature
were sounded by Fielding, Gray, Goldsmith,
and Cowper. It was to be a literature which
touched the earth again, the earth of a
common nature, the earth also of a national
inheritance.</p>
<p>Fielding, though painting contemporary
society in a manner borrowed in a measure
from the satiric drama, was moving constantly
into the freer domain of the novelist
who is a critic of life, and when he would
set forth the indestructible force of a pure
nature in a woman who is placed in a
loose society, as in Amelia, he instinctively
hedges the wife about with children, and it
is a mark of his art that these children are
not mere pawns which are moved about to
protect the queen; they are genuine figures,
their prattle is natural, and they are constantly
illustrating in the most innocent
fashion the steadfastness of Amelia.</p>
<p>It is significant that Gray, with his delicate
taste and fine classical scholarship,
when he composed his Elegy used first<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_136"></a>[136]</span>
the names of eminent Romans when he
wrote:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Some village Cato, who with dauntless breast</div>
<div class="verse indent2">The little tyrant of the fields withstood;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Some mute, inglorious Tully here may rest,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Some Cæsar, guiltless of his country’s blood.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">He changed these names for those of English
heroes, and in doing so broke away from
traditions which still had a strong hold in
literature. It is a pity that for a reason
which hardly convinces us he should have
thought best to omit the charming stanza,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“There, scattered oft, the earliest of the year,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">By hands unseen are showers of violets found:</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The Red-breast loves to build and warble there,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And little footsteps lightly print the ground.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">When Gray wrote this he doubtless had in
mind the ballad of the Children in the
Wood. In the succession of English pictures
which he does give is that lovely one,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Or busy housewife ply her evening’s care;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">No children run to lisp their sire’s return,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Or climb his knees the evening kiss to share.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>In his poem On a Distant Prospect of
Eton College he has lines which are instinct
with a feeling for childhood and youth.
There is, it is true, a touch of artificiality<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_137"></a>[137]</span>
in the use made of childhood in this poem,
as a foil for tried manhood, its little life
treated as the lost golden age of mankind;
but that sentiment was a prevailing one in
the period.</p>
<p>Goldsmith, whose Bohemianism helped to
release him from subservience to declining
fashions in literature, treats childhood in a
more genuine and artless fashion. In his
prose and poetry I hear the first faint notes
of that song of childhood which in a generation
more was to burst from many lips. The
sweetness which trembles in the Deserted
Village finds easy expression in forms and
images which call up childhood to memory,
as in those lines,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“The playful children just let loose from school,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“E’en children followed with endearing wile,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile,”—</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">and in the quaint picture of the village
school.</p>
<p>It is in the Vicar of Wakefield, however,
that one finds the freest play of fancy about
childish figures. Goldsmith says of his hero
that “he unites in himself the three greatest
characters upon earth,—he is a priest, a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_138"></a>[138]</span>
husbandman, and the father of a family;”
and the whole of the significant preface may
lead one to revise the estimate of Goldsmith
which his contemporaries have fastened upon
English literary history. The waywardness
and unconventionality of this man of genius
and his eager desire to be accepted by the
world, which was then the great world, were
the characteristics which most impressed the
shallower minds about him. In truth, he
had not only an extraordinary sympathy
with the ever-varying, ever-constant flux of
human life, but he dropped a deeper plummet
than any English thinker since Milton.</p>
<p>It was in part his loneliness that threw
him upon children for complete sympathy;
in part also his prophetic sense, for he had
an unerring vision of what constituted the
strength and the weakness of England.
After the portraiture of the Vicar himself,
there are no finer sketches than those of the
little children. “It would be fruitless,”
says the unworldly Vicar, “to deny exultation
when I saw my little ones about me;”
and from time to time in the tale, the
youngest children, Dick and Bill, trot forward
in an entirely natural manner. They
show an engaging fondness for Mr. Thornhill.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_139"></a>[139]</span>
“The whole family seemed earnest to
please him.... My little ones were no less
busy, and fondly stuck close to the stranger.
All my endeavors could scarcely keep their
dirty fingers from handling and tarnishing
the lace on his clothes, and lifting up the
flaps of his pocket holes to see what was
there.” The character of Mr. Burchell is
largely drawn by its association with the
children. The account given by little Dick
of the carrying off of Olivia is full of charming
childish spirit, and there is an exquisite
passage where the Vicar returns home with
the news of Olivia’s recovery, and discovers
his house to be on fire, while in a tumult of
confusion the older members of the family
rush out of the dwelling.</p>
<p>“I gazed upon them and upon it by
turns,” proceeds the Vicar, “and then looked
round me for my two little ones; but they
were not to be seen. O misery! ‘Where,’
cried I, ‘where are my little ones?’ ‘They
are burnt to death in the flames,’ says my
wife calmly, ‘and I will die with them.’
That moment I heard the cry of the babes
within, who were just awaked by the fire,
and nothing could have stopped me.
‘Where, where are my children?’ cried I,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_140"></a>[140]</span>
rushing through the flames, and bursting the
door of the chamber in which they were confined.
‘Where are my little ones?’ ‘Here,
dear papa, here we are!’ cried they together,
while the flames were just catching the bed
where they lay. I caught them both in my
arms, and snatching them through the fire
as fast as possible, just as I was got out the
roof sunk in. ‘Now,’ cried I, holding up
my children, ‘now let the flames burn on,
and all my possessions perish. Here they
are. I have saved my treasure. Here, my
dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall
yet be happy.’ We kissed our little darlings
a thousand times; they clasped us round
the neck, and seemed to share our transports,
while their mother laughed and wept
by turns.”</p>
<p>Cowper was more secluded from his time
and its influence than Goldsmith, but like
him he felt the instinct for a return to the
elemental in life and nature. The gentleness
of Cowper, combined with a poetic sensibility,
found expression in simple themes.
His life, led in a pastoral country, and occupied
with trivial pleasures, offered him primitive
material, and he sang of hares, and
goldfish, and children. His Tirocinium, or<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_141"></a>[141]</span>
a Review of Schools, though having a didactic
intention, has some charming bits of
descriptive writing, as in the familiar lines
which describe the sport of</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“The little ones, unbuttoned, glowing hot.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">The description melts, as do so many of Cowper’s
retrospections, into a tender melancholy.
A deeper note still is struck in his Lines on
the Receipt of my Mother’s Picture.</p>
<p class="tb">The new birth which was coming to England
had its premonitions in literature. It
had them also in art. In this period appeared
Sir Joshua Reynolds and Gainsborough:
the one preëminently a painter of
humanity, the other of nature, and both of
them moved by a spirit of freedom, under
well-recognized academic rules. There is in
their work a lingering of the old formal
character which took sharp account of the
diversities of rank, and separated things
common from things choice; yet they both
belong to the new world rather than to the
old, and in nothing is this more remarkable
than in the number and character of the
children pieces painted by Reynolds. They
are a delight to the eye, and in the true<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_142"></a>[142]</span>
democracy of art we know no distinction between
Master Crewe as Henry VIII. and a
Boy with a Child on his back and cabbage
nets in his hand. What a revelation of
childhood is in this great group! There is
the tenderness of the Children in the Wood,
the peace of the Sleeping Child, where nature
itself is in slumber, the timidity of the
Strawberry Girl, the wildness of the Gypsy
Boy, the shy grace of Pickaback, the delightful
wonder of Master Bunbury, the sweet
simplicity and innocence in the pictures so
named, and the spiritual yet human beauty
of the Angels’ heads. Reynolds studied the
work of the mediæval painters, but he came
back to England and painted English children.
Goldsmith’s Vicar, Cowper’s Lines
on his mother’s portrait, and Reynolds’ children
bring us close to the heart of our subject.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>It was the saying of the Swedish seer
Count Swedenborg, that a Day of Judgment
was to come upon men at the time of the
French Revolution. Then were the spirits
to be judged. In whatever terms we may express
the fact, clear it is to us that the close<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_143"></a>[143]</span>
of the last century marks a great epoch in
the history of Christendom, and the farther
we withdraw from the events which
gather about our own birth as an organized
nation, and those which effected such enormous
changes in European life, the more
clearly do we perceive that the movements of
the present century are mainly along lines
which may be traced back to genetic beginnings
then. There was indeed a great awakening,
a renaissance, a new birth.</p>
<p>The French Revolution was a sign of the
times: it furnishes a convenient name for an
epoch, not merely because important changes
in Christendom were contemporaneous with
it, but because they were intimately associated
with it. Then appeared the portent
of Democracy, and the struggle of humanity
has ever since been for the realization
of dreams which came as visions of a great
hope. Then began that examination of the
foundation of things in science and philosophy
which has become a mighty passion in
intellectual life.</p>
<p>I have said that every great renaissance
has left its record in the recognition which
childhood receives in literature and art. I
add that the scope and profundity of that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_144"></a>[144]</span>
renaissance may be measured by the form
which this recognition takes. At the birth
of Christianity the pregnant sentences, “Except
ye become as little children ye shall not
enter the kingdom of heaven,” “For of such
is the kingdom of heaven,” “Verily I say
unto you, their angels do always behold
the face of my Father in heaven,” sound a
depth unreached before. They were, like
other words from the same source, veritable
prophecies, the perfect fulfillment of which
waits the perfect manifestation of the Son
of Man. At the Renaissance, when mediævalism
gave way before modern life, art
reflected the hopes of mankind in the face of
a divine child. At the great Revolution,
when, amidst fire and blood, the new life of
humanity stood revealed, an unseen hand
again took a little child and placed him in
the midst of men. It was reserved for an
English poet to be the one who most clearly
discerned the face of the child. Himself
one of the great order of angels, he beheld
in the child the face of God. I may be pardoned,
I trust, for thus reading in Western
fashion the meaning of that Oriental phrase
which I find has perplexed theologians and
Biblical critics. Was it any new disclosure<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_145"></a>[145]</span>
which the Christ made if he merely said that
the attendant ministers of children always
beheld the face of the Father in heaven?
Was it not the very property of such angelic
nature that it should see God? But was it
not rather a revelation to the crass minds of
those who thrust children aside, that the angels
who moved between the Father of spirits
and these new-comers into the world saw in
their faces a witness to their divine origin?
They saw the Father repeated in the child.</p>
<p>When Wordsworth published his Lyrical
Ballads, a storm of ridicule fell upon them.
In that age, when the old and the new were
clashing with each other on every hand, so
stark a symbol of the new as these ballads presented
could not fail to furnish an objective
point for criticism which was born of the
old. Wordsworth, in his defensive Preface,
declares, “The principal object proposed in
these Poems was to choose incidents and situations
from common life, and to relate or
describe them throughout, as far as was possible,
in a selection of language really used
by men, and, at the same time, to throw
over them a certain coloring of imagination,
whereby ordinary things should be presented
to the mind in an unusual aspect; and further,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_146"></a>[146]</span>
and above all, to make these incidents
and situations interesting, by tracing in
them, truly though not ostentatiously, the
primary laws of our nature; chiefly as far
as regards the manner in which we associate
ideas in a state of excitement. Humble and
rustic life was generally chosen, because, in
that condition, the essential passions of the
heart find a better soil in which they can
attain their maturity, are less under restraint,
and speak a plainer and more emphatic
language; because in that condition
of life our elementary feelings coexist in a
state of greater simplicity, and, consequently,
may be more accurately contemplated and
more forcibly communicated; because the
manners of rural life germinate from those
elementary feelings, and, from the necessary
character of rural occupations, are more
easily comprehended, and are more durable;
and, lastly, because in that condition the
passions of men are incorporated with the
beautiful and permanent forms of nature.”</p>
<p>Every one of these reasons, unless the
last, which I do not understand, be excepted,
applies with additional force to the use of
forms and images and incidents drawn from
childhood; and though Wordsworth takes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_147"></a>[147]</span>
no account of this in his Preface, it is more
to the point that he does freely and fully
recognize the fact in his poetry. The Preface,
with its dry formality, was like much
of Wordsworth’s poetry,—Pegasus on a
walk, his wings impeding free action. It is
one of the anomalies of nature that a poet
with such insight as Wordsworth should
never apparently have discovered his own
pragmatical dullness. It seems to me that
Wordsworth’s finer moods were just those
of which he never attempted to give a philosophic
account, and that he did not refer to
childhood in his Preface is an evidence of
his inspiration when dealing with it.</p>
<p>Be this as it may, his treatment of childhood
accords with his manifesto to the British
public. Could anything be more trivial, as
judged by the standards of the day, than
his ballad of Alice Fell, or Poverty?—of
which he has himself said, “The humbleness,
meanness if you like, of the subject,
together with the homely mode of treating
it, brought upon me a world of ridicule by
the small critics, so that in policy I excluded
it from many editions of my Poems, till it
was restored at the request of some of my
friends, in particular my son-in-law, Edward<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_148"></a>[148]</span>
Quillinan.” What is the motive of a poem
which excited such derision that the poet in
a moment of alarm withdrew it from publication,
and when he restored it held his son-in-law
responsible? Simply the grief of a
poor child, who had stolen a ride behind the
poet’s post-chaise, upon finding that her tattered
cloak had become caught in the wheel
and irretrievably ruined. The poet makes
no attempt to dignify this grief; the incident
is related in poetic form, but without
any poetic discovery beyond the simple
worth of the grief. It is, perhaps, the most
audaciously matter of fact of all Wordsworth’s
poems; and yet, such is the difference
in the audience to-day from what it was
in Wordsworth’s time that Alice Fell appears
as a matter of course in all the anthologies
for children, and is read by men and
women with positive sympathy, with a tenderness
for the forlorn little girl, and without
a question as to the poem’s right of existence.
The misery, the grief of childhood,
is conceived of as a real thing, measured by
the child’s mind into which we enter, and
not by our own standards of pain and loss.</p>
<p>Again, recall the poem of Lucy Gray, or
Solitude. The story is far more pathetic,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_149"></a>[149]</span>
and has an appeal to more catholic sensibility:
a child, sent with a lantern to town
from the moor on which she lives, that she
may light her mother back through the snow,
is lost among the hills, and her footsteps are
traced at last to the fatal bridge through
which she has fallen. The incident was one
from real life; Wordsworth seized upon it,
reproducing each detail, and with a touch or
two of genius made a wraith. He discovered,
as no one before had done, the element
of solitude in childhood, and invested it with
a fine spiritual, ethereal quality, quite devoid
of any ethical property,—a subtle community
with nature.</p>
<p>How completely Wordsworth entered the
mind of a child and identified himself with
its movements is consciously betrayed in his
pastoral, The Pet Lamb. He puts into the
mouth of Barbara Lewthwaite the imaginary
song to her lamb, and then says for himself,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“As homeward through the lane I went with lazy feet,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line by line,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That but half of it was hers, and one half of it was mine.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Again and once again did I repeat the song;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Nay, said I, more than half to the damsel must belong,</div><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_150"></a>[150]</span>
<div class="verse indent0">For she looked with such a look and she spake with such a tone</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That I almost received her heart into my own.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">His second thought was best: more than
half did belong to the child, for he himself
was but the wise interpreter.</p>
<p>Wordsworth’s incidents of childhood are
sometimes given a purely objective character,
as in Rural Architecture, The Anecdote
for Fathers, The Idle Shepherd Boys; but
more often childhood is to him the occasion
and suggestion of the deeper thought of life.
A kitten, playing with falling leaves before
the poet and his child Dora, leads him on
by exquisite movement to the thought of his
own decay of life. But what impresses us
most is the twofold conception of childhood
as a part of nature, and as containing within
itself not only the germ of human life, but
the echo of the divine. There are poems of
surpassing beauty which so blend the child
and nature that we might almost fancy, as
we look upon the poetical landscape, that we
are mistaking children for bushes, or bushes
for children. Such is that one beginning</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Three years she grew in sun and shower,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">and</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Wisdom and Spirit of the universe!”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_151"></a>[151]</span></p>
<p class="noindent">He drew images from his children and
painted a deliberate portrait of his daughter
Catharine, solemnly entitled, Characteristics
of a Child Three Years Old.</p>
<p>Yet, though Wordsworth drew many suggestions
from his own children and from
those whom he saw in his walks, it is remarkable
how little he regards children in
their relation to parents in comparison of
their individual and isolated existence. Before
Wordsworth, the child, in literature,
was almost wholly considered as one of a
group, as a part of a family, and only those
phases of childhood were treated which
were obvious to the most careless observer.
Wordsworth—and here is the notable fact—was
the first deliberately to conceive of
childhood as a distinct, individual element
of human life. He first, to use a truer
phrase, apprehended the personality of childhood.
He did this and gave it expression in
artistic form in some of the poems already
named; he did it methodically and with philosophic
intent in his autobiographic poem
The Prelude, and also in The Excursion.
Listen how he speaks of his infancy even,
giving it by anticipation a life separate from
mother and nurse. “Was it for this?” he
asks,—</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_152"></a>[152]</span></p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent22">“Was it for this</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That one, the fairest of all rivers, loved</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To blend his murmurs with my nurse’s song,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And, from his alder shades and rocky falls,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And from his fords and shallows, sent a voice</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That flowed along my dreams? For this, didst thou,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">O Derwent! winding among grassy holms</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Where I was looking on, a babe in arms,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Make ceaseless music that composed my thoughts</div>
<div class="verse indent0">To more than infant softness, giving me</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Amid the fretful dwellings of mankind</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A foretaste, a dim earnest, of the calm</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That Nature breathes among the hills and groves.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Still more minutely does he disclose the consciousness
of childhood in his record of the
mind of the Wanderer in The Excursion, in
the lines beginning:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“From his sixth year, the Boy of whom I speak</div>
<div class="verse indent0">In summer tended cattle on the hills.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>It may be said that in all this Wordsworth
is simply rehearsing and expanding
an exceptional experience; that his recollection
of his own childhood passed through the
alembic of a fervid poetic imagination. Be
it so; we are not so much concerned to know
how the poet came by this divination, as to
know that he should have treated it as universal
and common to the period of childhood.
