| <Children's Books>
| <Christian Remembrancer. Vol 14 No 57 1847>
| <pb n="231">
| We have placed Anderson's name at the head of our list, 
| in gratitude for the delight and amusement his stories for children 
| have afforded us. When Fairyland seemed lost to us, or peopled 
| by a new range of utilitarians, who spoke its language and 
| tried its spells in mere slavish imitation, without comprehending 
| their use or meaning; a poet from the north has made new flowers 
| bloom there, and brought it back again to our hearts and eyes in 
| brighter colours and stronger outline than before.
| <pb n="232">
| In these days children, it seemed, might command everything in
| literature for their instruction and amusement but one. The press
| teems with stories clever, lively, edifying the work evidently of
| superior minds; we feel them to be well written and with a good
| and pure aim; and, as such, we read them with pleasure and
| interest; but, even as we read, the wonder comes upon us, why will
| not this last? why, (good and improving as it is, showing, too, a
| knowledge and experience of children's and of human nature ~~ why
| will it be so soon forgotten; so that what is talked of and quoted
| now, will not be heard of a few months hence? it is not want of
| cleverness, it is not want even of nature. Why will it not live? It
| must, we think, be no uncommon subject of regret to many, who
| have been led, for their children's sake, or by their own taste, to
| read the voluminous writings, now issuing for the young, that,
| though they have influence as a whole, and with the force of a
| stream bear the mind in their direction, yet each drop of the stream
| shines but its own short hour, and leaves no trace behind.
| The secret of this short-lived success is, we believe, the want
| of invention. One age surpasses another in intellectual quickness,
| in talents, in acquirements, in universality of mental
| culture, and consequently in the number and ability of its
| writers. But we are not disposed to think that any of these
| advantages, valued as they ought to be, can produce, or we
| may say create, invention. And, therefore, the mere superiority
| in such qualities by no means implies a larger amount of the
| inventive faculty in one age, than in its predecessor. This
| inventive or imaginative power is the crown of all other intellectual
| gifts; it is the light, the salt, which illuminates and perpetuates
| all the rest, and the only necessary quality for lasting fame.
| That is, a work deficient in a hundred points of what is 
| considered good writing still takes hold of men's minds, and
| keeps this hold, if only what it says is at the same time new
| and true.
| The force and power of the imagination, and the different modes in
| which two minds, the one gifted with this divine faculty, the other
| wanting it, commence and carry on their labours, have been so ably
| set forth by a modern writer, that we are tempted to elucidate our
| meaning by a quotation from his work. The art which he treats of is
| painting, and it may at first sight appear far-fetched to apply his
| views to our present subject; but composition must be ruled by the
| same laws and impulses, whether the thing conceived is to be
| expressed by the pencil or the pen, ~~ whether the composer would
| reach the heart and understanding through the senses, or appeal to it
| without such visible medium. In this light the ramifications of a
| tree bear a just
| <pb n="233">
| relation to the parts of a plot ~~ all of which should be in such close
| connexion with the whole, as that each should be imperfect and
| dismembered without the rest.
| <quotation>
| <pb n="234">
| </quotation>
| The stories of Hans Andersen, simple as they are, appear to us to
| possess the magic gift, for the want of which so many others fade,
| and are forgotten. The insight he allows us into his own mode of
| composition is given with very little pretension ; but the following
| passage shows that he, too, is visited by instantaneous
| conceptions, which come he knows not whence, and are
| independent of his bidding: ~~ 
| <quotation> </quotation>
| 'The Little Mermaid;'  'The Daisy;' 'The Real Princess;'
| 'The Emperor's new clothes;' and many more such
| <pb n="235">
| pleasant fancies must occur to our readers as examples of the 
| grand stories, which will only come when they feel inclined, and
| say, <p> 'Here we are.' </p> The volume 
| before us is a new selection from
| the apparently boundless store in the original Danish, of such tales
| as the Editor considers most obviously fitted for juvenile reading;
| some of which have the advantage of being less commonly known
| than those published earlier must now be. One value as well as
| charm of these stories is their evidently spontaneous character. The
| Author does not set about composing a fairy tale to illustrate some
| pet theory; the fancy rather comes to him. Accurate knowledge of
| human nature certainly does constantly appear, but it is
| unconscious and intuitive knowledge. There is gentle satire on the
| weakness and errors to which men are prone; but the writer does
| not sit down to devise a story, either as a lesson on a particular
| virtue, a warning on prevailing errors, or to ridicule some human
| weakness. Even in 'The Emperor's new clothes,' which at first sight
| perhaps goes against this view, we feel that the whole thought
| came together, or that the idea of the invisible clothing rather
| suggested the rest, than that the satire preceded the invention.
