the children(孩子们)-第3节
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how they are little pilgrims and visitants among the things that look like
their kin。 For every winter shows them free from the east wind； more
perfectly than their elders； they enclose the climate of life。 And； moreover；
with them the climate of life is the climate of the spring of life； the climate
of a human March that is sure to make a constant progress； and of a human
April that never hesitates。 The child 〃breathes April and May〃an inner
April and his own May。
The winter child looks so much the more beautiful for the season as
his most brilliant uncles and aunts look less well。 He is tender and gay in
the east wind。 Now more than ever must the lover beware of making a
comparison between the beauty of the admired woman and the beauty of a
child。 He is indeed too wary ever to make it。 So is the poet。 As
comparisons are necessary to him； he will pay a frankly impossible
homage； and compare a woman's face to something too fine； to something
it never could emulate。 The Elizabethan lyrist is safe among lilies and
cherries； roses； pearls； and snow。 He undertakes the beautiful office of
flattery； and flatters with courage。 There is no hidden reproach in the
praise。 Pearls and snow suffer； in a sham fight； a mimic defeat that does
them no harm； and no harm comes to the lady's beauty from a competition
so impossible。 She never wore a lily or a coral in the colours of her face；
and their beauty is not hers。 But here is the secret： she is compared
with a flower because she could not endure to be compared with a child。
That would touch her too nearly。 There would be the human texture and
the life like hers； but immeasurably more lovely。 No colour； no surface； no
eyes of woman have ever been comparable with the colour； the surface；
and the eyes of childhood。 And no poet has ever run the risk of such a
defeat。 Why； it is defeat enough for a woman to have her face； however
well…favoured； close to a child's； even if there is no one by who should be
rash enough to approach them still nearer by a comparison。
This； needless to say； is true of no other kind of beauty than that
beauty of light； colour； and surface to which the Elizabethans referred； and
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which suggested their flatteries in disfavour of the lily。 There are； indeed；
other adult beauties； but those are such as make no allusions to the garden。
What is here affirmed is that the beautiful woman who is widely and
wisely likened to the flowers； which are inaccessibly more beautiful； must
not； for her own sake； be likened to the always accessible child。
Besides light and colour； children have a beauty of finish which is
much beyond that of more finished years。 This gratuitous addition； this
completeness； is one of their unexpected advantages。 Their beauty of
finish is the peculiarity of their first childhood； and loses； as years are
added； that little extra character and that surprise of perfection。 A bloom
disappears； for instance。 In some little children the whole face； and
especially all the space between the growth of the eyebrows and the
growth of the hair； is covered with hardly perceptible down as soft as
bloom。 Look then at the eyebrows themselves。 Their line is as definite
as in later life； but there is in the child the flush given by the exceeding
fineness of the delicate hairs。 Moreover； what becomes； afterwards； of
the length and the curl of the eyelash？ What is there in growing up that
is destructive of a finish so charming as this？
Queen Elizabeth forbade any light to visit her face 〃from the right or
from the left〃 when her portrait was a…painting。 She was an observant
woman； and liked to be lighted from the front。 It is a light from the right
or from the left that marks an elderly face with minute shadows。 And
you must place a child in such a light； in order to see the finishing and
parting caress that infancy has given to his face。 The down will then be
found even on the thinnest and clearest skin of the middle red of his cheek。
His hair； too； is imponderably fine； and his nails are not much harder than
petals。
To return to the child in January。 It is his month for the laying up of
dreams。 No one can tell whether it is so with all children； or even with a
majority； but with some children； of passionate fancy； there occurs now
and then a children's dance； or a party of any kind； which has a charm and
glory mingled with uncertain dreams。 Never forgotten； and yet never
certainly remembered as a fact of this life； is such an evening。 When
many and many a later pleasure； about the reality of which there never was
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any kind of doubt； has been long forgotten； that eveningas to which all is
doubtis impossible to forget。 In a few years it has become so remote
that the history of Greece derives antiquity from it。 In later years it is
still doubtful； still a legend。
The child never asked how much was fact。 It was always so
immeasurably long ago that the sweet party happenedif indeed it
happened。 It had so long taken its place in that past wherein lurks all the
antiquity of the world。 No one would know； no one could tell him；
precisely what occurred。 And who can know whetherif it be indeed a
dreamhe has dreamt it often； or has dreamt once that he had dreamt it
often？ That dubious night is entangled in repeated visions during the
lonely life a child lives in sleep； it is intricate with illusions。 It becomes
the most mysterious and the least worldly of all memories； a spiritual past。
The word pleasure is too trivial for such a remembrance。 A midwinter
long gone by contained the suggestion of such dreams； and the midwinter
of this year must doubtless be preparing for the heart of many an ardent
young child a like legend and a like antiquity。 For the old it is a mere
present。
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THAT PRETTY PERSON
During the many years in which 〃evolution〃 was the favourite word；
one significant lessonso it seemswas learnt； which has outlived
controversy； and has remained longer than the questions at issuean
interesting and unnoticed thing cast up by the storm of thoughts。 This is a
disposition； a general consent； to find the use and the value of process； and
even to understand a kind of repose in the very wayfaring of progress。
With this is a resignation to change； and something more than resignation…
…a delight in those qualities that could not be but for their transitoriness。
What； then； is this but the admiration； at last confessed by the world；
for childhood？ Time was when childhood was but borne with； and that
for the sake of its mere promise of manhood。 We do not now hold；
perhaps； that promise so high。 Even； nevertheless； if we held it high； we
should acknowledge the approach to be a state adorned with its own
conditions。
But it was not so once。 As the primitive lullaby is nothing but a
patient prophecy （the mother's）； so was education； some two hundred
years ago； nothing but an impatient prophecy （the father's） of the full
stature of body and mind。 The Indian woman sings of the future hunting。
If her song is not restless； it is because she has a sense of the results of
time； and has submitted her heart to experience。 Childhood is a time of
danger； 〃Would it were done。〃 But； meanwhile； the right thing is to put it
to sleep and guard