Again and again in descriptive poem,
in direct address, in indirect allusion, he so<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_153"></a>[153]</span>
uses this knowledge as to forbid us to regard
it as peculiar and exceptional in his
own view; and a poet’s attestation to a universal
experience is worth more than any
negation which comes from our individual
blurred recollection. Wordsworth discovers
in childhood the germ of humanity; he sees
there thoughts, emotions, activities, sufferings,
which are miniatures of the maturer
life,—but, he sees more than this and
deeper. To him the child is not a pigmy
man; it has a life of its own, out of which
something even may pass, when childhood is
left behind. It is not the ignorant innocence
of childhood, the infantile grace, which
holds him, but a certain childish possession,
in which he sees a spiritual presence obscured
in conscious youth. Landor in one
of his Imaginary Conversations stoutly asserts
a similar fact when he says, “Children
are not men or women; they are almost as
different creatures, in many respects, as if
they never were to be one or the other; they
are as unlike as buds are unlike flowers, and
almost as blossoms are unlike fruits.”<a id="FNanchor_33" href="#Footnote_33" class="fnanchor">[33]</a></p>
<p>In all this again, in this echo of the
divine which Wordsworth hears in the voice<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_154"></a>[154]</span>
of childhood, there is reference, psychologically,
to his own personal experience. Yet
why should we treat that as ruled out of evidence,
which only one here and another
there acknowledges as a part of his history?
Is it not fairer, more reasonable, to take the
experience of a profound poet as the basis
of spiritual truth than the negative testimony
of those whose eyes lack the wondrous
power of seeing? In the preface to his ode,
Intimations of Immortality from the Recollections
of Early Childhood, Wordsworth
declares with great earnestness:—</p>
<p>“To the attentive and competent reader
the whole sufficiently explains itself; but
there may be no harm in adverting here to
particular feelings or experiences of my own
mind, on which the structure of the poem
partly rests. Nothing was more difficult for
me in childhood than to admit the notion of
death as a state applicable to my own being.
I have said elsewhere—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent10">‘A simple child</div>
<div class="verse indent0">That lightly draws its breath,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And feels its life in every limb,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">What should it know of death!’</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">But it was not so much from feelings of animal
vivacity that my difficulty came, as from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_155"></a>[155]</span>
a sense of the indomitableness of the spirit
within me. I used to brood over the stories
of Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade
myself that, whatever might become of
others, I should be translated, in something
of the same way, to heaven. With a feeling
congenial to this, I was often unable to
think of external existence, and I communed
with all that I saw as something not apart
from, but inherent in my own immaterial
nature. Many times, while going to school,
have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself
from the abyss of idealism to the reality.
At that time I was afraid of such processes.
In later periods of life I have deplored, as
we all have reason to do, a subjugation of
an opposite character.”</p>
<p>Here Wordsworth defends the philosophy
of the poem by making it an induction from
his own experience. There will be found
many to question its truth, because they have
no recollections which correspond with the
poet’s; and others who will claim that the
poem is but a fanciful argument in behalf
of the philosophic heresy of a preëxistent
state. In my judgment, Wordsworth’s preface
is somewhat misleading by its reference
to this theory, although he has furnished<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_156"></a>[156]</span>
hints in the same preface of his more integral
thought. As I have noticed before, his
artistic presentation is truer and more final
than his exegesis. Whoever reads this
great ode is aware of the rise and fall of the
tide of thought; he hears the poet reasoning
with himself; he sees him passing in
imagination out of childhood into age, yet
constantly recovering himself to fresh perception
of the immortality which transcends
earthly life. It is visible childhood with its
intimation of immortality which brings to
the poet, not regret for what is irretrievably
lost, but firmer faith in the reality of the
unseen and eternal. The confusion into
which some have been cast by the ode arises
from their bringing to the idea of immortality
the time conception; they conceive the
poet to be hinting of an indefinite time antedating
the child’s birth, an indefinite time
extending beyond the man’s death, whereas
Wordsworth’s conception of immortality
rests in the indestructibility of spirit by any
temporal or earthly conditions,—an indestructibility
which even implies an absence
of beginning as well as of ending.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Heaven lies about us in our infancy,”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_157"></a>[157]</span></p>
<p class="noindent">he declares. It is the investment of this
visible life by an unseen, unfelt, yet real
spiritual presence for which he contends, and
he maintains that the inmost consciousness
of childhood bears witness to this truth; this
consciousness fades as the earthly life penetrates
the soul, yet it is there and recurs in
sudden moments.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent4">“Hence in a season of calm weather,</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Though inland far we be,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Our Souls have sight of that immortal sea</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Which brought us hither,</div>
<div class="verse indent4">Can in a moment travel thither,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And see the Children sport upon the shore,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p>In thus connecting childhood with the
highest hope of the human race, Wordsworth
was repeating the note which twice
before had been struck in great epochs of
history. This third renaissance was the
awaking of the human soul to a sense of
the common rights and duties of humanity,
the dignity and worth of the Person.</p>
<p class="tb">The poetic form, while most perfectly inclosing
these divinations of childhood, and
especially suited to the presentation of the
faint and elusive elements, is less adapted to
the philosophic and discursive examination<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_158"></a>[158]</span>
of the subject of childhood. It is, then, an
indication of the impression which the idea
had made upon men that a prose writer
of the period, of singular insight and subtlety,
should have given some of his most
characteristic thought to an examination of
the essential elements of childhood. De
Quincey was undoubtedly strongly affected
by Wordsworth’s treatment of the subject;
he has left evidence upon this point. Nevertheless,
he appears to have sounded his own
mind and appealed to his own memory for
additional and corroborative testimony. In
his Suspiria de Profundis, a sequel to the
Confessions of an English Opium-Eater, he
offers an account of his recollections of infancy,
together with many reflections upon
the experience which he then underwent.
If it be said that the opium-eater was an
untrustworthy witness, since his dreaming
might well lead him to confuse the subtle
workings of a mature mind with the vivid
remembrance of one or two striking events
of childhood, we may consider that De
Quincey’s imagination was a powerful one,
and capable of interpreting the incidents
and emotions brought to it by memory, as a
more prosaic mind could not. We are compelled,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_159"></a>[159]</span>
of course, in all such cases, to submit
the testimony of such a man to the judgment
of our own reason, but that reason ought,
before pronouncing a final verdict, to be
educated to perceive the possibilities of a
wider range of observation than may have
fallen to us individually, and to submit the
results to a comparison with known operations
of the human mind. Above all, it
should be borne in mind that a distinction
clearly exists between a child’s consciousness
and its power of expression. De Quincey
himself in a note says with acuteness
and justice:—</p>
<p>“The reader must not forget in reading
this and other passages that though a child’s
feelings are spoken of, it is not the child
who speaks. I decipher what the child only
felt in cipher. And so far is this distinction
or this explanation from pointing to anything
metaphysical or doubtful, that a man must
be grossly unobservant who is not aware of
what I am here noticing, not as a peculiarity
of this child or that, but as a necessity of all
children. Whatsoever in a man’s mind blossoms
and expands to his own consciousness
in mature life must have preëxisted in germ
during his infancy. I, for instance, did not,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_160"></a>[160]</span>
as a child, consciously read in my own deep
feelings these ideas. No, not at all; nor
was it possible for a child to do so. I, the
child, had the feelings; I, the man, decipher
them. In the child lay the handwriting mysterious
to him; in me, the interpretation and
the comment.”</p>
<p>Assuredly this is reasonable, and since
we are looking for the recognition of childhood
in literature, we may wisely ask how
it presents itself to a man like De Quincey,
who had peculiar power in one form of
literature—the autobiographic-imaginative.
He entitles the first part of his Suspiria,
The Affliction of Childhood. It is the
record of a child’s grief, interpreted by the
man when he could translate into speech
the emotion which possessed him in his
early suffering; and near its close, De Quincey,
partially summing up his philosophy of
the subject, declares:—</p>
<p>“God speaks to children, also, in dreams
and by the oracles that lurk in darkness.
But in solitude, above all things when made
vocal by the truths and services of a national
church, God holds communion undisturbed
with children. Solitude, though
silent as light, is like light the mightiest of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_161"></a>[161]</span>
agencies; for solitude is essential to man.
All men come into this world alone; all
leave it alone. Even a little child has a
dread, whispering consciousness that if he
should be summoned to travel into God’s
presence, no gentle nurse will be allowed to
lead him by the hand, nor mother to carry
him in her arms, nor little sister to share
his trepidations. King and priest, warrior
and maiden, philosopher and child, all must
walk those mighty galleries alone. The
solitude, therefore, which in this world appalls
or fascinates a child’s heart, is but the
echo of a far deeper solitude, through which
already he has passed, and of another solitude,
deeper still, through which he has to
pass; reflex of one solitude, prefiguration of
another.</p>
<p>“Deeper than the deepest of solitudes is
that which broods over childhood, bringing
before it, at intervals, the final solitude
which watches for it, within the gates of
death. Reader, I tell you in truth, and
hereafter I will convince you of this truth,
that for a Grecian child solitude was nothing,
but for a Christian child it has become
the power of God and the mystery of
God. O mighty and essential solitude, that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_162"></a>[162]</span>
wast and art and art to be! thou, kindling
under the touch of Christian revelations,
art now transfigured forever, and hast
passed from a blank negation into a secret
hieroglyphic from God, shadowing in the
hearts of infancy the very dimmest of his
truths!”</p>
<p>I must refer the reader to the entire chapter
for a full exposition of De Quincey’s
views on this subject. Despite the bravura
style, which makes us in our soberer days
listen a little incredulously to these far-fetched
sighs and breathings, the passage
quoted bears testimony to that apprehension
of childhood which De Quincey shared with
Wordsworth. Both of these writers were
looked upon in their day as somewhat reactionary
in their poetical philosophy; so
much the more valuable is their declaration
of a poetical and philosophical faith which
was fundamentally in unison with the political
faith that lay behind the outburst of the
French Revolution. The discovery of this
new continent of childhood by such explorers
of the spiritual world marks the age as
distinctly as does the discovery of new lands
and explorations in the earlier renaissance.
It was indeed one of the great signs of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_163"></a>[163]</span>
period ushered in by the French Revolution
and the establishment of the American
republic, that the bounds of the spiritual
world were extended. When poverty and
childhood were annexed to the poet’s domain,
the world of literature and art suddenly
became larger.</p>
<p class="tb">At such times there are likely to be
singular exhibitions of genius, which are ill-understood
in contemporary life, but are
perceived by later observers to be part
and parcel of the age in which they occur.
Something like this may be said of the
pictures and poems of William Blake, who
was a visionary in a time when a red flame
along the horizon made his spiritual fires
invisible. He has since been rediscovered,
and has been for a generation so potent an
influence in English art that we may wisely
attend to him, not merely as a person of
genius, but as furnishing an illustration of
some of the deep things of our subject.</p>
<p>No one acquainted with Blake’s work has
failed to observe the recurrence of a few
types drawn from elemental figures. The
lamb, the child, the old man,—these appear
and reappear, carrying the prevalent ideas<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_164"></a>[164]</span>
in this artist’s imagination. Of all these
the child is the most central and emphatic,
even as the Songs of Innocence is the most
perfect expression of Blake’s vision of life.
It may be said that in his mind childhood
was largely resolvable into infancy, and that
when he looked upon a babe, he saw life in
its purest form, and that most suggestive of
the divine, as in the exquisite cradle song,
into which is woven the weeping of the child
Jesus for all the human race. The two
short antithetical poems, The Little Boy
Lost and The Little Boy Found, reveal the
depths which Blake penetrated when engaged
in his solitary voyage of discovery to
the little known shores of childhood. They
have, to be sure, the teasing property of parables,
and it would be hard to render them
into the unmistakable language of the understanding;
but they could be set to music,
and like the Duke we exclaim:—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“That strain again! it had a dying fall.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">It must always be borne in mind that
Blake’s contribution to the literature of
childhood is through highly idealized forms.
It is spiritual or angelic childhood which
floats before his eyes, so that the little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_165"></a>[165]</span>
creatures who dance on the green, the little
chimney sweep, the children filing into St.
Paul’s, are translated by his visionary power
into the images of an essential childhood;
they cease to be individual illustrations.</p>
<p class="tb">We are told that in the fearful days of
the French Revolution there was an eruption
from the secret places of Paris of a vast
horde of poor, ignorant, and vicious people,
who had been kept out of sight by lords
and ladies. One may accept the fact as
symbolical of that emergence into the light
of Christianity of poverty and degradation.
The poor had always been with the world,
but it is not too much to say that now for
the first time did they begin to be recognized
as part and parcel of humanity. Wordsworth’s
poems set the seal upon this recognition.
Dickens’s novels naturalized the
poor in literature, and, as in the case of
Wordsworth, poverty and childhood went
hand in hand.</p>
<p>Dickens, however, though he made a distinct
addition to the literature of childhood,
rather registered a presence already acknowledged
than acted as a prophet of childhood.
The great beneficent and humanitarian<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_166"></a>[166]</span>
movement of the century was well under
way, and had already found abundant expression
in ragged schools and Sunday-schools
and in education generally, when
Dickens, with his quick reporter’s sight,
seized upon salient features in this new
exhibition of humanity. He was quite aside
from the ordinary organized charities, but
he was moved by much the same spirit as
that which was briskly at work among the
poor and the young. He was caught by the
current, and his own personal experience
was swift to give special direction to his
imagination.</p>
<p>Besides innumerable minor references,
there are certain childish figures in the multitude
of the creations of Dickens, which at
once rise to mind,—Paul Dombey, Little
Nell, Tiny Tim, Oliver Twist, David Copperfield
in his earliest days, and the Marchioness.
Dickens found out very soon that
the power to bring tears into the eyes of
people was a surer road to success than even
the power to amuse. When he was drawing
the figures of children, their tenderness,
their weakness, their susceptibility, presented
themselves as the material in which he could
skillfully work. Then he used the method<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_167"></a>[167]</span>
which had served him so well in his larger
portraiture; he seized upon the significant
feature and emphasized it until it became
the unmistakable mark of the person.
Childhood suggests weakness, and weakness
is more apparent when there is a foil of
mental prematurity; so he invented the
hydrocephalic Paul Dombey. It suggests
tenderness; he appealed to an unhesitating
sympathy and drew for us Little Nell, intensifying
her nature by bringing her into contrast
and subtle companionship with her
imbecile grandfather. It is the defect of
Dickens that by such characters he displayed
his skill in morbid conceptions. The little
old man in Paul Dombey is not without its
prototype in real life, but Dickens appears
to have produced it as a type of tender
childhood, much as one might select a consumptive
for an illustration of extreme refinement.
Tiny Tim is a farther illustration
of this unhealthy love, on Dickens’s part, of
that which is affecting through its infirmity.
That art is truest which sees children at play
or in their mother’s arms, not in hospitals or
graveyards. It is the infirmity of humanitarianism
and of Dickens, its great exponent,
that it regards death as the great fact<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_168"></a>[168]</span>
of life; that it seeks to ward it off as the
greatest of evils, and when it comes, hastens
to cover it out of sight with flowers. This
conception of death is bound up with an
overweening sense of the importance of
these years of life. There is a nobler way,
and literature and art are slowly confessing
it, as they devote their strength to that
which is eternal in life, not to that which is
perishable. Wordsworth’s maiden in We
are Seven, with her simple, unhesitating
belief in the continuity of life, the imperishability
of the person, holds a surer place in
literature than Paul Dombey, who makes the
ocean with its tides wait for him to die.</p>
<p>It is only fair to say, however, that the
caricature to be found in Dickens is scarcely
more violent an extreme to some minds than
is the idealism to be found in Wordsworth,
De Quincey, and Blake an opposite extreme
to minds otherwise constituted. The early
life of Wordsworth, passed, as he tells us,
in the solitude of nature, explains much of
his subsequent attitude toward childhood
and youth. It is out of such an experience
that Lucy Gray was written. In like manner
the early life of Dickens discloses something
of a nature which reappears afterward<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_169"></a>[169]</span>
in his pictures of childhood. A wounded
sensibility is unquestionably the pathetic
history of many, and Dickens has contributed
to the natural history of childhood a
distinct account of this feature.</p>
<p>The first appearance of a new form in literature
produces an impression which can
never be repeated. However freshly readers
in this decade may come to the works of
Dickens, it is impossible that they should
have the same distinct sensation which men
and women had who caught up the numbers
of The Old Curiosity Shop as they fell from
the press for the first time. There can
never again be such a lamentation over
Little Nell, when men like Jeffrey, a hardened
old critic, made no concealment of
their tears. Yet I am disposed to think
that this does not give a complete account
of the phenomenon. Just as Wordsworth’s
Alice Fell is now but one of a procession
of forlorn maidens, though at the head of
it, so the children of Dickens are merely
somewhat more vivid personages in a multitude
of childish creation. The child is
no longer a novelty either in poetry or in
fiction. It is an accepted character, one of
the <i>dramatis personæ</i> of literature.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_170"></a>[170]</span></p>
<p>For, when all is said of Dickens’s work,
taken only as the product of a mind singularly
gifted with reporting what it has
seen, there remains the noticeable fact that
scarcely had the echoes died away from the
voice of Wordsworth, who ushered in the
literature of the new age, when a great man
of the people came forward, in the person
of Dickens, and found it the most natural
thing in the world to give men pictures of
child-life, and that after the first surprise attendant
upon novelty was over, writers of all
sorts were busy modeling these small figures.</p>
<p class="tb">The child once introduced into literature,
the significance of its appearance thereafter
is not so much in individual instances as in
the general and familiar acceptance of the
phenomenon. At least, so it appears from
our near view. It is not impossible that later
students may perceive notes in our literature
of more meaning than we now surmise.
