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Wordsworth (search for this): chapter 14
r, but the boy dwells on earth; for him the very gods must be, like those of the Greeks and Romans, men and women. He is poetic, but it is according to Milton's definition, simple, sensuous, passionate ; the boy's poetry is classic, it is the youth only who is romantic. Give him time enough, and every castle on the Rhine will have for him a dream, and every lily of the Mummelsee an imprisoned maiden; but his earlier faith is in the more definite dramatis personae of this old text-book. Wordsworth, in one of his profoundest poems, Tintern abbey, has described the difference between the glad animal movements of a boy's most ardent love of nature, and the more meditative enjoyment of later years; and the child approaches literature as he does nature, with direct and vehement delight; the wildest romances must have in some sort definite outlines, as in the Arabian Nights. The epoch of vague dreams will come later; up to the age of thirteen he is a Roman or a Greek. I must honestly
ld text-book would have been an oasis. Yet it may plausibly be said that what charms the child, after all, is the grace of the phrase, and that even if a collection of good English sentences would not answer as well (because he is not forced to dwell on them for the purpose of translation), yet some German or French phrase-book, provided it were not Ollendorff, might serve the purpose. I should be the last person to deny the magic that may also dwell, for young people, in a book like Miss Austen's Selections from German prose writers, which at a later period I almost learned by heart. But however we may define the words classic and romantic, it will be found, I think, however contrary to the impression of many, that the child is naturally a classicist first. Emerson said well, Every healthy boy is a Greek ; while his powers are dawning and he divides his life between games and books, he prefers phrases that, while they touch his imagination, have yet a certain definite quality.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning (search for this): chapter 14
tween its covers. Yet those of us whose love of the book was wont to save us from the rod may have felt the thrill of delight predominate; at any rate, there was novelty and the joy of eventful living ; and I remember that the rather stern and aquiline face of our teacher relaxed into mildness for a moment. Both we and our books must have looked very fresh and new to him, though we may all be a little battered now; at least, my New Latin Tutor is. The change undergone by the volume which Browning put in the plum-tree cleft, to be read only by newts and beetles,--With all the binding all of a blister, And great blue spots where the ink has run, And reddish streaks that wink and glister, could hardly exceed what this book shows, when I fish it up from a chest of literary lumber, coeval with itself. It would smell musty, doubtless, to any nose unregulated by a heart; but to me it is redolent of the alder-blossoms of boyish springs, and the aromatic walnut-odor which used in autumn to
y, and demand only that, like the barbaric hatchet, it shall bring down its man? In America, this tendency is only dawning; while Emerson lives, it will be still believed that literature means form as well as matter. But no one can talk with the pupils of our new technological schools, without seeing that, in surrendering books like my old Latin text-book, it is in fact literature that they renounce. They speak as impatiently of the hours wasted on Paradise Lost as if they were given to Plato. Even at our oldest University, the department of Rhetoric and oratory came so near to extinction that it only got a reprieve on the very scaffold, at the intercession of some of the older graduates. To pursue literature per se has become almost a badge of reproach in quarters where what is sometimes called the new education prevails. Now there is no danger, in these exciting Darwinian days, that any one will disregard the study of natural science; but when one sees how desperately it som
elf that boy upon the lonely green ; he it was who, being twelve years old, could just touch the tender boughs from the ground:--Alter ab undecimo tum me jam ceperat annus, Jam fragiles poteram a terra contingere ramos. Then human passion, tender, faithful, immortal, came also by and beckoned. But let me die, she said. Thus, thus it delights me to go under the shades. Or that infinite tenderness, the stronger even for its opening moderation of utterance, the last sigh of Aeneas after Dido,--Nec me meminisse pigebit Elissam Dum memor ipse mihi, dum spiritus hos regit artus. Then visionary forms gather round the boy's head, fluttering about in wondrous ways; he hears various sounds and enjoys an interview with the gods :--Multa modis simulacra Videt volitantia miris Et varias audit voces, fruiturque Deorum Colloquio. Or, with more definite and sublime grandeur, the vast forms of Roman statesmanship appear: To-day, Romans, you behold the commonwealth, the lives of you all, e