| Another fairy tale lies before us, which strikes us as contrasting
| curiously with the especial merits of Andersen's style  'The Good
| Genius which turned everything to gold,' ~~ of which it may appear
| an unreasonable criticism to say that it is too clever; but so it is.
| The writer seems above his work. He hardly enters into his own
| fanciful imagery, and only uses it in condescension, as some writers
| professedly do fiction, apologising to themselves and their readers
| while they do so. His aim is to set forth the advantages and grand
| results of patient industry, and for this purpose 
| he hardly (or they for the
| work is by two brothers,) constructs an ingenious machinery, and
| carries it through in a certain sense very successfully. But we miss
| the bright untrammelled exuberance of fancy working towards a
| high aim, rather by a good instinct than by a formal effort of will.
| The one is the clever attempt of a political mind, to recommend his
| views and theories to his youthful readers; the other, the true poet's
| fancy, who sitting among children, feels himself a child, and
| delights himself and them by his spontaneous creations, through
| which shine out, of necessity, true lessons for their daily use and
| guidance. Anything like effort in the fairy tale is the breaking of the
| spell. Its character should be poetical rather than intellectual, and
| the author should appeal only to this part of our nature. Thus
| knowledge of society, which can only be the result of observation
| and experience, is out of place, and so is satire on the vices of
| society; though not on the leading errors and weaknesses of
| humanity in the abstract; i.e. the fairy tale should
| <pb n="236"> 
| give the poet's view of life, rather than the man of the world's or the
| politician's. We feel it therefore a mistake, an error in point of taste
| in the authors of 'the Good Genius,' to inculcate the superiority of
| reality over romance in this species of composition; they should
| have had recourse to more matter-of-fact means for inculcating
| such sentiments, as that a lady must refuse a lover when he is poor,
| and marry him when he is rich. But hear Amaranth the ever
| young.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| We are no friends to ill-assorted marriages, but we appeal to our
| readers, whether the disinterested attachment in the following story
| (Andersen's,) of the shepherdess for her faithful chimney-sweeper,
| does not stand in pleasant contrast with Amaranth's discretion: ~~
| <quotation>
| <pb n="237">
| <pb n="238">
| <pb n="239">
| In this story the innate equality of man is 
| asserted; the chimney-sweep is made of the 
| same porcelain as his fair and glittering bride, 
| and we are not offended to be thus reminded of 
| a great truth. But if a tale takes a political view 
| of the relation of man to man, our suspicions 
| are excited, our party-spirit is on the qui-vive. 
| We feel we may have an opponent to deal with, 
| and we will make no unsafe admissions. When 
| kings are degraded to beggars, as in 'the Good 
| Genius,' and lose all their kingly spirit in the 
| transformation, a quality which seems to attach 
| rather to their robes and crowns than to 
| themselves, we find ourselves setting down the 
| author for a republican, or a whig at the least. 
| But poetry is essentially simple and childlike; it 
| asserts truth because it sees it and knows it, 
| not that it has any ends of its own to gain by the 
| promulgation; and we follow its guidance 
| trustingly; with no fear that our unguarded
| acquiescence may entrap us into 
| acknowledging some tasteful theory.
| After all, it is the observations of a child-like 
| spirit on the world around that impress us most, 
| taking far greater hold on the mind than mere 
| keen, hard, calculating acuteness. It is the 
| charm, for instance, of the Vicar of Wakefield, 
| that while he describes roguery so well, he 
| could so easily be taken in by it. Here is a 
| gentle satire on avarice and prodigality, ~~ the 
| futility of the one, and the consequences of the 
| other, ~~ which strikes us as having something 
| of Goldsmith's vein in it, and what the good 
| vicar might have told to his children. We need 
| not say it is from Andersen: ~~
| <quotation>
| <pb n="240">
| </quotation>
| Other Instances of the same mild vein of satire, 
| will readily occur to such of our readers as are 
| familiar with Andersen; as in the 'Swine-herd,' 
| where the love of vulgar gossip is made to 
| destroy all poetry and refinement; or where the 
| hen is made to give her views of travelling,  ~~ 
| <q> </q> 
| or that other hen, and her companion, the 
| tom-cat, who used to say, <q> 
| </q> and had no sympathy for the young swan's 
| aspirations.