They may understand better than we why
Tennyson should have made a babe the
heroine of The Princess, as he acknowledges
to Mr. Dawson that he did, though only
one or two critics had discovered the fact,
and why Mr. Swinburne, who is supposed to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_171"></a>[171]</span>
scoff at a literature <i>virginibus puerisque</i>,
should have devoted so much of his lyric
energy to childhood. The stream which ran
with so broken a course down to Wordsworth
has spread now into a broad, full
river. Childhood is part and parcel of every
poet’s material; children play in and out of
fiction, and readers are accustomed to meeting
them in books, and to finding them
often as finely discriminated by the novelist
as are their elders.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, from the time when childhood
was newly discovered, that is to say, roughly,
in the closing years of the last century, there
has been a literature in process of formation
which has for its audience children themselves.
I called attention briefly, at the beginning
of this study, to the interesting fact
that there was a correlation in time, at least,
between childhood in literature and a literature
for children. A nearer study of the
literature of this century shows very clearly
that while the great constructive artists have
been making room for the figures of infancy
and youth, and even consciously explaining
their presence, a host of minor writers, without
much thought of art, have been busy
over the same figures for other purposes.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_172"></a>[172]</span>
Not only so, but in several instances the
great artists themselves have distinctly
turned aside from their ordinary audience
and appealed directly to children.</p>
<p>Where was the child in English literature
before Goldsmith? and where before Goldsmith’s
time was there a book for children?
There have been, it is true, nursery tales in
all ages: ditties, and songs, and lullabies;
unwritten stories, which mothers in England
told when they themselves could have read
nothing; but there came a time when children
were distinctly recognized as the occasion
of formal literature, when authors and
publishers began to heed a new public. It
was impossible that there should be this discovery
of childhood without a corresponding
effort on the part of men and women to get
at it, and to hold direct intercourse with it.</p>
<p>By a natural instinct, writers for children
began at once to write about children. They
were moved by educational rather than by
artistic impulses, so that their creations
were subordinate to the lessons which they
conveyed. During the period when Wordsworth,
Lamb, De Quincey, and Blake were
idealizing childhood, and seeing in it artistic
possibilities, there flourished a school of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_173"></a>[173]</span>
writing for the young which also dealt with
childhood, but with a sturdy realism. This
school had its representatives in Mrs. Barbauld,
Mr. Day, the Aikens, Maria Edgeworth,
Ann and Jane Taylor, and holds a
place still with Evenings at Home, The Parent’s
Assistant, Hymns in Prose for Children,
Hymns for Infant Minds, Frank, and
Sandford and Merton. The characteristics
of this literature are simple, and will be recalled
by many who dwell with an affectionate
and regretful regard upon books which
they find it somewhat difficult to persuade
their children to read.</p>
<p>These books were didactic; they assumed
in the main the air of wise teachers; they
were sometimes condescending; they appealed
to the understanding rather than to
the imagination of the child, and they
abounded in stores of useful information
upon all manner of subjects. They contained
precursors of a long series of juvenile
monitors, and the grandfathers who knew
Mr. Barlow had children who knew Mr.
Holiday, Rollo, Jonas, and Mr. George, and
grandchildren who may be suspected of an
acquaintance with Mr. Bodley and his much
traveled and very inquisitive family.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_174"></a>[174]</span></p>
<p>Yet, the earlier works, though now somewhat
antiquated, were not infrequently lively
and even humorous in their portraiture of
children. They were written in the main
out of a sincere interest in the young, and
by those who were accustomed to watch the
unfolding of childish nature. If they reflected
a somewhat formal relation between
the old and the young, it must be remembered
that the actual relation was a formal
one: that the young had not yet come into
familiar and genial relation with the old.
Indeed, the books themselves were somewhat
revolutionary in a small way. Much
that seems stiff and even unnatural to us
now was quite easy and colloquial to their
first readers, and in their eagerness to lure
children into ways of pleasant instruction,
the authors broke down something of the
reserve which existed between fathers and
sons in the English life which they portrayed.
Yet we cannot help being struck
by the contrast between the sublimated
philosophy of Wordsworth and the prosaic
applications of the Edgeworth school.
Heaven lies about us in our infancy? Oh,
yes, a heaven that is to be looked at through
a spy-glass and explained by means of a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_175"></a>[175]</span>
home-made orrery. It would seem as if the
spirit of childhood had been discerned with
all its inherent capacity, but that the actual
children of this matter-of-fact world had not
yet been fairly seen by the light of this
philosophy.</p>
<p>The literature which we are considering
was indeed a serious attempt at holding
intercourse with childish minds. It had
the embarrassment of beginnings; there
was about it an uncertain groping in the
dark of childhood, and it was desperately
theory-ridden. But it had also the mark of
sincerity, and one feels in reading it that the
writers were genuinely indifferent in most
cases to the figure they might be cutting
before the world; they were bent upon
reaching this audience, and were unobservant
of the larger world behind. In most
cases, I say. I suspect that Mrs. Barbauld,
with her solemn dullness, was the victim of
a notion that she was producing a new order
of literature, and in this she was encouraged
by a circle of older readers; the children
probably stared at her with sufficient calmness
to keep her ignorant of their real
thoughts.</p>
<p>How real literature looked upon the dusty<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_176"></a>[176]</span>
high-road laid out across the fields by some
of these writers may be read in the letters
of the day. Coleridge jibed at that “pleonasm
of nakedness,” Mrs. Bare-bald, and
Lamb in a letter to Coleridge speaks his
mind with refreshing frankness: “Goody
Two Shoes,” he says, “is almost out of print.
Mrs. Barbauld’s stuff has banished all the
old classics of the nursery; and the shopman
at Newberry’s hardly deigned to reach
them off an old exploded corner of a shelf
when Mary asked for them. Mrs. B.’s and
Mrs. Trimmer’s nonsense lay in piles about.
Knowledge insignificant and vapid as Mrs.
B.’s books convey, it seems, must come to
a child in the <i>shape of knowledge</i>, and his
empty noddle must be turned with conceit
of his own powers when he has learned that
a horse is an animal, and Billy is better
than a horse, and such like; instead of that
beautiful interest in wild tales which made
the child a man, while all the time he suspected
himself to be no bigger than a child.
Science has succeeded to poetry no less in
the little walks of children than with men.
Is there no possibility of averting this sore
evil? Think of what you would have been
now, if, instead of being fed with tales and<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_177"></a>[177]</span>
old wives’ fables in childhood, you had been
crammed with geography and natural history!
Hang them! I mean the cursed
reasoning crew, those blights and blasts of
all that is human in man and child.” Yet
Lamb and his sister both took a lively interest
in genuine books for the young, and
their own contributions have, alas! gone the
way, for the most part, of other worn-out
literature. It was mainly as a direct educative
power that this new interest in children
first found expression; with it, however, was
mingled a more artistic purpose, and the
two streams of tendency have ever since
been recognizable, sometimes separate, oftener
combined. The Lambs’ own work
was illustrative of this union of the didactic
and the artistic. It is outside the scope
of this study to dwell at length upon this
phase of literature. It is enough to point
out the fact that there is a distinct class of
books which has grown up quite within the
memory of men now living. It is involved
with industrial and commercial interests; it
invites the attention of authors, and the
infrequent criticism of reviewers; it has its
own subdivisions like the larger literature;
it boasts of cyclopædias and commentaries;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_178"></a>[178]</span>
it includes histories, travels, poems, works
in science, theological treatises. It is a distinct
principality of the Kingdom of Letters.
It is idle to complain of the present abundance
of children’s books, as if somebody
were to blame for it. There has been no
conspiracy of publishers and authors. It is
worse than folly to look with contempt upon
the movement; the faithful student will seek
rather to study this new force, and if possible
to guide it into right channels.</p>
<p class="tb">The distinction between books for the
young and books for the old is a somewhat
arbitrary one, and many have discovered for
themselves and their children that instead
of one poor corner of literature being fenced
off for the lamb, planted with tender grass
which is quickly devoured, and with many
medicinal but disagreeable herbs which are
nibbled at when the grass is gone, the whole
wide pasture land is their native home, and
the grass more tender where fresh streams
flow than it possibly can be in the paddock,
however carefully planted and watched.
This community of possession is more recognizable
in the higher than in the lower
forms of literature. It is still more clear in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_179"></a>[179]</span>
pictorial art. Art is by its nature more
closely representative of childhood than literature
can be, and Gainsborough and Reynolds
made no innovation when they painted
children, although the latter, by his evident
partiality for these subjects, does indicate a
susceptibility to the new knowledge which
was coming upon the world. There are
other influences which reinforce the artistic
pleasure, such as the domestic sense, the
pride of family, the ease of procuring unconscious
models. No one can visit an English
exhibition of paintings without being struck
by the extraordinary number of subjects
taken from childhood. It is in this field
that Millais has won famous laurels, and
when the great body of book illustrations
is scanned, what designs have half the
popularity of Doyle’s fairies and Miss
Greenaway’s idyllic children? I sometimes
wonder why this should be the case in
England, when in America, the paradise of
children, there is a conspicuous absence of
these subjects from galleries.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_180"></a>[180]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="VII">VII<br>
<span class="smaller">IN FRENCH AND GERMAN LITERATURE</span></h2>
</div>
<h3>I</h3>
<p>French literature before the Revolution
was more barren of reference to childhood
than was English literature. Especially is
this true of the eighteenth century, with its
superficial disbelief and its bitter protest
against superstition, under which term was
comprehended the supernatural as well as
the preternatural. There were exceptions,
as in the case of Fénelon, and the constitutional
sentiment of the French was easily
moved by the appeal of dependent childhood.
In Rousseau one may read how it is possible
to weep over children, and yet leave one’s
own to the cold mercy of a foundling
asylum. It is in Rousseau’s disciple, however,
Bernardin de St. Pierre, that we find
the most artistic expression of pure sentimentalism,
and the story of Paul and Virginia
is an effort at representing a world
where childhood, in its innocence, is conceived<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_181"></a>[181]</span>
of as the symbol of ideal human life.
St. Pierre thought of childhood and nature
as possessed of strong negative virtues; they
were uncontaminated, they were unsophisticated.
To escape from an evil world,
he fled in imagination to an island of the
tropics, where all that life required was
readily furnished by lavish nature. He
makes his family to consist chiefly of women
and children. The masculine element is
avoided as something disturbing, and except
for the harmless old man who acts as chorus,
it is discovered first as a rude, barbaric, and
cruel force in the person of the governor of
the island, who has no faith in Madame de
la Tour, and in the person of the planter at
the Black River, who has been an inhuman
master to his slave.</p>
<p>The childhood of Paul and Virginia is
made to have a pastoral, idyllic character.
Their sorrows and misfortunes come wholly
from evils which lie beyond their control.
St. Pierre brought back a golden age by
ignoring the existence of evil in the heart of
man; he conceived it possible to construct
an ideal world by what was vaguely expressed
in the words “a return to nature.”
As he reflects in the story: “Their theology<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_182"></a>[182]</span>
consisted in sentiment like that of nature;
and their morality in action like that of the
gospel. Those families had no particular
days devoted to pleasure, and others to sadness.
Every day was to them a holiday, and
all which surrounded them one holy temple,
where they forever adored an Infinite Intelligence,
almighty and the friend of humankind.
A sentiment of confidence in his
supreme power filled their minds with consolation
for the past, with fortitude for
the present, and with hope for the future.
Behold how these women, compelled by misfortune
to return to a state of nature, had
unfolded in their own bosoms, and in those
of their children, the feelings which nature
gives us, our best support under evil!”</p>
<p>However we may discover the limitations
of the sentimental philosophy, and its inadequacy
when brought face to face with evil
in life, there is a surface agreement with
Christianity in this instinctive turning to
childhood as the hope of the world. Yet
the difference is radical. The child, in the
Christian conception, holds the promise of
things to come; in the conception of French
sentiment of the Rousseau and St. Pierre
type, the child is a refuge from present evil,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_183"></a>[183]</span>
a mournful reminiscence of a lost Paradise.
If only we could keep it a child! is the cry
of this school,—keep it from knowing this
wicked, unhappy world! But alas! there
are separations and shipwrecks. Virginia
is washed ashore by the cruel waves. Paul,
bereft of reason, dies, and is buried in the
same grave. The two, growing like plants
in nature, are stricken down by the mysterious,
fateful powers of nature.</p>
<p>The contrast between this unreal recourse
to nature and the strong yet subtle return
which characterizes Wordsworth and his
school is probably more apparent to the
English and American mind than to the
French. Yet a reasonable comparison betrays
the fatal weakness of the one in that
it leaves out of view whatever in nature disturbs
a smooth, summer-day world. When
St. Pierre talks of a return to nature, he
does not mean the jungle and the pestiferous
swamp; he regards these as left behind in
Paris. Yet the conclusion of his story is
the confession wrung from faithful art that
Nature is after all but a step-mother to
humanity.</p>
<p>In the great romantic movement which
revolutionized French literature, an immense<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_184"></a>[184]</span>
impetus was given to the mind, and literature
thenceforth reflected a wider range of
thought and feeling. In few respects does
this appear more significantly than in the
treatment of childhood. There is a robustness
about the sentiment which separates it
from the earlier regard of such writers as we
have named. Lamartine, who certainly was
not devoid of sentiment, passes by his own
earliest childhood in Les Confidences with
indifference. “I shall not,” he says, “follow
the example of J. J. Rousseau in his
Confessions. I shall not relate to you the
trifling events of my early childhood. Man
only dates from the commencement of feeling
and thought; until the man is a being, he
is not even a child.... Let us leave, then,
the cradle to the nurses, and our first smiles,
our first tears, and our first lisping accents
to the ecstasies of our mothers. I do not
wish to inflict on you any but my earliest
recollections, embellished by the light of
reason.” He gives, accordingly, two scenes
of his childhood: one an interior, where his
father reads aloud to his mother from
Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered; the other an
outdoor scene, where he engages in the
rural sports of the neighborhood. Each<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_185"></a>[185]</span>
picture is delightfully drawn, with minute
detail, with poetic touch, with affectionate
recollection. Encouraged, apparently, by
the warmth which this memory has inspired,
Lamartine continues to dwell upon the
images of his childhood, especially as it has
to do with the thought of his mother. He
paints the simple garden attached to his
father’s home, and resting a moment reflects:—</p>
<p>“Yes, that is indeed all, and yet that is
what sufficed during so many years for the
gratification, for the reveries, for the sweet
leisures, and for the as sweet labors of a
father, a mother, and eight children! Such
is what still suffices, even at the present day,
for the nourishment of these recollections.
Such is the Eden of their childhood, where
their most serene thoughts take refuge when
they wish to receive a little of that dew of
the morning life, a little of that beaming
light of early dawn, which shines pure and
radiant for man only amid the scenes of his
birth. There is not a tree, there is not a
carnation, there is not a mossy stone of this
garden, which is not entwined in their soul
as if it formed part of it. This nook of
earth seems to us immense, such a host of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_186"></a>[186]</span>
objects and of recollections does it contain
for us in so narrow a space.”</p>
<p>The fullness with which Lamartine treats
the recollection of his youth partakes of the
general spirit of French memoirs,—a spirit,
to speak roughly, which regards persons
rather than institutions,—but indicates also
something of the new spirit which informed
literature when it elevated childhood into a
place of real dignity. There are passages,
indeed, which have a special significance as
intimating a consciousness of the deeper relations
of childhood. Michelet, for instance,
in his philosophy of the unfolding of
woman’s life, recognizes the characteristics
of maidenhood as anticipatory of maturity,
and does it with so serious a contemplation
that we forget to smile when we discover
him profoundly observant of those instincts
of maternity which are shown in the care of
a child for its doll.</p>
<p>This attitude toward the child is observable
in the masters of modern French literature.
However far they may be removed
from any mere domestic regard of the subject,
they apprehend the peculiar sacredness
attaching to children. Alfred de Musset,
for example, though by no means a poet of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_187"></a>[187]</span>
the family, can never speak of children
without emotion. Not to multiply instances,
it is enough to take the great poet
of the period. Victor Hugo deserves, it has
been said, to be called the poet of infancy,
not only for the reason that he has written
of the young freely, but has in his Les
Enfants, Livre des Mères, written for them.
