Now this precocious child was exactly four years, four months and
twenty days old when this incident occurred. Who can assign a
period too early in that brief life for this wonderful power of reflection,
comparison and introspection to have begun ? And there are plenty
more of whom the world never hears, but of whom it is equally true
that they are deep thinkers even in their infancy. Well might
the parent of such a child address him as Samuel Taylor Coleridge
did in those exquisite lines :
" Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the interspersed vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought:
My Babe, so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look on thee.
And think that thou shalt learn far other love,
And in far other scenes ! For I was rear'd
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars.
But t/iou, my Babe, shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags •.
Of ancient mountains, and l)enealh the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags ; so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher ! He shall, mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask."
In a similar strain, his father addresses him in the poem entitled
"The Nightingale:"
5
66 THE HEARTHSTONE ; OR, LIFE AT HOME.
" That strain again !
Full fain it would delay me ! My dear Babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound, *
Mars all things with his imitative lisp.
How he would place his hand beside his ear ;
His little hand, the small forefinger up.
And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's Playmate. He knows well
The evening star; and once when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream),
1 hurried with him to our orchard plot.
And he beheld the moon, and, hush'd at once.
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropt tears.
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam. Well,
It is a Father's tale : but if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy ! "
A little later, when he was six years old, we find this wondrous boy
appearing in one of Wordsworth's most exquisite poems.
"TO H. C.
"SIX YEARS OLD.
" O Thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought ;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel,
And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ;
Thou fairy voyager ! thou dost float
In such clear water, that thy Boat
May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream ;
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky,
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
0 blessed Vision ! happy Child !
Thou art so exquisitely wild,
1 think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
THE BABY IN THE HOME. 67
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of tliy house and hospitality;
And Grief, uneasy lover 1 never rest.
Page 37
Presented as published in 1883. Historical recipes may not meet modern food-safety standards. Cook from the modern interpretation, not the original instructions.
AI-modernized reading of the original text
Now this precocious child was exactly four years, four months and twenty days old when this incident occurred. Who can assign a period too early in that brief life for this wonderful power of reflection, comparison and introspection to have begun ? And there are plenty more of whom the world never hears, but of whom it is equally true that they are deep thinkers even in their infancy. Well might the parent of such a child address him as Samuel Taylor Coleridge did in those exquisite lines :
" Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought: My Babe, so beautiful ! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look on thee. And think that thou shalt learn far other love, And in far other scenes ! For I was rear'd In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw naught lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my Babe, shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags •.
Of ancient mountains, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags ; so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher ! He shall, mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask."
In a similar strain, his father addresses him in the poem entitled "The Nightingale:"
" That strain again ! Full fain it would delay me ! My dear Babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, *
Mars all things with his imitative lisp. How he would place his hand beside his ear ; His little hand, the small forefinger up. And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's Playmate. He knows well The evening star; and once when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), 1 hurried with him to our orchard plot. And he beheld the moon, and, hush'd at once. Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes, that swam with undropt tears. Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam. Well, It is a Father's tale : but if that Heaven Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Familiar with these songs, that with the night He may associate joy ! "
A little later, when he was six years old, we find this wondrous boy appearing in one of Wordsworth's most exquisite poems.
"TO H. C.
"SIX YEARS OLD.
" O Thou ! whose fancies from afar are brought ;
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, And fittest to unutterable thought
The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol ; Thou fairy voyager ! thou dost float In such clear water, that thy Boat May rather seem
To brood on air than on an earthly stream ; Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, Where earth and heaven do make one imagery;
0 blessed Vision ! happy Child ! Thou art so exquisitely wild,
1 think of thee with many fears
For what may be thy lot in future years.
I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest,
Lord of thy house and hospitality; And Grief, uneasy lover 1 never rest.