his was himself that boy upon the lonely green ; he it was who, being twelve years old, could just touch the tender boughs from the ground:--Alter ab undecimo tum me jam ceperat annus, Jam fragiles poteram a terra contingere ramos. Then human passion, tender, faithful, immortal, came also by and beckoned. But let me die, she said. Thus, thus it delights me to go under the shades. Or that infinite tenderness, the stronger even for its opening moderation of utterance, the last sigh of Aeneas after Dido,--Nec me meminisse pigebit Elissam Dum memor ipse mihi, dum spiritus hos regit artus. Then visionary forms gather round the boy's head, fluttering about in wondrous ways; he hears various sounds and enjoys an interview with the gods :--Multa modis simulacra Videt volitantia miris Et varias audit voces, fruiturque Deorum Colloquio. Or, with more definite and sublime grandeur, the vast forms of Roman statesmanship appear: To-day, Romans, you behold the commonwealth, the lives o
Paradise Lost (search for this): chapter 14
erase from it all attempt at beauty, and demand only that, like the barbaric hatchet, it shall bring down its man? In America, this tendency is only dawning; while Emerson lives, it will be still believed that literature means form as well as matter. But no one can talk with the pupils of our new technological schools, without seeing that, in surrendering books like my old Latin text-book, it is in fact literature that they renounce. They speak as impatiently of the hours wasted on Paradise Lost as if they were given to Plato. Even at our oldest University, the department of Rhetoric and oratory came so near to extinction that it only got a reprieve on the very scaffold, at the intercession of some of the older graduates. To pursue literature per se has become almost a badge of reproach in quarters where what is sometimes called the new education prevails. Now there is no danger, in these exciting Darwinian days, that any one will disregard the study of natural science; but w
arm had never, in my case, been found there. But what fixed it forever in the mind was the minute and detailed study required in the process of translation,--the balancing of epithets, the seeking of equivalents. Genius doubtless is a law to itself, but for ordinary minds the delicate shading of language must be discerned by careful comparison of words, just as taste in dress comes to women by the careful matching of soft tints. It takes two languages to teach us the resources of one. Montaigne, who taught his son to speak Latin only, left him as uneducated as if he had learned his mother-tongue alone. I was once asked by a doctor of divinity, who was also the overseer of a college, whether I ever knew any one to look back with pleasure upon his early studies in Latin and Greek. It was like being asked if one looked back with pleasure on summer mornings and evenings. No doubt those languages, like all others, have fared hard at the hands of pedants; and there are active boys
tyle, as if each dwelt on an island, and hailed his neighbor each morning in good chest tones, to tell him the news. It is the farthest possible from the style of a poet or an artist, but it is the style of that ideal man for whom Huxley longs, whose intellect is a clear, cold logic engine, with all its parts of equal strength and in smooth working order, ready, like a steam-engine, to be turned to all kinds of work. In Huxley himself this type of writing is seen at the greatest advantage; Froude and Seeley have much the same; and books like the Essays on a liberal education, put together by a dozen different Oxford and Cambridge men, exhibit but one style,--a style that goes straight to the mark and will stand no nonsense. It is all very well, so far, and this is doubtless better than carving the bow till it breaks, as in Aesop's fable; but is there not room in the world for both science and art, use and beauty? If a page is good that tells truth plainly, may not another page have
each dwelt on an island, and hailed his neighbor each morning in good chest tones, to tell him the news. It is the farthest possible from the style of a poet or an artist, but it is the style of that ideal man for whom Huxley longs, whose intellect is a clear, cold logic engine, with all its parts of equal strength and in smooth working order, ready, like a steam-engine, to be turned to all kinds of work. In Huxley himself this type of writing is seen at the greatest advantage; Froude and Seeley have much the same; and books like the Essays on a liberal education, put together by a dozen different Oxford and Cambridge men, exhibit but one style,--a style that goes straight to the mark and will stand no nonsense. It is all very well, so far, and this is doubtless better than carving the bow till it breaks, as in Aesop's fable; but is there not room in the world for both science and art, use and beauty? If a page is good that tells truth plainly, may not another page have merit that
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