Childhood in Modern Literature [pp. 118-119]

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"Plutarch, who began the study of Latin late in life, made rapid
progress, because, as he himself says, his knowledge of things enabled
him to enter into the thought of the writers. Themistocles, also ad vanced in years, learned Persian so well in one year, says his biog rapher, that he used to converse with the King of Persia on state
affairs better than the Persians themselves. Cato the Censor learned
Greek in his old age, and knew it thoroughly. Alfieri began the study
of that language at forty-eight, and attained a high reputation as a Hel lenist. Sir William Jones had passed his thirtieth year when he began
to learn Eastern languages, in which he is known to have been deeply
versed. Ogilby, the English translator of Virgil and Homer, had been
a dancing-master; he did not know a word of Latin at forty, nor of
Greek at fifty-four. Maugard, a distinguished man of letters, became,
after three months of study, a successful teacher of Italian and Span ish, which he had learned in his sixtieth year. The celebrated Dr.
Johnson undertook, when seventy years of age, the study of Dutch,
with a view to test his capability to learn: the success of the experi ment fully satisfied him that the powers of his mind were still unim paired. Richard Cumberland, Bishop of Peterborough, at the age of
eighty-three, learned the Coptic language, in order to read the Coptic
New Testament, which Dr. Wilkins had just published."
In the chapter on the "Art of Reading" the author ob serves:
"The mode of proceeding at the commencement should be nearly
as follows: To devote exclusively to the translation of the first volumes
all the time one has for study in the absence of the teacher, to go sev eral times over the same passages for some weeks, to peruse every day
the lesson of the day before, and gradually throw off dependence on
the translation opposite. As the work becomes easier, more will be
translated in a given time, and the learner will soon be able to dispense
with auxiliary aids.
"Repetition is the grand principle on which depends the efficacy
of the processes required for gaining a practical knowledge of a language. To impart to the intellectual powers a certain freedom of
action, repetition is as necessary as exercise to the limbs. Six months
of continuous application will lead to greater proficiency than twelve
months of lessons with frequent interruptions. Habits of language
can be created only by keeping the same words and phrases in rapid
succession before the mind: the same number of impressions which,
when closely following each other, produce a habit, would fail to do so,
if separated by long intervals."
M. Marcel's motto in the study of languages is, " One thing
at a time," or Macchiavelli's maxim, "Divide and conquer." In
his chapter on the " Art of Hearing" he condemns the practice
of attempting to acquire the signification and the pronunciation
of words at the same time, and points out the mental disturbance which arises from the unequal action of the eye and
ear:
"It is a great mistake to imagine that, in the study of a living
language, the pronunciation should be taught first. It does not in any
way facilitate the understanding of the written words; and, besides, a
person may perfectly understand what he hears, without being able to
pronounce correctly. In infancy we know the meaning of words long
before we can utter them. In learning a foreign language we ought
also to understand the spoken words before attempting to articulate
them.
"To study simultaneously both the pronunciation and the signification of words at the beginning is incompatible with that law of our
mental organization which forbids attention to be directed at the same
time to several distinct things when new.
"In the course of the exercises in audition, the learners should
forbear looking at what is read to them, that the ideas may be exclusively received through the articulate words, as when listening to a
speaker. If a person familiar with the written language had his eyes
fixed on the book while the instructor was reading, that organ, quicker
than the ear and not easily controlled, would not always patiently
accompany the reader word for word, but would outstrip the ear in
apprehending the subject. Sometimes also a person less advanced
will be slow in following the teacher, or will stop to consider the words
which are not familiar to him; so that, in either case, the learner
would be unmindful of what is read, and the idea would be apprehended through the eye, not through the ear.
"The learner also, occasionally perceiving letters which are not
pronounced, would be apt to attribute his not hearing them to inatten tion or dulness of hearing on his part, and might still be inclined to
introduce them in his pronunciation afterward. It is, therefore, better
not to give the eye an opportunity of leading the ear astray. Besides,
this dependence on the sight for understanding what is heard, incapa citates the ear for conversation, in which it can have no assistance
from the eye."
CHILDHOOD IN MODERN LITERATURE.
T HE dimpled darlings of our household, the little demi deities of the cradle, do not grace the ancient as they do
our modern literature. They were often enough in the arms of
Greek mothers, but seldom in the writings of Greek fathers.
The frightened Trojan babe, scared by the dazzling helm and
nodding crest of Hector, is a charming picture, but slight as
the painter's glimpse of a cherub. The "Iliad" gives no studied
picture of childhood-gives it no expression like that of modern
poetry.
The child-the sanctity, freshness, and mystery of child-life
-in literature, owes its advancement beyond the idea of a
healthy little animal to the worship of the infant Jesus. In
contemporary literature childhood is a special and individual
presence, not an accidental and accessory one. It was a French
poet who made the most touching verses about the sweet and
simple and enchanting life of children. Victor Hugo's " Les
Enfants" is the first book of poetry which exclusively cele brates childhood; and it is a charming and pathetic volume,
full of music, of tenderness, of tears, of brightness, felicitously
called "The Mother's Book." The heart of a robust and grand
poet has softened and melted before the altar of domestic life;
he sings the ministrations of children. The untroubled laughter, the fleeting tears, the sinless dreams and memories, the
glowing and spotless aspect of childhood, like the faces of
cherubs smiling from funeral tablets, crowd out all sombre and
bitter recollections of life. He says of a child, sleeping on the
maternal bed, that " when his rose-eyelid closes on the earth, it
is opened to heaven." Nothing like Victor Hugo's book is to
be met with anterior to our century, which has advanced childhood to the same place in literature that it held in religion
and art. When the monsters vanished, the child appeared.
The dragon, the hydra, and the dwarf, which exhaust the descriptive powers of the old poets and romancers, have given
place to the untouched and all-promising and exquisite child.
The cradle is the only undisturbed throne to-day. "Philip
my King" is undisputed monarch on the mother's breast.
A modern poet has expressed the sanctity of the power of
childhood when he makes the chagrined and despairing lover
utter, in his inconsolable anguish "Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast."
Miss Mulock's " Philip my King" is a beautiful expression
of the royal grace and power of childhood. But, if less vivid
as it is less of a portrait, more touching, because connected with
the reflective and saddened spirit of the father, is Longfellow's
poem of " Childhood."
The very flower of modern literature may be said to blossom in the sentiment inspired by childhood. That sentiment is
not pagan nor heathen; it is preeminently Christian. And
what children it has consecrated in our memory! " Mignon,"
the unique, the studied, the profoundly-suggestive, and strange
creation of the great Goethe-a truly "mysterious child; the
daughter of enthusiasm, rapture, passion, and despair; she is
of the earth, but not earthly." In our own literature we have
"Pearl" and " Pansy," the creation of a poet, Hawthorne; we
have " Topsy" and " Eva," the creation of a homely but dramatic genius, H. B. Stowe. And, in the children of Hawthorne's romances, what capricious and exquisite life! What
contrast! What rainbow-tints opposed to the fixed and sombre
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