It is to be observed that the suggestion
comes, with Hugo, chiefly from the children
of his family; from his brother Eugène,
who died an early death; from his daughter,
whom he mourns in tender verse; and from
his grandchildren. One feels the sincerity
of a great poet when he draws the inspiration
for such themes from his own familiar
kind.</p>
<p>It may be said in general of the contribution
made to this literature by the French
that it partakes of those qualities of lightness
and grace which mark the greater literature;
that the image of childhood is a joyous,
innocent one, and satisfies the eye that
looks for beauty and delicacy. Sentiment
predominates, but it is a sentiment that
makes little draught upon thought. There
is a disposition now to regard children as
dolls and playthings, the amusement of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_188"></a>[188]</span>
hour; now to make them the object of an
attitudinizing sentiment, which is practically
wasted unless there be some one at hand to
applaud it.</p>
<h3>II</h3>
<p>When we pass from France to Germany
we are aware that, however we may use the
same terms, and recognize the existence of
sentiment as a strong element in the literature
of both countries, there is a radical difference
in tone. It is not merely that French
sentiment is graceful and German sentiment
clumsy: the grace of the one connects itself
with a fine art,—we feel an instinctive good
taste in its expression; in the other, the awkwardness,
the obtrusiveness, seem to be the
issue of an excess of natural and homely feeling.
It would be too much to say that French
sentiment is insincere and German sentiment
unpleasantly sincere; that the one is assumed
and the other uncalculating,—we cannot
thus dismiss elementary feeling in two great
peoples. But an Englishman or American,
to whom, in his reserve, the sentiment of
either nation is apt to be a little oppressive,
is very likely to smile at the French and feel
uncomfortable in the presence of the German;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_189"></a>[189]</span>
to regard the French feeling as a temporary
mood, the German as a permanent
state.</p>
<p>Be this as it may, it is true that the
German feeling with regard to childhood,
as it finds expression in life and literature,
revolves very closely about the child in its
home, not the child as a charming object in
nature. Childhood, in German literature, is
conceived very generally in its purely domestic
relations, and is so positive an element
as to have attracted the attention of other
nations, and even to have given rise to a
petty cult. Coleridge, writing from Germany
in 1799, reports to his English readers,
as something strange to himself, and of local
significance only, the custom of Christmas
gifts from parents to children and from children
to parents. He is especially struck with
the custom of representing these presents as
coming from Jesus Christ.</p>
<p>The whole structure of Santa Claus and
Kriss Kringle, the Christ Child and Pelznichel,
with the attendant ceremonies of the
Christmas tree, is built into the child life of
Germany and the Low Countries; and it is
by the energy of this childish miracle that it
has passed over into English, and especially<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_190"></a>[190]</span>
into American life. All this warmth of domestic
feeling is by no means a modern discovery.
It is a prime characteristic of the
Germanic people, and one strong reason for
the ascendency of Lutheranism may be found
in the singular exposition of the German
character which Luther presented. He was
not merely a man of the people; through his
life and writings and organizing faculty he
impressed himself positively on the German
national character, not turning it aside, but
deepening the channels in which it ran.
Certain it is that the luxuriance of his
nature was almost riotous on the side of
family life. “The leader of the age,” says
Canon Mozley, “and the adviser of princes,
affecting no station and courting no great
men, was externally one of the common
crowd, and the plainest of it. In domestic
life the same heart and nature appear. There
he overflows with affection, warmth, tenderness;
with all the amiable banter of the husband,
and all the sweet arts and pretty nonsense
of a father among his little children.
Whether he is joking, lecturing his ‘rib
Catharine,’ his ‘gracious dame Catharine,’
or writing a description of fairyland and
horses with silver saddles to his ‘voracious,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_191"></a>[191]</span>
bibacious, loquacious,’ little John; or
whether he is in the agony of grief over
the death-bed of his favorite daughter, Magdalene,
we see the same exuberant, tender
character.”<a id="FNanchor_34" href="#Footnote_34" class="fnanchor">[34]</a></p>
<p>In this sketch of Luther we may read
some of the general characteristics of the
Germanic life, and we are ready, at the first
suggestion, to assent to the proposition that
the German people, judged by the apparatus
of childhood, books, pictures, toys, and
schools, stands before other nations. The
material for the portraiture of childhood
has been abundant; the social history, the
biographies, give constant intimations of the
fullness with which family life, inclosing
childhood, has been dwelt upon in the mind.
The autobiographies of poets and novelists
almost invariably give great attention to the
period of childhood. A very interesting
illustration of this may be found in the life
of Richter, who stands at the head of the
great Germans in his portrayal of childhood.</p>
<p>“Men who have a firm hold on nothing
else,” says Richter in his brief autobiography,
“delight in deep, far-reaching recollection<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_192"></a>[192]</span>
of their days of childhood, and in this
billowy existence they anchor on that, far
more than on the thought of later difficulties.
Perhaps for two reasons: that in this
retrospection they press nearer to the gate
of life guarded by spiritual existences; and
secondly, that they hope, in the spiritual
power of an earlier consciousness, to make
themselves independent of the little, contemptible
annoyances that surround humanity.”
He then recites an incident from his
second year, and continues: “This little
morning-star of earliest recollection stands
yet tolerably clear in its low horizon, but
growing paler as the daylight of life rises
higher. And now I remember only this
clearly, that in earlier life I remembered
everything clearly.”</p>
<p>How clearly will be apparent to the reader
who follows Richter through the minute and
detailed narrative of his childish life, and in
his writings the images of this early life are
constantly reappearing under different forms.
Something is no doubt due to the early birth
in Richter of a self-consciousness, bred in
part by the solitude of his life. It may be
said with some assurance that the vividness
of early recollection has much to do with determining<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_193"></a>[193]</span>
the poet and novelist and essayist
in his choice of themes bearing directly
upon childhood. The childish experience of
Wordsworth, De Quincey, Dickens, Lamartine,
and Richter is clearly traceable in the
writings of these men. If they look into
their own hearts and write, the images
which they bring forth are so abundantly
of childhood that they cannot avoid making
use of them, especially since they retain recollections
which demand the interpretation
of the maturer mind. That they should so
freely draw from this storehouse of childish
experience reflects also the temper of the
age for which they write. The fullness
with which the themes of childhood are
treated means not that a few men have
suddenly discovered the subject, but that
all are sensitive to these same impressions.</p>
<p>It is not, however, the vividness of recollection
alone, but the early birth of consciousness,
which will determine the treatment
of the subject. If one remember the
facts of his early years rather than how he
thought and felt about those facts, he will
be less inclined to dwell upon the facts afterward,
or make use of them in his work.
They will have little significance to him. A<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_194"></a>[194]</span>
distinction in this view is to be observed
between Richter and Goethe. The autobiographies
of the two men reveal the different
impressions made upon them by their childhood.
The facts which Goethe recalls are
but little associated with contemporaneous
reflection upon the facts, and they serve but
a trifling purpose in Goethe’s art. The
facts which Richter recalls are imbedded in
a distinct conception regarding them, and
perform a very positive function in his art.</p>
<p>The character of Mignon may be dismissed
from special consideration, for it is
clear that Goethe used Mignon’s diminutiveness
and implied youth only to heighten
the effect of her elfish and dwarfish nature.
The most considerable reference to childhood
is perhaps in the Sorrows of Young
Werther, where the relations between Werther
and Charlotte comprise a sketchy group
of children who act as foils or accompaniments
to the pair. Werther discovers Charlotte,
it will be remembered, cutting slices
of bread for her younger brothers and sisters;
it is by this means that Goethe would
give a charm to the character, presenting
it in its homely, domestic setting. But his
purpose is also to intimate the exceeding<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_195"></a>[195]</span>
sensibility of Werther, and he represents
him as taking a most affectionate interest
in the little children whom he sees on his
walks. I suspect, indeed, that Goethe in
this has distinctly borrowed from the Vicar
of Wakefield; at any rate, the comparison
is easily suggested, and one brings away the
impression of Goldsmith’s genuine feeling
and of Goethe’s deliberate assumption of a
feeling for artistic purposes. Nevertheless,
Goethe makes very positive use of childhood
in this novel, not only through the
figures of children, but also through the sentiment
of childhood.</p>
<p>“Nothing on this earth, my dear Wilhelm,”
says Werther, “affects my heart so
much as children. When I consider them;
when I mark in the little creatures the seeds
of all those virtues and qualities which they
will one day find so indispensable; when I
behold in the obstinate all the future firmness
and constancy of a noble character, in
the capricious that levity and gayety of temper
which will carry them lightly over the
dangers and troubles of life, their whole
nature simple and unpolluted, then I call to
mind the golden words of the Great Teacher
of mankind: ‘Except ye become as little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_196"></a>[196]</span>
children.’ And now, my friend, these children,
who are our equals, whom we ought to
consider as our models, we treat as subjects.
They are allowed no will of their own!
And have we then none ourselves? Whence
comes our exclusive right? Is it because
we are older and more experienced? Great
God! from the height of thy heaven, thou
beholdest great children and little children,
and no others; and thy Son has long since
declared which afford the greatest pleasure.
But they believe in him, and hear him not,—that
too is an old story; and they train
their children after their own image.”</p>
<p>We must regard this as a somewhat distorted
application of the words of the gospel,
but it is interesting as denoting that Goethe
also, who stood so much in the centre of illumination,
had perceived the revealing light
to fall upon the heads of young children.
It is not, however, so much by his direct as
by his indirect influence that Goethe is connected
with our subject. If Luther was
both an exponent of German feeling and a
determining cause of its direction, Goethe
occupies a similar relation as an expression
of German intellectualism and a stimulator
of German thought. A hundred years after<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_197"></a>[197]</span>
his birth, when measures were taking to celebrate
the centenary by the establishment of
some educational foundation to bear his
name, the enthusiastic supporters of Froebel
sought to divert public interest into the
channel of this movement for the cultivation
of childhood. Froebel’s philosophy has affected
modern educational systems even
where his method has not been scrupulously
followed. Its influence upon literature and
art can scarcely be traced, except so far as
it has tended to give direction and set limits
to the great body of books and pictures,
which, made for children, are also expository
and illustrative of the life of children. I
mention him simply as an additional illustration
of the grasp which the whole subject
of childhood has obtained in Germany; it
has made itself felt in religion and politics;
so revolutionary was Froebel’s philosophy
held to be that his schools were suppressed
at one time by the government as tending
to subvert the state. This was not strange,
since Froebel’s own view as to the education
of children was radical and comprehensive.</p>
<p>A child’s life finds its chief expression
in play, and in play its social instincts are
developed. Now the kindergarten recognizes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_198"></a>[198]</span>
the fact that play is the child’s business,
not his recreation, and undertakes to
guide and form the child through play. It
converts that which would otherwise be aimless
or willful into creative, orderly, and governed
action. Out of the play as governed
by the wise kindergartner grows a spirit of
courtesy, self-control, forbearance, unselfishness.
The whole force of the education is
directed toward a development of the child
which never forgets that he is a person in
harmonious relation to others. Community,
not competition, is the watchword of the
school. In this view the kindergarten has
its basis in the same law which lies at the
foundation of a free republic. Obedience,
as taught by the system of public schools, is
an obedience to rules; it may be likened to
the obedience of the soldier,—a noble thing,
but not the highest form of human subjection
of the will. Obedience as evolved in
the true kindergarten is a conscious obedience
to law. The unity of life in the school,
with entire freedom of development in the
individual, is the aim of the kindergarten.</p>
<p class="tb">The enthusiasm which made itself felt in
France in the rise of the romantic school,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_199"></a>[199]</span>
with its expression chiefly through poetry,
the drama, and fiction, disclosed its power
likewise in Germany. There, however, other
channels offered a course for the new current.
The rise of the school of religious
painters, of which Overbeck and Cornelius
were eminent examples, was a distinct issue
of the movement of the times. It was
regarded as reactionary by some, but its reaction
was rather in form than in spirit.
It ran counter to a Philistinism which was
complacent and indifferent to spiritual life,
and it sought to embody its ideas in forms
which not only Philistinism but humanism
contemned, yet it was all the while working
in the interest of a higher freedom. It is
noticeable, therefore, that this religious art,
in its choice of subjects, not only resorted
to the early ecclesiological type, but struck
out into a new path, choosing themes which
imply a subjective view of Christianity.
Thus, Overbeck’s picture of Christ blessing
little children, a subject which is a favorite
one of modern religious art, is a distinct
recognition of modern sentiment. Here is
the relation borne by the Christ to little children
presented by a religious art, which,
however much it might seek to reinstate the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_200"></a>[200]</span>
old forms, could not help being affected by
the new life of Christianity. Overbeck went
to the early Florentines for his masters, but
he did not find this subject among their
works. He caught it from the new reading
of the old gospel.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_201"></a>[201]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="VIII">VIII<br>
<span class="smaller">HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN</span></h2>
</div>
<p>As Overbeck and his school returned to
the religious art which preceded the Renaissance,
so Thorwaldsen, like Canova and
lesser men, turned back to Greek art, and
was working contemporaneously with Overbeck
at Rome in a very different temper.
To him the central figure of Christianity
was not a child in its mother’s arms, but a
strong, thoughtful man; for childhood he
turned to the sportive conception of Amor,
which he embodied in a great variety of
forms. The myth appealed, aside from the
opportunity which it offered for the expression
of sensuous beauty, to his northern love
of fairyland. His countryman, Andersen,
tells us how, when they were all seated in
the dusk, Thorwaldsen would come from his
work and beg for a fairy-tale.</p>
<p>It is Andersen himself who has made
the most unique contribution not only to the
literature which children read, but to that<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_202"></a>[202]</span>
which is illustrative of childhood. He attained
his eminence sheerly by the exhibition
of a power which resulted from his information
by the spirit of childhood. He
was not only an interpreter of childhood; he
was the first child who made a real contribution
to literature. The work by which he is
best known is nothing more nor less than an
artistic creation of precisely the order which
is common among children.</p>
<p>It is customary to speak of his best
known short stories as fairy tales; wonder-stories
is in some respects a more exact description,
but the name has hardly a native
sound. Andersen himself classed his stories
under the two heads of <i>historier</i> and <i>eventyr</i>;
the <i>historier</i> corresponds well enough with
its English mate, being the history of human
action, or, since it is a short history, the
story; the <i>eventyr</i>, more nearly allied perhaps
to the German <i>abenteuer</i> than to the
English <i>adventure</i>, presumes an element of
strangeness causing wonder, while it does not
necessarily demand the machinery of the supernatural.
When we speak of fairy tales,
we have before our minds the existence, for
artistic purposes, of a spiritual world peopled
with beings that exercise themselves in<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_203"></a>[203]</span>
human affairs, and are endowed in the main
with human attributes, though possessed of
certain ethereal advantages, and generally
under orders from some superior power,
often dimly understood as fate; the Italians,
indeed, call the fairy <i>fata</i>. In a rough way
we include under the title of fairies all the
terrible and grotesque shapes as well, and
this world of spiritual beings is made to consist
of giants, ogres, brownies, pixies, nisses,
gnomes, elves, and whatever other creatures
have found in it a local habitation and name.
The fairy itself is generally represented as
very diminutive, the result, apparently, of
an attempted compromise between the imagination
and the senses, by which the existence
of fairies for certain purposes is conceded
on condition they shall be made so
small that the senses may be excused from
recognizing them.</p>
<p>The belief in fairies gave rise to the genuine
fairy tale, which is now an acknowledged
classic, and the gradual elimination of this
belief from the civilized mind has been attended
with some awkwardness. These
creations of fancy—if we must so dismiss
them—had secured a somewhat positive recognition
in literature before it was finally<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_204"></a>[204]</span>
discovered that they came out of the unseen
and therefore could have no life. Once received
into literature they could not well be
ignored, but the understanding, which appears
to serve as special police in such cases,
now has orders to admit no new-comers
unless they answer to one of three classes:
either they must be direct descendants of
the fairies of literature, having certain marks
about them to indicate their parentage, or
they must be teachers of morality thus disguised,
or they may be mere masqueraders;
one thing is certain, they must spring from
no belief in fairy life, but be one and all referred
to some sufficient cause,—a dream,
a moral lesson, a chemical experiment. But
it is found that literature has its own sympathies,
not always compassed by the mere
understanding, and the consequence is that
the sham fairies in the sham fairy tales
never really get into literature at all, but
disappear in limbo; while every now and
then a genuine fairy, born of a genuine,
poetic belief, secures a place in spite of the
vigilance of the guard.</p>
<p>Perhaps nothing has done more to vulgarize
the fairy than its introduction upon the
stage; the charm of the fairy tale is in its<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_205"></a>[205]</span>
divorce from human experience; the charm
of the stage is in its realization, in miniature,
of human life. If the frog is heard to speak,
if the dog is turned before one’s eyes into
a prince, by having cold water dashed over
it, the charm of the fairy tale has fled, and
in its place we have only the perplexing
pleasure of legerdemain. The effect of producing
these scenes upon the stage is to
bring them one step nearer to sensuous reality,
and one step further from imaginative
reality; and since the real life of fairy is in
the imagination, a wrong is committed when
it is dragged from its shadowy hiding-place
and made to turn into ashes under the calcium
light of the understanding.</p>
<p>By a tacit agreement fairy tales have come
to be consigned to the nursery; the old tools
of superstition have become the child’s toys,
and when a writer comes forward, now,
bringing new fairy tales, it is almost always
with an apology, not for trespassing upon
ground already occupied, but for indulging
in what is no longer belief, but make-belief.