| Another point of contrast, between the two 
| authors and styles we have been describing, lies 
| in their different modes of viewing nature: the 
| religious awe the one feels and shows 
| unconsciously, and the careless disrespect and 
| familiarity which the other does not scruple to 
| express. All Andersen's works are pervaded by a 
| true sense of the beautiful and sublime in nature, 
| of which many striking instances might be given. 
| The following extract, however, is rather 
| designed to show how in playfulness, and a kind 
| of daring, he yet preserves becoming reverence. 
| It is from the 'Garden of Paradise,' a story which 
| in some points ventures upon fancies which we 
| feel rather too bold, and what a member of our 
| church would have thought hazardous ground. 
| The youthful adventurer loses his way in a wood, 
| and is caught by a storm.
| <quotation>
| <pb n="241">
| <pb n="242">
| </quotation>
| The Good Genius, too, is merry on the grand 
| features of Nature. Andersen has given us the 
| North Wind; here we have the Sun, in his setting 
| majesty:  ~~ 
| <quotation> </quotation>
| And, again, Morning is announced under the 
| following graceful figure:  ~~ <q> 
| </q>
| To show that this author, intolerable as such 
| images are, can yet describe well, and that it is 
| choice rather than the necessity
| <pb n="243">
| of his nature, which makes him vulgar, we give 
| the following picture of a city suddenly starting 
| into being through the agency of the Good 
| Genius:  ~~ 
| <quotation> </quotation>
| We must notice the illustrations of this little book 
| by George Cruikshank as very successful. They 
| enter into the feeling and idea of the author; in 
| these days a very rare merit. The scene of the 
| forest in course of its transformation into a fleet, 
| with its swarms of tiny artisans; and again, that of 
| the rock changing into a palace, are very graceful 
| and imaginative.  To pass on to the next on our 
| list, ~~ 'The Silver Swan, a Fairy Tale, by 
| Madame de Chatelain.'
| Here the title, the euphonous name of the 
| authoress, and the form and getting-up of the 
| book in its delicate white-and-gold binding, all 
| contribute to one great deception. Instead of 
| being some pretty and graceful fancy of a lady's 
| imagination, as all these externals would lead 
| one to suppose, it is a satire on inn-keepers, 
| parvenus, bishops, the aristocracy, and the world 
| in general; while the 'Silver Swan,' the head and 
| front of all this offending, is no other than a 
| public-house sign. Every character is mean and 
| selfish  ~~ so entirely so, as to deprive the story 
| of any small interest it might otherwise have 
| possessed; while the style combines a little 
| cleverness with a great deal of vulgarity, not 
| unmixed with profaneness. It is
| <pb n="244">
| painful to see Fairyland so intruded upon. In fact, 
| however, all the supernatural is included in a red 
| nightcap, which makes money. We may class 
| this book with those odious travesties of the old 
| nursery tales which some publishers think it 
| worth their while to get up expensively, and 
| which we therefore conclude some people buy 
| for their children; though it is impossible they 
| should derive amusement from them, but at the 
| expense of worthier feelings.
| As a specimen of the work before us, we give the 
| following scene with a bishop, the only 
| professedly religious person in the work. He 
| arrives at the inn just after its owner has become 
| possessed of the money-making nightcap; and, 
| after a great deal of hypocritical talk, is riding off 
| with a sackful of gold, having previously <p> 
| 'opened it to ascertain whether all was gold that 
| glitters, and eyed its contents with a greedy 
| look:' </p> ~~ 
| <quotation> </quotation>
| The practical lesson to be drawn from this by the 
| children who are amused by it, is, that all men, 
| whatever they profess, love money, and will do 
| anything to obtain it. In the same way the 
| tendency of the following passage is to teach little 
| girls to think about getting married, and to feel the 
| paramount importance of being so. The young 
| ladies spoken of are the daughters of a 
| nobleman, who takes up his quarters yearly, 
| during the season, at the inn at Ems, kept once 
| more by the hero of the nightcap, after his short 
| reign of splendour.