“My story,” he is apt to say, “is not true;
we none of us believe it, and I shall give
you good evidence before I am done that
least of all do I believe it. I shall probably<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_206"></a>[206]</span>
explain it by referring it to a strange dream,
or shall justify it by the excellent lesson it
is to teach. I adopt the fairy form as
suited to the imagination of children; it is
a childish thing, and I am half ashamed, as
a grown person, to be found engaged in such
nonsense.” Out of this way of regarding
fairy tales has come that peculiar monstrosity
of the times, the scientific fairy tale,
which is nothing short of an insult to a
whole race of innocent beings. It may be
accepted as a foregone conclusion that with
a disbelief in fairies the genuine fairy tale
has died, and that it is better to content ourselves
with those stories which sprang from
actual belief, telling them over to successive
generations of children, than to seek to extend
the literature by any ingenuity of modern
skepticism. There they are, the fairy
tales without authorship, as imperishable as
nursery ditties; scholarly collections of them
may be made, but they will have their true
preservation, not as specimens in a museum
of literary curiosities, but as children’s toys.
Like the sleeping princess in the wood, the
fairy tale may be hedged about with bristling
notes and thickets of commentaries,
but the child will pass straight to the beauty,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_207"></a>[207]</span>
and awaken for his own delight the old
charmed life.</p>
<p>It is worth noting, then, that just when
historical criticism, under the impulse of
the Grimms, was ordering and accounting
for these fragile creations,—a sure mark
that they were ceasing to exist as living forms
in literature,—Hans Christian Andersen
should have come forward as master in a
new order of stories, which may be regarded
as the true literary successor to the old order
of fairy tales, answering the demands of a
spirit which rejects the pale ghost of the
scientific or moral or jocular or pedantic
fairy tale. Andersen, indeed, has invented
fairy tales purely such, and has given form
and enduring substance to traditional stories
current in Scandinavia; but it is not upon
such work that his real fame rests, and it is
certain that while he will be mentioned in
the biographical dictionaries as the writer
of novels, poems, romances, dramas, sketches
of travel, and an autobiography, he will be
known and read as the author of certain
short stories, of which the charm at first
glance seems to be in the sudden discovery
of life and humor in what are ordinarily
regarded as inanimate objects, or what are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_208"></a>[208]</span>
somewhat compassionately called dumb animals.
When we have read and studied the
stories further, and perceived their ingenuity
and wit and humane philosophy, we can
after all give no better account of their
charm than just this, that they disclose the
possible or fancied parallel to human life
carried on by what our senses tell us has
no life, or our reason assures us has no rational
power.</p>
<p>The life which Andersen sets before us is
in fact a dramatic representation upon an
imaginary stage, with puppets that are not
pulled by strings, but have their own muscular
and nervous economy. The life which
he displays is not a travesty of human life,
it is human life repeated in miniature under
conditions which give a charming and unexpected
variety. By some transmigration,
souls have passed into tin-soldiers, balls,
tops, beetles, money-pigs, coins, shoes, leap-frogs,
matches, and even such attenuated individualities
as darning-needles; and when,
informing these apparently dead or stupid
bodies, they begin to make manifestations,
it is always in perfect consistency with the
ordinary conditions of the bodies they occupy,
though the several objects become by<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_209"></a>[209]</span>
this endowment of souls suddenly expanded
in their capacity. Perhaps in nothing is
Andersen’s delicacy of artistic feeling better
shown than in the manner in which he deals
with his animated creations when they are
brought into direct relations with human beings.
The absurdity which the bald understanding
perceives is dexterously suppressed
by a reduction of all the factors to one common
term. For example, in his story of The
Leap-Frog, he tells how a flea, a grasshopper
and a leap-frog once wanted to see which
could jump highest, and invited the whole
world “and everybody else besides who chose
to come,” to see the performance. The king
promised to give his daughter to the one
who jumped the highest, for it was stale fun
when there was no prize to jump for. The
flea and the grasshopper came forward in
turn and put in their claims; the leap-frog
also appeared, but was silent. The flea
jumped so high that nobody could see where
he went to, so they all asserted that he had
not jumped at all; the grasshopper jumped
in the king’s face, and was set down as an
ill-mannered thing; the leap-frog, after reflection,
leaped into the lap of the princess, and
thereupon the king said, “There is nothing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_210"></a>[210]</span>
above my daughter; therefore to bound up
to her is the highest jump that can be made:
but for this, one must possess understanding,
and the leap-frog has shown that he has understanding.
He is brave and intellectual.”
“And so,” the story declares, “he won the
princess.” The barren absurdity of a leap-frog
marrying a princess is perhaps the first
thing that strikes the impartial reader of
this abstract, and there is very likely something
offensive to him in the notion; but in
the story itself this absurdity is so delightfully
veiled by the succession of happy turns
in the characterization of the three jumpers,
as well as of the old king, the house-dog, and
the old councilor “who had had three orders
given him to make him hold his tongue,”
that the final impression upon the mind is
that of a harmonizing of all the characters,
and the king, princess, and councilor can
scarcely be distinguished in kind from the
flea, grasshopper, leap-frog, and house-dog.
After that, the marriage of the leap-frog and
princess is quite a matter of course.</p>
<p>The use of speaking animals in story was
no discovery of Andersen’s, and yet in the
distinction between his wonder-story and the
well-known fable lies an explanation of the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_211"></a>[211]</span>
charm which attaches to his work. The end
of every fable is <i>hæc fabula docet</i>, and it
was for this palpable end that the fable was
created. The lion, the fox, the mouse, the
dog, are in a very limited way true to the
accepted nature of the animals which they
represent, and their intercourse with each
other is governed by the ordinary rules of
animal life, but the actions and words are
distinctly illustrative of some morality. The
fable is an animated proverb. The animals
are made to act and speak in accordance
with some intended lesson, and have this for
the reason of their being. The lesson is
first; the characters, created afterward, are,
for purposes of the teacher, disguised as animals;
very little of the animal appears, but
very much of the lesson. The art which
invented the fable was a modest handmaid
to morality. In Andersen’s stories, however,
the spring is not in the didactic but in
the imaginative. He sees the beetle in the
imperial stable stretching out his thin legs
to be shod with golden shoes like the emperor’s
favorite horse, and the personality of
the beetle determines the movement of the
story throughout; egotism, pride at being
proud, jealousy, and unbounded self-conceit<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_212"></a>[212]</span>
are the furniture of this beetle’s soul, and
his adventures one by one disclose his character.
Is there a lesson in all this? Precisely
as there is a lesson in any picture of
human life where the same traits are
sketched. The beetle, after all his adventures,
some of them ignominious but none
expelling his self-conceit, finds himself again
in the emperor’s stable, having solved the
problem why the emperor’s horse had golden
shoes. “They were given to the horse on
my account,” he says, and adds, “the world
is not so bad after all, but one must know
how to take things as they come.” There
is in this and other of Andersen’s stories a
singular shrewdness, as of a very keen observer
of life, singular because at first blush
the author seems to be a sentimentalist.
The satires, like The Emperor’s New
Clothes and The Swiftest Runners, mark
this characteristic of shrewd observation
very cleverly. Perhaps, after all, we are
stating most simply the distinction between
his story and the fable when we say that
humor is a prominent element in the one
and absent in the other; and to say that
there is humor is to say that there is real
life.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_213"></a>[213]</span></p>
<p>It is frequently said that Andersen’s
stories accomplish their purpose of amusing
children by being childish, yet it is impossible
for a mature person to read them without
detecting repeatedly the marks of experience.
There is a subtle undercurrent of
wisdom that has nothing to do with childishness,
and the child who is entertained returns
to the same story afterward to find a
deeper significance than it was possible for
him to apprehend at the first reading. The
forms and the incident are in consonance
with childish experience, but the spirit
which moves through the story comes from
a mind that has seen and felt the analogue
of the story in some broader or coarser
form. The story of The Ugly Duckling is
an inimitable presentation of Andersen’s
own tearful and finally triumphant life; yet
no child who reads the story has its sympathy
for a moment withdrawn from the
duckling and transferred to a human being.
Andersen’s nice sense of artistic limitations
saves him from making the older thought
obtrude itself upon the notice of children,
and his power of placing himself at the same
angle of vision with children is remarkably
shown in one instance, where, in Little<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_214"></a>[214]</span>
Klaus and Big Klaus, death is treated as a
mere incident in the story, a surprise but
not a terror.</p>
<p>The naïveté which is so conspicuous an
element in Andersen’s stories was an expression
of his own singularly artless nature.
He was a child all his life; his was a condition
of almost arrested development. He
was obedient to the demands of his spiritual
nature, and these led him into a fresh field
of fancy and imagination. What separates
him and gives him a distinct place in literature
is, as I have said, that he was the first
child who had contributed to literature. His
very autobiography discloses at every turn
this controlling genius of childhood, and the
testimony of his friends confirms it.</p>
<p>Now that Andersen has told his stories,
it seems an easy thing to do, and we have
plenty of stories written for children that
attempt the same thing, sometimes also with
moderate success; for Andersen’s discovery
was after all but the simple application to
literature of a faculty which has always been
exercised. The likeness that things inanimate
have to things animate is constantly
forced upon us; it remained for Andersen
to pursue the comparison further, and, letting<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_215"></a>[215]</span>
types loose from their antitypes, to give
them independent existence. The result has
been a surprise in literature and a genuine
addition to literary forms. It is possible to
follow in his steps, now that he has shown
us the way, but it is no less evident that the
success which he attained was due not merely
to his happy discovery of a latent property,
but to the nice feeling and strict obedience
to laws of art with which he made use of his
discovery. Andersen’s genius enabled him
to see the soul in a darning-needle, and he
perceived also the limitations of the life he
was to portray, so that while he was often
on the edge of absurdity he did not lose his
balance. Especially is it to be noted that
these stories, which we regard as giving an
opportunity for invention when the series of
old-fashioned fairy tales had been closed,
show clearly the coming in of that temper in
novel-writing which is eager to describe
things as they are. Within the narrow
limits of his miniature story, Andersen
moves us by the same impulse as the modern
novelist who depends for his material
upon what he has actually seen and heard,
and for his inspiration upon the power to
penetrate the heart of things; so that the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_216"></a>[216]</span>
old fairy tale finds its successor in this new
realistic wonder-story, just as the old romance
gives place to the new novel. In both,
as in the corresponding development of poetry
and painting, is found a deeper sense of
life and a finer perception of the intrinsic
value of common forms.</p>
<p>This, then, may be taken as the peculiar
contribution of Andersen: that he, appearing
at a time when childhood had been laid
open to view as a real and indestructible
part of human life, was the interpreter to
the world of that creative power which is
significant of childhood. The child spoke
through him, and disclosed some secrets of
life; childhood in men heard the speech,
and recognized it as an echo of their own
half-forgotten voices. The literature of this
kind which he produced has become a distinct
and new form. It already has its imitations,
and people are said to write in the
vein of Andersen. Such work, and Andersen’s
in particular, presents itself to us
under two aspects: as literature in which
conceptions of childhood are embodied, and
as literature which feeds and stimulates the
imagination of children. But this is precisely
the way in which a large body of current
literature must be regarded.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_217"></a>[217]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="IX">IX<br>
<span class="smaller">IN AMERICAN LITERARY ART</span></h2>
</div>
<p>The conditions of life in the United
States have been most favorable to the
growth of a special literature for children,
but, with one or two notable exceptions, the
literature which is independent of special
audiences has had little to do with childhood
as a subject, and art has been singularly
silent. There is scarcely anything in Irving,
for example, which touches upon child life.
A sentence now and then in Emerson shows
an insight of youth, as when he speaks of the
unerring instinct with which a boy tells off
in his mind the characters of the company
in a room. Bryant has touched the subject
more nearly, but chiefly in a half-fantastic
way, in his Little People of the Snow and
Sella. Thoreau could hardly be expected
to concern himself with the young of the
human race when he had nearer neighbors
and their offspring. Lowell has answered
the appeal which the death of children makes<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_218"></a>[218]</span>
to the heart, but aside from his tender elegiac
verses has scarcely dwelt on childhood
either in prose or verse. Holmes, with his
boyishness of temper, has caught occasionally
at the ebullition of youthful spirits, as
in the humorous figure of young Benjamin
Franklin in the Autocrat, and in some of his
autobiographic sketches. His School-Boy,
also, adds another to those charming memories
of youth which have made Cowper,
Goldsmith, and Gray known to readers
who else would scarcely have been drawn
to them; for the one unfailing poetic theme
which finds a listener who has passed his
youth is the imaginative rendering of that
youth.</p>
<p>Whittier, though his crystalline verse
flows through the memory of many children,
has contributed very little to the portrayal
of childhood. His portrait of the Barefoot
Boy and his tender recollection In School
Days are the only poems which deal directly
with the subject, and neither of them is
wholly objective. They are a mature man’s
reflection of childhood. Snow-Bound rests
upon the remembrance of boyish days, but
it deals rather with the circumstance of boyhood
than with the boy’s thoughts or feelings.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_219"></a>[219]</span>
Yet the poet shows unmistakably his
sense of childhood, although one would not
be far wrong who understood him as never
separating the spirit of childhood from the
human life at any stage. His editorial work
in the two volumes, Child-Life in Poetry and
Child-Life in Prose, is an indication of his
interest in the subject, and he was quick to
catch the existence of the sentiment in its
association with another poet, whose name
is more directly connected with childhood.
In his verses, The Poet and the Children,
he gave expression to the thought which
occurred to many as they considered how
soon Longfellow’s death followed upon the
spontaneous celebration of his birthday by
multitudes of children.</p>
<p>This testimony to Longfellow was scarcely
the result of what he had written either for
or of children. It was rather a natural
tribute to a poet who had made himself a
household word in American homes. Children
are brought up on poetry to a considerable
extent; they are, moreover, under
training for the most part by young women,
and the pure sentiment which forms the
unfailing element of Longfellow’s writings
finds in such teachers the readiest response.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_220"></a>[220]</span>
When one comes to consider the subjects of
Longfellow’s poetry, one finds that the number
addressed to children, or finding their
motive in childhood, is not large. Those
of direct address are, To a Child, From
my Arm-Chair, Weariness, Children; yet
which of these demands or would receive a
response from children? Only one, From
my Arm-Chair, and that chiefly by the circumstance
which called it out, and on which
the poet relies for holding the direct attention
of children. He gets far away from
most children before he has reached the end
of his poem To a Child, and in the other
two poems we hear only the voice of a man
in whom the presence of children awakens
thoughts which lie too deep for their tears,
though not for his.</p>
<p>Turning aside from those which appeal in
form to children, one finds several which,
like those last named, are evoked by the
sentiment which childhood suggests. Such
are The Reaper and the Flowers, Resignation,
The Children’s Hour, and A Shadow,
all in the minor key except The Children’s
Hour; and this poem, perfect as it is in a
father’s apprehension, yields only a subtle
and half-understood fragrance to a child.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_221"></a>[221]</span>
One poem partly rests on a man’s thought
of his own childhood, My Lost Youth; The
Hanging of the Crane contains for its best
lines a vignette of infancy; a narrative
poem, The Wreck of the Hesperus, has for
its chief figure a child; and Hiawatha is
bright with a sketch of Indian boyhood.
The translations show two or three which
include this subject.</p>
<p>While, therefore, Longfellow is repeatedly
aware of the presence of children, it is not
by the poems which spring out of that recognition
that he especially reaches them. In
his poem From my Arm-Chair, he refers to
The Village Blacksmith; that has a single
verse in which children figure, but the whole
poem will arrest the attention of children
far more than From my Arm-Chair, and it
belongs to them more. It cannot be too
often repeated that books and poems about
children are not necessarily for children.
The thoughts which the man has of the
child often depend wholly upon the fact
that he has passed beyond childhood, and
looks back upon it; it is impossible for
the child to stand by his side. Thus the
poem Weariness contains the reflection of a
man who anticipates the after life of children;<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_222"></a>[222]</span>
there is nothing in it which belongs
to the reflection of childhood itself. Tennyson’s
May Queen, which has found its way
into most of our anthologies for the young,
is a notable example of a large class of
verses quite unfit for such a place. It may
be said in general that sentiment, when made
a part of childhood, is very sure to be morbid
and unnatural. We have a sentiment
which rises at the sight of childhood, but
children themselves have none of it; the
more refined it is, the more unfit it is to go
into their books.</p>
<p>Here is a collection of poetry for children,
having all the marks of a sound and reputable
work. As I turn its leaves, I come upon
a long ballad of The Dying Child, Longfellow’s
The Reaper and the Flowers, a poem
called The Little Girl’s Lament, in which a
child asks, “Is heaven a long way off, mother?”
and for two or three pages dwells
upon a child’s pain at the loss of her father;
Tennyson’s May Queen, who is so unconscionably
long a time dying; Mrs. Hemans’s
imitation of Mignon’s song in a poem called
The Better Land; and a poem by Dora
Greenwell which I must regard as the most
admirable example of what a poem for a<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_223"></a>[223]</span>
child should not be. It is entitled A Story
by the Fire, and begins,—</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“Children love to hear of children!</div>
<div class="verse indent2">I will tell of a little child</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Who dwelt alone with his mother</div>
<div class="verse indent2">By the edge of a forest wild.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">One summer eve, from the forest,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">Late, late, down the grassy track</div>
<div class="verse indent0">The child came back with lingering step,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And looks oft turning back.</div>
</div>
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“‘Oh, mother!’ he said, ‘in the forest</div>
<div class="verse indent2">I have met with a little child;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">All day he played with me,—all day</div>
<div class="verse indent2">He talked with me and smiled.</div>
<div class="verse indent0">At last he left me alone, but then</div>
<div class="verse indent2">He gave me this rosebud red;</div>
<div class="verse indent0">And said he would come to me again</div>
<div class="verse indent2">When all its leaves were spread.’”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p class="noindent">Thereupon the child declares that it will put
the rosebud in a glass, and wait eagerly for
the friend to come. So the night goes and
the morning comes, and the child sleeps.</p>
<div class="poetry-container">
<div class="poetry">
<div class="stanza">
<div class="verse indent0">“The mother went to his little room.</div>
<div class="verse indent2">With all its leaves outspread</div>
<div class="verse indent0">She saw a rose in fullest bloom;</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And, in the little bed,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">A child that did not breathe nor stir,—</div>
<div class="verse indent2">A little, happy child,</div>
<div class="verse indent0">Who had met his little friend again,</div>
<div class="verse indent2">And in the meeting smiled.”</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_224"></a>[224]</span></p>
<p>Here is a fantastic conception, extremely
puzzling to a healthy-minded child. Imagine
the natural questions of a simple,
ingenuous boy or girl upon hearing this
read. Who is this other child? Why was
he coming back when the rose was blown?
You explain, as well as you are able, that it
was a phantom of death; or, if that seems
too pallid, you try to imagine that the poet
meant Jesus Christ or an angel by this other
little child: but, in whatever way you explain
it, you are obliged, if you will satisfy
the downright little inquirer, to say plainly,
This little boy died, and you begin to wish
with all your heart that the poet with all
her <i>ed</i> rhymes had added <i>dead</i>. Then the
puzzle begins over again to connect the
blooming rose and the little playmate with
death. Do you say that you will leave the
delicate suggestion of the lines to find its
way into the child’s mind, and be the interpreter
of the poem? This is what one
might plead in Wordsworth’s We are Seven,
for instance. The comparison suggested by
the two poems is a partial answer. Wordsworth’s
poem is a plain, objective narrative,
which a child might hear and enjoy with
scarcely a notion of what was implied in it,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_225"></a>[225]</span>
returning afterward to the deep, underlying
sense. This poem of Dora Greenwell’s has
no real objective character; the incident of
the walk in the forest is of the most shadowy
sort, and is used for its subtlety. I object
to subtlety in literature for children. We
have a right to demand that there shall be a
clear outward sense, whatever may be the
deeper meaning to older people. Hans Andersen’s
story of The Ugly Duckling is a
consummate example of a narrative which is
enjoyable by the most matter-of-fact child,
and yet recalls to the older reader a life’s
history.</p>
<p>I have been led into a long digression
through the natural correlation which exists
between childhood in literature and a literature
for children. Let me get back to my
main topic by a similar path. The one author
in America whose works yield the most
fruitful examples in illustration of our subject
is Hawthorne, and at the same time he
is the most masterly of all our authors who
have aimed at writing for an audience of
children. Whatever may become of the
great mass of books for young people published
in America during the past fifty
years,—and most of it is already crumbling<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_226"></a>[226]</span>
in memory,—it requires no heroism to predict
an immortality of fame for the little
books which Hawthorne wrote with so much
good nature and evident pleasure, Grandfather’s
Chair and the Wonder Book, with its
companion, Tanglewood Tales. Mr. Parkman
has given a new reading in the minds
of many people to the troubles in Acadia,
but he has not disturbed the vitality of
Evangeline; one may add footnote after
footnote to modify or correct the statements
in The Courtship of Miles Standish, but the
poem will continue to be accepted as a picture
of Pilgrim times. So the researches of
antiquarians, with more material at their
command than Hawthorne enjoyed, may
lead them to different conclusions from those
which he reached in his sketches of early
New England history, but they cannot destroy
that charm in the rendering which
makes the book a classic.</p>
<p>More notable still is Hawthorne’s version
of Greek myths. Probably he had no further
authority for the stories than Lemprière.
He only added the touch of his own
genius. Only! and the old rods blossomed
with a new variety of fruit and flower. It
is easily said that Hawthorne Yankeeized<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_227"></a>[227]</span>
the stories, that he used the Greek stones
for constructing a Gothic building, but this
is academic criticism. He really succeeded
in naturalizing the Greek myths in American
soil, and all the labors of all the Coxes
will not succeed in supplanting them. Moreover,
I venture to think that Hawthorne’s
fame is more firmly fixed by means of the
Wonder Book. The presence of an audience
of children had a singular power over
him. I do not care for the embroidery of
actual child life which he has devised for
these tales; it is scarcely more than a
fashion, and already strikes one as quaint
and out of date. But I cannot read the
tales themselves without being aware that
Hawthorne was breathing one air when he
was writing them and another when he was
at work on his romances. He illustrates
in a delicate and subtle manner the line of
Juvenal which bids the old remember the
respect due to the young. Juvenal uses
it to shame men into decorum; but just as
any sensitive person will restrain himself
in expression before children, so Hawthorne
appears to have restrained his thought in
their silent presence,—to have done this,
and also to have admitted into it the sunshine<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_228"></a>[228]</span>
which their presence brought. With
what bright and joyous playfulness he repeats
the old stories, and with what a paternal
air he makes the tales yield their morsels
of wisdom! There is no opening of
dark passages, no peering into recesses, but
a happy, generous spirit reigns throughout.</p>
<p>All this could have been predicated from
the delightful glimpses which we now have
of Hawthorne’s relations to his children,
glimpses which his Note-Books, indeed, had
already afforded, and which were not wanting
also in his finished work. Nor was
this interest in childhood something which
sprang up after he had children of his own.
In that lonely period of his young manhood,
when he held converse only with himself,
his Note-Books attest how his observation
took in the young and his fancy played
about them. As early as 1836 he makes a
note: “To picture a child’s (one of four or
five years old) reminiscences at sunset of a
long summer’s day,—his first awakening,
his studies, his sports, his little fits of passion,
perhaps a whipping, etc.” Again, how
delicate is the hint conveyed in a passage
describing one of his solitary walks! “Another
time I came suddenly on a small Canadian<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_229"></a>[229]</span>
boy, who was in a hollow place among
the ruined logs of an old causeway, picking
raspberries,—lonely among bushes and
gorges, far up the wild valley; and the lonelier
seemed the little boy for the bright sunshine,
that showed no one else in a wide
space of view except him and me.” He has
elsewhere a quick picture of a boy running
at full speed; a wistful look at a sleeping
infant, which somehow touches one almost
as if one had seen a sketch for a Madonna;
and then this passage, significant of the
working of his mind,—he is noting a Mediterranean
boy from Malaga whom he saw on
the wharf: “I must remember this little
boy, and perhaps I may make something
more beautiful of him than these rough and
imperfect touches would promise.”</p>
<p>The relation which Hawthorne held to his
own children, as illustrated both in the memoirs
of him and in his Note-Books, was unquestionably
a sign of that profound humanity
which was the deep spring of his writings.
But it was not, as some seem to think,
a selfish love which he bore for them; he
could show to them, because the relation
was one of the elemental things in nature,
a fullness of feeling which found expression<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_230"></a>[230]</span>
otherwise only as all his nature found outlet,—in
spiritual communion with mankind.
How deep this inherent love of childhood
lay is instanced in that passage in Our Old
Home which one reads as it were with uncovered
head. It is in the chapter entitled
Some Glimpses of English Poverty, and relates
how one of the party visiting an almshouse—Hawthorne
himself, as his wife has
since told us—was unexpectedly and most
unwillingly made the object of demonstrative
attention on the part of a poor, scrofulous,
repulsive waif of humanity. Nothing
that he had done had attracted the child,—only
what he was; and so, moved by compassion,
this strange, shy man took the child
in his arms and kissed it. Let any one
read the entire passage, note the mingled
emotions which play about the scene like a
bit of iridescent glass, and dare to speak of
Hawthorne again except with reverence.</p>
<p>In the same chapter occurs that delicious
little description of children playing in the
street, where the watchfulness of the older
children over the younger is noted, and a
small brother, who is hovering about his
sister, is gravely noted as “working a kind
of miracle to transport her from one dust<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_231"></a>[231]</span>
heap to another.” He makes the reflection,
“Beholding such works of love and duty,
I took heart again, and deemed it not so
impossible after all for these neglected children
to find a path through the squalor and
evil of their circumstances up to the gate of
heaven.”</p>
<p>One of the earliest and most ambitious
of his short tales, The Gentle Boy, gathers
into itself the whole history of a pathetic
childhood, and there seems to have been an
intention to produce in Ilbrahim precisely
those features which mark the childish martyr
and confessor. Again, among the Twice-Told
Tales is the winning sketch of Little
Annie’s Ramble, valuable most of all for its
unconscious testimony to the abiding sense
of companionship which Hawthorne found
with children. In Edward Fane’s Rosebud,
also, is a passage referring to the death of
a child, which is the only approach to the
morbid in connection with childhood that
I recall in Hawthorne. Little Daffydowndilly,
a quaint apologue, has by virtue of
its unquestionable fitness found its way into
all reading-books for the young.</p>
<p>The story, however, which all would select
as most expressive of Hawthorne’s sympathy<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_232"></a>[232]</span>
with childhood is The Snow Image. In
that the half-conventional figures which
served to introduce the stories in the Wonder
Book have passed, by a very slight
transformation, into quaint impersonations.
They have the outward likeness of boys and
girls, but, by the alchemy which Hawthorne
used chiefly upon men and women, they are
made to have ingenuous and artless converse
with a being of other than flesh and blood.
It is the charm of this exquisite tale that
the children create the object in which they
believe so implicitly. Would it be straining
a point too far to say that as Andersen
managed, whether consciously or not, to
write his own spiritual biography in his tale
of The Ugly Duckling, so Hawthorne in The
Snow Image saw himself as in a glass? At
any rate, we can ourselves see him reflected
in those childish figures, absorbed in the
creation out of the cold snow of a sprite
which cannot without peril come too near
the warm life of the common world, regarded
with half-pitying love and belief by one,
good-naturedly scorned by crasser man.</p>
<p>In his romances children play no unimportant
part. It is Ned Higgins’s cent which
does the mischief with Hepzibah, in The<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_233"></a>[233]</span>
House of the Seven Gables, transforming
her from a shrinking gentlewoman into an
ignoble shopkeeper; and thus it becomes
only right and proper that Ned Higgins’s
portrait should be drawn at full length with
a gravity and seriousness which would not
be wasted on a grown man like Dixey. In
The Scarlet Letter one might almost call
Pearl the central figure. Certainly, as she
flashes in and out of the sombre shadows,
she contrives to touch with light one character
after another, revealing, interpreting,
compelling. In the deeper lines one reads
how this child concentrates in herself the
dread consequences of sin. The Puritan,
uttering the wrath of God descending from
the fathers to the children, never spoke in
more searching accents than Hawthorne in
the person of Pearl. “The child,” he says,
“could not be made amenable to rules. In
giving her existence a great law had been
broken; and the result was a being whose
elements were perhaps beautiful and brilliant,
but all in disorder.” When one stops
to think of The Scarlet Letter without
Pearl, he discovers suddenly how vital the
child is to the story. The scene in the
woods, that moving passage where Pearl<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_234"></a>[234]</span>
compels her mother to replace the scarlet A,
and all the capricious behavior toward the
minister show how much value Hawthorne
placed on this figure in his drama: and
when the climax is reached, and Hester, Arthur,
and Pearl stand together on the scaffold,
the supreme moment may fairly be said
to be that commemorated in the words,
“Pearl kissed his lips.”</p>
<p>It is noteworthy, also, that when Hawthorne
was struggling with fate, and, with
the consciousness of death stealing over him,
made ineffectual efforts to embody his profoundest
thoughts of life and immortality,
he should have expended his chief art in
loving characterization of Pansie, in the
Dolliver Romance. Whatever might have
come of this last effort, could fate have been
conquered, I for one am profoundly grateful
that the two figures of grandsire and
grandchild stand thus fully wrought, to
guard the gateway of Hawthorne’s passage
out of life.</p>
<p class="tb">The advent of the child in literature at
the close of the last century was characterized,
as I have pointed out, by a recognition
of personality in childhood as distinct from<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_235"></a>[235]</span>
relationship. The child as one of the family
had always been recognized, and the child
also in its more elemental nature; it was the
child as possessed of consciousness, as isolated,
as disclosing a nature capable of independent
action, thought, and feeling, that
now came forward into the world’s view,
and was added to the stock of the world’s
literature, philosophy, and art.</p>
<p>“The real virtues of one age,” says Mozley,
“become the spurious ones of the next,”
and it is hardly strange that the abnormal
development of this treatment of childhood
should be most apparent in the United
States, where individualism has had freest
play. The discovery appears to have been
made here that the child is not merely a person,
but a very free and independent person
indeed. The sixteenth amendment to the
constitution reads, “The rights and caprices
of children in the United States shall not be
denied or abridged on account of age, sex,
or formal condition of tutelage,” and this
amendment has been recognized in literature,
as in life, while waiting its legal adoption.
It has been recognized by the silence
of great literature, or by the kind of mention
which it has there received. I am speaking<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_236"></a>[236]</span>
of the literature which is now current rather
than of that which we agree to regard as standard
American literature; yet even in that I
think our study shows the sign of what was
to be. The only picture of childhood in the
poets drawn from real life is that of the
country boy, while all the other references
are to an ideal conception. Hawthorne, in
his isolation, wrote of a world which was
reconstructed out of elemental material, and
his insight as well as his marvelous sympathy
with childhood precluded him from using
diseased forms. But since the day of these
men, the literature which is most representative
of national life has been singularly
devoid of reference to childhood. One
notable exception emphasizes this silence.
Our keenest social satirist has not spared
the children. They are found in company
with the young American girl, and we feel
the sting of the lash which falls upon them.</p>
<p>Again the silence of art is noticeable.
There was so little art contemporaneous with
our greater literature, and the best of that
was so closely confined to landscape, that it
is all the more observable how meagre is the
show in our picture galleries of any history
of childhood. Now and then a portrait<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_237"></a>[237]</span>
appears, the child usually of the artist’s
patron, but there is little sign that artists
seek in the life of children for subjects upon
which to expend thought and power. They
are not drawn to them, apparently, except
when they appear in some foreign guise as
beggars, where the picturesqueness of attire
offers the chief motive.</p>
<p>In illustration of this, I may be pardoned
if I mention my own experience when conducting,
a few years ago, an illustrated magazine
for young people. I did my best to
obtain pictures of child life from painters
who were not merely professional book-illustrators,
and the only two that I succeeded
in securing were one by Mr. Lambdin, and
Mr. La Farge’s design accompanying Browning’s
poem of The Pied Piper. On the
lower ground of illustrations of text, it was
only now and then that I was able to obtain
any simple, unaffected design, showing an
understanding of a child’s figure and face.
It was commonly a young woman who was
most successful, and what her work gained
in genuineness it was apt to lose in correctness
of drawing.</p>
<p>I shall be told that matters have improved
since then, and shall be pointed to the current<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_238"></a>[238]</span>
magazines of the same grade as the
Riverside. I am quite willing to concede
that the demand for work of this kind has
had the effect of stimulating designers, but
I maintain that the best illustrations in
these magazines are not those which directly
represent children. And when I say children,
I mean those in whom consciousness
is developed, not infants and toddlers, who
are often represented with as much cleverness
as other small animals and pets. It is
more to the point that, while the introduction
of processes and the substitution of
photography for direct drawing on the wood
have greatly enlarged the field from which
wood-cuts may be drawn, there is little, if
any, increase in the number of strong designs
illustrative of childhood. Formerly
the painter was deterred from contributing
designs by the slight mechanical difficulties
of drawing on boxwood. Unless he was in
the way of such work, he disliked laying his
brush down and taking up the pencil. Now
everything is done for him, and his painting
is translated by the engraver without the
necessity of any help from him. Yet how
rarely, with the magazines at hand to use
his paintings, does the painter voluntarily
seek such subjects!</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_239"></a>[239]</span></p>
<p>But if there is silence or scorn in great
literature, there is plenty of expression in
that minor literature which has sprung up,
apparently, in the interest of childhood. It
is here, in the books for young people, that
one may discover the most flagrant illustration
of that spurious individuality in childhood
which I have maintained to be conspicuous
in our country. Any one who has
been compelled to make the acquaintance of
this literature must have observed how very
little parents and guardians figure in it, and
how completely children are separated from
their elders. The most popular books for
the young are those which represent boys
and girls as seeking their fortune, working
out their own schemes, driving railway
trains and steamboats it may be, managing
farms, or engaged in adventures which elicit
all their uncommon heroism. The same
tendency is exhibited in less exaggerated
form: children in the schoolroom, or at
play, forming clubs amongst themselves,
having their own views upon all conceivable
subjects, torturing the English language
without rebuke, opening correspondence
with newspapers and magazines, starting
newspapers and magazines of their own,<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_240"></a>[240]</span>
organizing, setting up miniature society,—this
is the general spectacle to be observed
in books for young people, and the parent
or two, now and then visible, is as much in
the background as the child was in earlier
literature.</p>
<p>All this is more or less a reflection of
actual life, and as such has an unconscious
value. I would not press its significance
too far, but I think it points to a serious defect
in our society life. This very ephemeral
literature is symptomatic of a condition
of things, rather than causative. It has
not nearly so much influence on young life
as it is itself the natural concomitant of a
maladjustment of society, and the corrective
will be found only as a healthier social
condition is reached. The disintegration of
the family, through a feeble sense of the
sacredness of marriage, is an evil which is
not to be remedied by any specific of law or
literature, but so long as it goes on it inevitably
affects literature.</p>
<p>I venture to make two modest suggestions
toward the solution of these larger problems
into the discussion of which our subject has
led me. One is for those who are busy with
the production of books for young people.<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_241"></a>[241]</span>
Consider if it be not possible to report the
activity and comradery of the young in
closer and more generous association with
the life of their elders. The spectacle of a
healthy family life, in which children move
freely and joyously, is not so rare as to make
models hard to be found, and one would do
a great service to young America who should
bring back the wise mother and father into
juvenile literature.</p>
<p>Again, next to a purified and enriched
literature of this sort is a thorough subordination
of it. The separation of a class of
books for the use of the young specifically is
not now to be avoided, but in the thoughtlessness
with which it has been accepted as
the only literature for the young a great
wrong has been inflicted. The lean cattle
have devoured the fat. I have great faith
in the power of noble literature when
brought into simple contact with the child’s
mind, always assuming that it is the literature
which deals with elemental feeling,
thought, and action which is so presented.
I think the solution of the problem which
vexes us will be found not so much in the
writing of good books for children as in the
wise choice of those parts of the world’s literature<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_242"></a>[242]</span>
which contain an appeal to the
child’s nature and understanding. It is not
the books written expressly for children so
much as it is the books written out of minds
which have not lost their childhood that are
to form the body of literature which shall
be classic for the young. As Mr. Ruskin
rightly says, “The greatest books contain
food for all ages, and an intelligent and
rightly bred youth or girl ought to enjoy
much even in Plato by the time they are fifteen
or sixteen.”</p>
<p>It may fairly be asked how we shall persuade
children to read classic literature. It
is a partial answer to say, Read it to them
yourself. If we would only consider the subtle
strengthening of ties which comes from
two people reading the same book together,
breathing at once its breath, and each giving
the other unconsciously his interpretation of
it, it would be seen how in this simple habit
of reading aloud lies a power too fine for
analysis, yet stronger than iron in welding
souls together. To my thinking there is no
academy on earth equal to that found in
many homes of a mother reading to her
child.</p>
<p>There is, however, a vast organization inclusive<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_243"></a>[243]</span>
of childhood to which we may justly
commit the task of familiarizing children
with great literature, and of giving them a
distaste for ignoble books. There is no
other time of life than that embraced by the
common-school course so fit for introduction
to the highest, finest literature of the world.
Our schools are too much given over to the
acquisition of knowledge. What they need
is to recognize the power which lies in enlightenment.
In the susceptible period of
youth we must introduce through the medium
of literature the light which will give
the eye the precious power of seeing. But
look at the apparatus now in use. Look at
the reading-books which are given to children
in the mechanical system of grading.
Is this feast of scraps really the best we can
offer for the intellectual and spiritual nourishment
of the young? What do these books
teach the child of reading? They supply
him with the power to read print at sight,
to pronounce accurately the several words
that meet the eye, and to know the time
value of the several marks of punctuation;
but they no more make readers of children
than an accordeon supplies one with the
power to appreciate and enjoy a sonata of
Beethoven.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_244"></a>[244]</span></p>
<p>I do not object to intelligent drill, but I
maintain that in our schools it bears little
or no relation to the actual use of the power
of reading. The best of the education of
children is not their ability to take up the
daily newspaper or the monthly magazine
after they leave school, but their interest in
good literature and their power to read it
with apprehension if not comprehension.
This can be taught in school. Not only so,
it ought to be taught, for unless the child’s
mind is plainly set in this direction, it is
very unlikely that he will find the way for
himself. I look, therefore, with the greatest
interest upon that movement in our public
schools which tends to bring the great literature
before children.</p>
<p class="tb">The study of childhood in literature has
led insensibly to observations on literature
for children. The two subjects are not far
apart, for both testify to the same fact, that
in the growth of human life there has been
an irregular but positive advance, and a
profounder perception of the rights and duties
involved in personality.</p>
<p>What may lie in the future I will not venture
to predict, but it is quite safe to say<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_245"></a>[245]</span>
that the form in which childhood is presented
will still depend upon the sympathy of imaginative
writers with the ideal of childhood,
and that the form of literature for children
will be determined by the greater or less care
with which society guards the sanctity of
childish life.</p>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="footnotes">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_246"></a>[246]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="FOOTNOTES">FOOTNOTES</h2>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> Chapman’s <i>The Iliads of Homer</i>, ii. 70-77.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> <i>Iliads</i>, iv. 147-151.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> <i>Iliads</i>, xvi. 5-8.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> xi. 485-490.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> <i>Iliad</i>, vi. 466-475, 482-485.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> Goldwin Smith’s translation.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> John Addington Symonds’s translation.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> <i>Laws</i>, ii. 653. In this and subsequent passages Jowett’s
translation is used.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> <i>Laws</i>, vii. 797.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> <i>Laws</i>, ii. 664.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> <i>Epigrammata Despota</i>, DCCXI.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> D’Arcy W. Thompson, in his <i>Ancient Leaves</i>.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> Theodore Martin’s translation.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> <i>Silvæ</i>, v. 5, 79-87.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> Contributors’ Club, <i>Atlantic Monthly</i>, June, 1881.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> <i>De Rerum Natura</i>, V. 222-227, cited in Sellar’s <i>The
Roman Poets of the Republic</i>, p. 396.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> <i>Ibid.</i> III. 894-896. Sellar, p. 364.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> <i>Satire</i> xiv. 47.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> A thoughtful writer in <i>The Spectator</i>, 3 September,
1887, notes the absence of representations of childhood
in ancient art and literature, and the following number
of the journal contains a note of protest from Mr. Alfred
Austin, in which he says pertinently: “Is it not the foible
of modern art, if I may use a homely expression, to
make a fuss over what it feels, or wants others to feel,
whereas an older and a nobler art, which is by no means
extinct among us, prefers to indicate emotion rather than
to dwell on it?”</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> See an interesting statement of this Biblical force in
the preface to Matthew Arnold’s <i>The Great Prophecy of
Israel’s Restoration</i>, London, 1872.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_21" href="#FNanchor_21" class="label">[21]</a> <i>Hosea</i> iv. 6.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_22" href="#FNanchor_22" class="label">[22]</a> <i>Zech.</i> x. 9.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_23" href="#FNanchor_23" class="label">[23]</a> <i>Zech.</i> viii. 4. 5.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_24" href="#FNanchor_24" class="label">[24]</a> <i>Isa.</i> xi. 6-8.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_25" href="#FNanchor_25" class="label">[25]</a> <i>Malachi</i> iv. 6.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_26" href="#FNanchor_26" class="label">[26]</a> This and the other passages from the Apocryphal
Gospels here cited are in the translation by Alexander
Walker.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_27" href="#FNanchor_27" class="label">[27]</a> Canto xxxii. 7-9, Cayley’s translation.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_28" href="#FNanchor_28" class="label">[28]</a> C. E. Norton’s translation.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_29" href="#FNanchor_29" class="label">[29]</a> <i>Studies in the History of the Renaissance</i>, p. 84.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_30" href="#FNanchor_30" class="label">[30]</a> <i>Sketches of the History of Christian Art</i>, iii. 270.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_31" href="#FNanchor_31" class="label">[31]</a> <i>Legends of the Madonna</i>, Part III.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_32" href="#FNanchor_32" class="label">[32]</a> On Reading Shakespeare Through. <i>The</i> [London]
<i>Spectator</i>, August 26, 1882.</p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_33" href="#FNanchor_33" class="label">[33]</a> <i>Epicurus, Leontion, and Ternissa.</i></p>
</div>
<div class="footnote">
<p><a id="Footnote_34" href="#FNanchor_34" class="label">[34]</a> <i>Essays, Historical and Theological.</i> By J. B. Mozley,
i. 430, 431.</p>
</div>
</div>
<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
<div class="chapter">
<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_247"></a>[247]</span></p>
<h2 class="nobreak" id="INDEX">INDEX.</h2>
</div>
<ul>
<li class="ifrst">Admetus, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Æneas, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Æneid</i>, childhood in the, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Agamemnon, belief in, not dependent on the spade, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Alice Fell</i>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Alkestis</i>, a scene from the, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Amelia</i>, Fielding’s, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Amor, the myth of, <a href="#Page_36">36-38</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">as treated by Raphael, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the Elizabethan lullabies, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Shakespeare, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Thorwaldsen’s art, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Anchises, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Ancient Leaves</i>, cited, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Andersen, Hans Christian, the unique contribution of, to literature, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the distinction between his stories and fairy tales, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the basis of his fame, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the life of his creations, <a href="#Page_208">208</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">their relation to human beings, <a href="#Page_209">209</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the spring in his stories, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his satires, <a href="#Page_212">212</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the deeper experience in them, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his essential childishness, <a href="#Page_214">214</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his place with novelists, <a href="#Page_215">215</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his interpretation of childhood, <a href="#Page_216">216</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Andromache, the parting of, with Hector, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the scene compared with one in the <i>Œdipus Tyrannus</i>, <a href="#Page_16">16-18</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">and contrasted with Virgil, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Angels of children, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Anna the prophetess, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Anthology, the Greek, <a href="#Page_28">28-30</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Antigone, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Apocryphal Gospels, the legends of the, <a href="#Page_57">57-64</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Art, American, as it relates to children, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Art, modern, the foible of, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Arthur, in <i>King John</i>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ascanius, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Askbert, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>, <a href="#Page_69">69</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Astyanax, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">a miniature Hector, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Atlantic Monthly, The</i>, cited, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Austin, Alfred, cited, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Ballads relating to children, <a href="#Page_106">106-108</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">characteristics of, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Barbauld, Mrs., <a href="#Page_173">173</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">her relation to the literature of childhood, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">Coleridge and Lamb on, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bathsheba’s child, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Beatrice, first seen by Dante, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Better Land, The</i>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bible, the truth of the, not dependent on external witness, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the university to many in modern times, <a href="#Page_41">41</a>, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Blake, William, <a href="#Page_163">163-165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Boccaccio, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Browning, Robert, as an interpreter of Greek life, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>Pied Piper</i>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bryant, William Cullen, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Bunyan, childhood in, <a href="#Page_129">129-133</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Byzantine type of the Madonna, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Catullus, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Chapman’s translation of Homer, quoted, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the quality of his defects, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Chaucer’s treatment of childhood, <a href="#Page_108">108-111</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with the Madonna in art, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Childhood, discovered at the close of the last century, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in literature as related to literature for children, <a href="#Page_4">4</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_248"></a>[248]</span>in Greek life, how attested, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">indirect reference to it in Homer, <a href="#Page_8">8-11</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the direct reference, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the Greek tragedians, <a href="#Page_16">16-21</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Plato, <a href="#Page_22">22-26</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the Greek Anthology, <a href="#Page_29">29</a>, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Virgil, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">conception of, in Roman literature, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Catullus, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in epitaphs, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Lucretius, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Juvenal, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in classic conception of the supernatural, <a href="#Page_34">34-36</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the myth of Amor, <a href="#Page_36">36-38</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Old Testament literature, <a href="#Page_42">42-46</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in New Testament literature, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">attitude of the Saviour toward, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">as a sign of history, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the legends of the Apocryphal Gospels, <a href="#Page_57">57-64</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">of saints, <a href="#Page_65">65-71</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">under the forming power of Christianity, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Dante, <a href="#Page_75">75-78</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the representations of the Holy Family, <a href="#Page_83">83-87</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the art of the northern peoples, <a href="#Page_87">87-92</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the Madonnas of Raphael, <a href="#Page_92">92-98</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Raphael’s Amor, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in his representations of children generally, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the art of Luca della Robbia, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its elemental force the same in all literatures, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in ballad literature, <a href="#Page_106">106-108</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Chaucer, <a href="#Page_108">108-111</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its character in early English literature, <a href="#Page_112">112</a>, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Spenser, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the lighter strains of Elizabethan literature, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Shakespeare, <a href="#Page_117">117-126</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its absence in Milton, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">how regarded in Puritanism, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Bunyan, <a href="#Page_129">129-133</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Pope, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Fielding, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Gray, <a href="#Page_135">135-137</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Goldsmith, <a href="#Page_137">137-140</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Cowper, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the art of Reynolds and Gainsborough, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Wordsworth, <a href="#Page_144">144-157</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in De Quincey, <a href="#Page_158">158-162</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in William Blake, <a href="#Page_163">163-165</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Dickens, <a href="#Page_165">165-170</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in <i>Paul and Virginia</i>, <a href="#Page_181">181-183</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Lamartine, <a href="#Page_184">184-186</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Michelet de Musset, and Victor Hugo, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in German sentiment, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">illustrated by Luther, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Richter, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Goethe, <a href="#Page_194">194-196</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Froebel’s system, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Overbeck’s art, <a href="#Page_199">199</a>, <a href="#Page_200">200</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Hans Christian Andersen, <a href="#Page_201">201-216</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Emerson, Bryant, Lowell, and Holmes, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Whittier, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Longfellow, <a href="#Page_219">219-222</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">mistakenly presented in sentimental verse, <a href="#Page_222">222-225</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in Hawthorne, <a href="#Page_225">225-234</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Child-Life in Poetry</i>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Child-Life in Prose</i>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Children, books for, the beginning of, <a href="#Page_171">171</a>, <a href="#Page_172">172</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the characteristics of this beginning, <a href="#Page_173">173</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">their revolutionary character, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the sincerity of the early books, <a href="#Page_175">175</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the union of the didactic and artistic in, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">a new branch of literature, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>, <a href="#Page_178">178</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">art in connection with, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Children’s Hour, The</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Child’s Last Will, The</i>, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Christ, the childhood of, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his scenes with children, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his attitude toward childhood, <a href="#Page_49">49-52</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">an efficient cause of the imagination, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">legends of, in the Apocryphal Gospels, <a href="#Page_57">57-64</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his symbolic use of the child, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his infancy the subject of art, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">especially in Netherlands, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his words illustrative of human history, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Christianity and French sentiment, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Christianity, living and structural, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its supersedure of ancient life, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its germinal truth, <a href="#Page_55">55</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its operative imagination, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its care of children, especially orphans, <a href="#Page_73">73</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its office of organization, <a href="#Page_74">74</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its influence on the family, <a href="#Page_75">75</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its insistence on death, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in what its power consists, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its ideals, <a href="#Page_82">82</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its type in the Madonna, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">does not interfere with elemental facts, <a href="#Page_105">105</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Christmas in Germany, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cimabue, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_249"></a>[249]</span>Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, on Mrs. Barbauld, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">on Christmas in Germany, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Comus</i>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Confidences, Les</i>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Coriolanus</i>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cornelius, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Courtship of Miles Standish, The</i>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cowper, William, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Cruel Mother, The</i>, ballad of, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Cupid and Psyche, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>Danaë</i>, the, of Euripides, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">of Simonides, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dante, childhood in, <a href="#Page_75">75-78</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Day, Thomas, author of <i>Sanford and Merton</i>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Death of children, how regarded by Dickens, <a href="#Page_167">167</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">by Wordsworth, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Democracy revealed in the French Revolution, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">De Quincey, Thomas, reflections of, on his childhood, <a href="#Page_158">158-162</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Deserted Village, The</i>, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Dickens, Charles, his naturalization of the poor in literature, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his report of childhood, <a href="#Page_166">166</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the children created by, <a href="#Page_166">166-170</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Wordsworth, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Distant Prospect of Eton College, On a</i>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Dolliver Romance, The</i>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Doyle, Richard, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Drama, children in, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Dying Child, The</i>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Edgeworth, Maria, and Wordsworth, <a href="#Page_174">174</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Edward Fane’s Rosebud</i>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Elegy</i>, Gray’s, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>, <a href="#Page_136">136</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Elijah, the prophet, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the incident of the boys and, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Elisha, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Elizabethan era, characteristics of, <a href="#Page_113">113</a>, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Emerson, Ralph Waldo, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">English race, characteristics of the, exemplified in literature, <a href="#Page_111">111-113</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Eros, the myth of, <a href="#Page_36">36-38</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Erotion, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Essay on Man, The</i>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Euripides, in his view of children, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">examples from, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Evangeline</i>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Excursion, The</i>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Fables, Andersen’s stories distinguished from, <a href="#Page_210">210</a>, <a href="#Page_211">211</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Faery Queen, The</i>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Fairy-tales, Andersen’s stories distinguished from, <a href="#Page_202">202</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the origin of, <a href="#Page_203">203</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">fading out from modern literature, <a href="#Page_204">204</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">upon the stage, <a href="#Page_204">204</a>, <a href="#Page_205">205</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the scientific fairy-tale, <a href="#Page_206">206</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Fénelon, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Fielding, Henry, in his <i>Amelia</i>, <a href="#Page_135">135</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Fitzgerald, Edward, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Flaxman, John, his illustration of Homer in outline, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">French literature as regards childhood, <a href="#Page_180">180-188</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">French Revolution, the, a sign of regeneration, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">a day of judgment, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the name for an epoch, <a href="#Page_143">143</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">synchronous with a revelation of childhood, <a href="#Page_144">144</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its connection with English literature, <a href="#Page_162">162</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the eruption of poverty in, <a href="#Page_165">165</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Froebel’s kindergarten system, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>From my Arm Chair</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Gainsborough, Thomas, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Gascoigne, George, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Gentle Boy, The</i>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Germanic peoples, home-cultivating, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">German literature and childhood, <a href="#Page_188">188-198</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Giotto, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Goethe, compared with Richter as regards memory of childhood, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his Mignon, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his indebtedness to the <i>Vicar of Wakefield</i>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>Sorrows of Werther</i>, <a href="#Page_195">195</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Luther, <a href="#Page_196">196</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Goldsmith, Oliver, <i>avant-courier</i> of Wordsworth, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the precursor of the poets of childhood, <a href="#Page_137">137</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his position in literature, <a href="#Page_138">138</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>Vicar of Wakefield</i>, <a href="#Page_138">138-140</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Goody Two Shoes</i>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Grandfather’s Chair</i>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_250"></a>[250]</span>Gray, Thomas, <a href="#Page_135">135-137</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Gray, Thomas, borrowing possibly from Martial, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Greece, life in ancient, how illustrated, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">silence of the child in the art of, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">our relation to, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">modern interpretations of, <a href="#Page_27">27</a>, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Rome, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Judæa, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Greenaway, Kate, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Greene, Robert, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Greenwell, Dora, her poem, <i>A Story by the Fire</i>, an example of pernicious literature, <a href="#Page_222">222-225</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Grimm, the brothers, <a href="#Page_207">207</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Hannah, the song of, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hawthorne, Nathaniel, the most abundant of American authors in his treatment of childhood, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his use of New England history, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his rendering of Greek myths, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his observation of childhood, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his relation to children, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his apologue in <i>The Snow-Image</i>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">children in his romances, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his Pearl in <i>The Scarlet Letter</i>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his Pansie in <i>The Dolliver Romance</i>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hebrew life, in its influence on modern thought, <a href="#Page_39">39-41</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the child in, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its transformation into Christianity, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>, <a href="#Page_48">48</a>, <a href="#Page_53">53</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hector parting with Andromache, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">face to face with Ajax, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">comforts his wife, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>, <a href="#Page_17">17</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hemans, Felicia, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hen and chickens, in the Bible and Shakespeare, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Herakles, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hermes, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Hiawatha</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hilarion, <a href="#Page_67">67</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Holmes, Oliver Wendell, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Holy Family, the child in the, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">character of the early type of the, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">emblematic of domesticity, <a href="#Page_86">86</a>, <a href="#Page_87">87</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Homer, authenticity of the legend of, supposed to be proved by Schliemann, <a href="#Page_6">6</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">a better preserver of Greek womanhood than antiquaries, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the value of his similes, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">passages in illustration of his indirect reference to childhood, <a href="#Page_8">8-11</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the elemental character of, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the peril of commenting on, <a href="#Page_13">13</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the nurse in, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his view of childhood, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with that of the tragedians, <a href="#Page_16">16-18</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">with that of Virgil, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hosea, quoted, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>House of the Seven Gables, The</i>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hubert, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hugh of Lincoln, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Hugo, Victor, <a href="#Page_187">187</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>Iliad</i>, the swarm of bees in the, <a href="#Page_8">8</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the passage describing the brushing away of a fly, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the ass belabored by a pack of boys, <a href="#Page_9">9</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">Achilles chiding Patroclos, <a href="#Page_10">10</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">Hector parting with Andromache, <a href="#Page_11">11</a>, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">statuesque scenes in, <a href="#Page_12">12</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Imaginary Conversations</i>, quoted, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Imagination, the, abnormal activity of, in early Christianity, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the direction of its new force, <a href="#Page_56">56</a>, <a href="#Page_57">57</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Intimations of Immortality</i>, <a href="#Page_154">154</a>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Irving, Washington, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Isaiah, quoted, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ishmael, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ismene, <a href="#Page_18">18</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Jacob, the two wives of, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">James, Henry, alluded to, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Jeffrey, Francis, <a href="#Page_169">169</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Jerusalem, the entry into, <a href="#Page_49">49</a>, <a href="#Page_52">52</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">John the Baptist, <a href="#Page_81">81</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Jonson, Ben, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Jonson, Ben, <i>Venus’ Runaway</i> of, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Jowett, Benjamin, translation by, <a href="#Page_22">22-26</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Juvenal, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Kenwulf of Wessex, <a href="#Page_68">68</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Kindergarten, the, fortified by reference to Plato, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_251"></a>[251]</span>in connection with politics, <a href="#Page_197">197</a>, <a href="#Page_198">198</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>King John</i>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Kriss Kringle, <a href="#Page_189">189</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">La Farge, John, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>L’Allegro</i>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lamartine, Alphonse de, <a href="#Page_184">184-186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lamb, Charles, on Mrs. Barbauld’s work, <a href="#Page_176">176</a>, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his and his sister’s books, <a href="#Page_177">177</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lambdin, George C., <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Lamkin</i>, the ballad of, <a href="#Page_107">107</a>, <a href="#Page_108">108</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Landor, Walter Savage, remark of, on children, <a href="#Page_153">153</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Laokoön, <a href="#Page_21">21</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Laws</i>, Plato’s, cited, <a href="#Page_22">22</a>, <a href="#Page_24">24</a>, <a href="#Page_25">25</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Legends of the Madonna</i>, <a href="#Page_89">89</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Leslie, C. R., on Raphael’s children, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lindsay, Lord, quoted, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Lines on the Receipt of my Mother’s Picture</i>, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Literature for children in the United States, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>, <a href="#Page_236">236</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">some of its tendencies, <a href="#Page_239">239</a>, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">measures for its enrichment, <a href="#Page_240">240</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Literature, the source of knowledge, <a href="#Page_7">7</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">of Christendom, the exposition of the conception of the Christ, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">inaction in, <a href="#Page_54">54</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">fallacy in the study of the development of, <a href="#Page_104">104</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">its bounds enlarged, <a href="#Page_163">163</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Little Annie’s Ramble</i>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Little Daffydowndilly</i>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Little Girl’s Lament, The</i>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Little People of the Snow</i>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, childhood in the writings of, <a href="#Page_219">219-221</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Love, the figure of, in classic and modern art, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lowell, James Russell, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Loyola, <a href="#Page_91">91</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Luca della Robbia, the children of, <a href="#Page_101">101</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Lucretius, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Lucy Gray</i>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Luther, Martin, an exponent of German character, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his treatment of childhood, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>Macbeth</i>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>, <a href="#Page_123">123</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Madonna, development of the, <a href="#Page_84">84-87</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">treatment of by Raphael, <a href="#Page_92">92-98</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">a domestic subject, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Magnificat, The</i>, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Man of Law’s Tale, The</i>, <a href="#Page_110">110</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Marcius, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Martial, <a href="#Page_34">34</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Martin, Theodore, translation by, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Mary, the Virgin, legends concerning, in the Apocryphal Gospels, <a href="#Page_58">58-60</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">her childhood, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">her appearance in early art, <a href="#Page_83">83</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">her motherhood, <a href="#Page_84">84</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">her relation to Jesus, <a href="#Page_85">85</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>May Queen, The</i>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Medea, The</i>, cited, <a href="#Page_19">19</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Menaphon</i>, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Mercurius, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Messiah</i>, Pope’s, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Michelet, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Midsummer Night’s Dream</i>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Millais, John Everett, <a href="#Page_179">179</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Milton, John, quoted, <a href="#Page_46">46</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the absence of childhood in, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Bunyan, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">with Pope, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Moses, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Moth, Shakespeare’s, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Mozley, T. B., quoted, <a href="#Page_190">190</a>, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>, <a href="#Page_235">235</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Musset, Alfred de, <a href="#Page_186">186</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>My Lost Youth</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Netherland family life, pictured in the life of our Lord, <a href="#Page_89">89-92</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">New Testament, childhood in the, <a href="#Page_47">47-52</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Nicodemus, <a href="#Page_50">50</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Niebuhr, B. G., <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Norton, Charles Eliot, translation by, <a href="#Page_78">78</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Note-Books</i>, Hawthorne’s, <a href="#Page_228">228</a>, <a href="#Page_229">229</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Nurse, the, in Greek life, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the <i>Odyssey</i>, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>Ode on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity</i>, <a href="#Page_127">127</a>, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Odysseus and his nurse, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Odyssey</i>, memorable incidents in the, <a href="#Page_14">14</a>, <a href="#Page_15">15</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Œdipus Tyrannus</i> contrasted with the <i>Iliad</i>, <a href="#Page_16">16-18</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_252"></a>[252]</span>Old Testament, childhood in the, <a href="#Page_42">42-46</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Our Old Home</i>, <a href="#Page_230">230</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Overbeck, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>, <a href="#Page_199">199-201</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Palmer, George Herbert, as a translator of Homer, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Parkman, Francis, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Pater, Walter, quoted, <a href="#Page_79">79</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Patient Griselda, <a href="#Page_111">111</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Paul and Virginia</i>, representative of innocent childhood, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">an escape from the world, <a href="#Page_181">181</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">an attempt at the preservation of childhood, <a href="#Page_183">183</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Pet Lamb, The</i>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Pheidias, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Pied Piper, The</i>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Pilgrim’s Progress, The</i>, <a href="#Page_130">130-133</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Plato, references of, to childhood, <a href="#Page_22">22-26</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with artists, <a href="#Page_26">26</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">can be read by children, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Pope, Alexander, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Milton, <a href="#Page_133">133</a>, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">with Shakespeare, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Prelude, The</i>, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Princess, The</i>, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Puritanism, the attitude of, toward childhood, <a href="#Page_128">128</a>, <a href="#Page_129">129</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>Queen’s Marie</i>, the ballad of the, <a href="#Page_106">106</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Raphael, an exponent of the idea of his time, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the Madonnas of, <a href="#Page_92">92</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">in the Berlin Museum, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">Casa Connestabile, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">del Cardellino, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">at St. Petersburg, <a href="#Page_93">93</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">della Casa Tempi, <a href="#Page_94">94</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">at Bridgewater, <a href="#Page_95">95</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">del Passegio, <a href="#Page_96">96</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">San Sisto, <a href="#Page_97">97</a>, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">treatment by, of Amor, <a href="#Page_99">99</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his children, <a href="#Page_100">100</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Reaper and the Flowers, The</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Renaissance, the spirit of the, in Raphael’s work, <a href="#Page_98">98</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">childhood in its relation to the, <a href="#Page_102">102</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Republic</i>, Plato’s, cited, <a href="#Page_23">23</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Resignation</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Reynolds, Sir Joshua, <a href="#Page_141">141</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Richter, Jean Paul Friedrich, autobiography of, <a href="#Page_191">191</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">early birth of consciousness in, <a href="#Page_192">192</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Goethe, <a href="#Page_194">194</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Riverside Magazine for Young People, The</i>, <a href="#Page_237">237</a>, <a href="#Page_238">238</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Roman literature, childhood in, <a href="#Page_31">31-38</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Rousseau, Jean Jacques, <a href="#Page_180">180</a>, <a href="#Page_182">182</a>, <a href="#Page_184">184</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ruskin, John, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Samuel, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Sanford and Merton</i>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sarah, the laugh of, <a href="#Page_44">44</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Scarlet Letter, The</i>, <a href="#Page_233">233</a>, <a href="#Page_234">234</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Schliemann, Dr., <a href="#Page_6">6</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">School, great literature in, <a href="#Page_242">242</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Sella</i>, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sellar, John Y., quoted, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sentiment, French and German, as seen by the English and American, <a href="#Page_188">188</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Shadow, A</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Shakespeare, childhood in, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">limitations of the exhibition, <a href="#Page_117">117</a>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his Moth, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>Coriolanus</i>, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>King John</i>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>Titus Andronicus</i>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>Macbeth</i>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>Richard III.</i>, <a href="#Page_122">122</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">random passages in, relating to childhood, <a href="#Page_123">123-125</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">reasons for the scanty reference, <a href="#Page_125">125</a>, <a href="#Page_126">126</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with Pope, <a href="#Page_134">134</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Shunamite, the, <a href="#Page_43">43</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Simeon, <a href="#Page_47">47</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Simonides, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">quoted, <a href="#Page_30">30</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Sketches of the History of Christian Art</i>, <a href="#Page_88">88</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Smith, Goldwin, translation by, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Snow-Bound</i>, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Snow-Image, The</i>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Solitude, the, of childhood, <a href="#Page_160">160-162</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Songs of Innocence</i>, <a href="#Page_164">164</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sophocles, the <i>Œdipus Tyrannus</i> of, <a href="#Page_16">16</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Sparrows, the story of the miraculous, <a href="#Page_61">61</a>, <a href="#Page_62">62</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Spectator, The</i>, a writer in, quoted, <a href="#Page_38">38</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Spenser, Edmund, his <i>Faery Queen</i>, <a href="#Page_114">114</a>, <a href="#Page_115">115</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Statius, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_253"></a>[253]</span><i>Story by the Fire, A</i>, an example of what a poem for a child should not be, <a href="#Page_222">222-225</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Supernaturalism in ancient literature, <a href="#Page_35">35</a>, <a href="#Page_36">36</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Suspiria de Profundis</i>, <a href="#Page_158">158-162</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Swedenborg, a saying of, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Symonds, John Addington, translation by, <a href="#Page_20">20</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Bernard, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>, <a href="#Page_77">77</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Catherine, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Christina, <a href="#Page_70">70</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Elizabeth of Hungary, <a href="#Page_65">65</a>, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Francis of Assisi, <a href="#Page_71">71</a>, <a href="#Page_72">72</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Genevieve, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Gregory Nazianzen, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. John Chrysostom, <a href="#Page_66">66</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">S. Kenelm, <a href="#Page_68">68-70</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">St. Pierre, Bernardin, <a href="#Page_180">180-183</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Tanagra figurines, <a href="#Page_28">28</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Tanglewood Tales</i>, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Tennyson, Alfred, makes a heroine of the babe, <a href="#Page_170">170</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>May Queen</i>, <a href="#Page_222">222</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Thompson, D’Arcy W., translation by, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_33">33</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Thoreau, Henry David, <a href="#Page_217">217</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Thorwaldsen, <a href="#Page_37">37</a>, <a href="#Page_201">201</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Tirocinium</i>, <a href="#Page_140">140</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Titus Andronicus</i>, <a href="#Page_120">120</a>, <a href="#Page_121">121</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>To a Child</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Translations, the great, of the Elizabethan era, <a href="#Page_116">116</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Twice-Told Tales</i>, <a href="#Page_231">231</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Two Gentlemen of Verona</i>, <a href="#Page_124">124</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>Ugly Duckling, The</i>, <a href="#Page_213">213</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">compared with <i>The Snow-Image</i>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Ugolino, Count, <a href="#Page_76">76</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>Vicar of Wakefield, The</i>, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>, <a href="#Page_137">137-140</a>, <a href="#Page_142">142</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Village Blacksmith, The</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Virgil, contrasted with Homer, <a href="#Page_31">31</a>, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his treatment of childhood, <a href="#Page_32">32</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Virgilia, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Volumnia, <a href="#Page_118">118</a>, <a href="#Page_119">119</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst"><i>We are Seven</i>, <a href="#Page_168">168-224</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Weariness</i>, <a href="#Page_220">220</a>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Whittier, John Greenleaf, childhood in the writings of, <a href="#Page_218">218</a>, <a href="#Page_219">219</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Wonder-Book</i>, Hawthorne’s, <a href="#Page_226">226</a>, <a href="#Page_227">227</a>, <a href="#Page_232">232</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Wordsworth, William, the creator of Alice Fell and Lucy Gray, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">quoted, <a href="#Page_3">3</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the ridicule of his <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>, <a href="#Page_145">145</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his defensive Preface, <a href="#Page_145">145-147</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his apology for <i>Alice Fell</i>, <a href="#Page_147">147</a>, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his poem of <i>Lucy Gray</i>, <a href="#Page_148">148</a>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his poem of <i>The Pet Lamb</i>, <a href="#Page_149">149</a>, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his treatment of incidents of childhood, <a href="#Page_150">150</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">the first to treat the child as an individual, <a href="#Page_151">151</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his draft on his own experience, <a href="#Page_152">152</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his poetic interpretation of childhood, <a href="#Page_153">153-156</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his ode, <i>Intimations of Immortality</i>, <a href="#Page_156">156</a>, <a href="#Page_157">157</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his treatment of death, <a href="#Page_168">168</a>;</li>
<li class="isub1">his <i>We are Seven</i> contrasted with <i>A Story of the Fire</i>, <a href="#Page_224">224</a>, <a href="#Page_225">225</a>.</li>
<li class="indx"><i>Wreck of the Hesperus, The</i>, <a href="#Page_221">221</a>.</li>
<li class="ifrst">Zarephath, the widow of, <a href="#Page_42">42</a>.</li>
<li class="indx">Zechariah, quoted, <a href="#Page_45">45</a>.</li>
</ul>
<figure class="figcenter illowp100" id="deco" style="max-width: 43.75em;">
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</figure>
<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75367 ***</div>
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