| <pb n="245">
| <quotation> </quotation>
| We could multiply instances, but our readers will 
| have had enough.
| As some relief and refreshment, after so much 
| that is disagreeable, we now propose to introduce 
| them to 'the Good-natured Bear,' a courteous and 
| well-mannered beast, who, we hope, will atone to 
| them for what the 'Silver Swan' has made them 
| endure. There is, indeed, so much talent and 
| humour in this story, that we have real pleasure in 
| proclaiming its English origin, in spite of the scene 
| being laid in Germany,  ~~ a circumstance which 
| could not be avoided, both because it is 
| conceivable that a bear should be born in or near 
| Germany, which it is not, we are thankful to say, in 
| England, and also (and this is the great point of 
| necessity) because it is certain and inevitable that 
| if a bear could ever talk at all, he would do so in 
| the German language.
| Instead of dwelling long on the merits of the story, 
| our reader shall himself be the judge, and, to 
| enable him to be so, we purpose making our 
| extracts somewhat longer than the size of the 
| book might otherwise warrant.
| The scene lies in the country-house of a certain 
| Dr. Little-pump; where, one Christmas evening, 
| his children are entertaining a party of young 
| companions. Besides these little folks, there were 
| the learned Doctor and his lady; Grechen the 
| charming nursery-governess; a certain uncle 
| Abraham with a dry silent manner and twinkling 
| eyes, who walks off very early to bed; and the 
| three servants of the house. The festivities of the 
| evening had been carried on for some time with 
| infinite glee, when they were broken in upon in the 
| following manner:  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="246">
| <pb n="247">
| </quotation>
| The apology is received in good part, and after 
| more civilities, 
| <pb n="248">
| by which the stout gentleman is evidently 
| affected, Mrs. Little-pump says:  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="249">
| </quotation>
| Encouraged and softened by the kindness of his 
| reception, the bear proposes to tell his history, and 
| a very philosophical one it is.  The following 
| description of his infantine sensations goes
| near  to lift up the impenetrable veil which hangs 
| over  our human babyhood:  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="250">
| <pb n="251">
| </quotation>
| But we must not attempt to follow the bear through 
| his various adventures, singular as they are, nor 
| describe the heroic obstinacy of his father and its 
| fate  ~~ nor the other wonders of this veracious 
| history  ~~ as we have already exceeded our 
| limits, and can only further refer our reader to the 
| book itself to satisfy any curiosity we may have 
| raised.
| From modern Fairy lore we pass to ancient  ~~ to 
| a dear old friend in a new dress,  ~~ ' The Lady 
| Ella.' The authoress of 'Hymns and Scenes of 
| Childhood' has won for herself, among those 
| acquainted with that beautiful little work, a 
| welcome for whatever she may next bring before 
| them; otherwise we should have had small 
| expectation of pleasure from a poetical version of 
| Cinderella, which this poem is! All attempts to 
| enlarge or fill but those earliest favourites of the 
| imagination are dangerous ones, as any 
| developing or spiritualizing of such histories is 
| pretty sure to jar upon fancies in the same 
| direction which each mind has unconsciously 
| worked out for itself. To compare small things with 
| infinitely great ones, the attempt in idea is too like 
| those long paraphrases of Scripture incidents 
| which writers often delight in, but which, in all but 
| gifted hands, give pain and weariness rather than 
| edification to the reader.
| In the case of 'The Lady Ella,' however, we think 
| the difficulty has been successfully conquered.  All 
| the incidents and the general tone 
| of Cinderella-proper are preserved, 
| and those features and 
| circumstances which are added are in keeping 
| with the rest. Even the sudden conversion of the 
| two proud sisters-in-law,  ~~ a stumbling-block 
| to some scrupulous persons,  ~~ but which is a 
| point of the history we are disposed to be 
| jealous for, is adhered to; and, after a short but 
| sincere repentance, they  marry two gentlemen 
| of the court, as we always believed them to do.  
| Woe to us if men always got their full deserts, 
| and forgiveness and mercy were of no avail!  
| The additions to the original simplicity of the 
| narrative are sketches of the father and mother 
| of the heroine, on the two May-days which saw 
| their marriage and her birth;  ~~ May-day being, 
| throughout, the eventful, fatal day of the piece.  
| After their death there is the more important 
| novelty of a humble devoted friend, who is the 
| means of some pretty scenes.  The Prince, too, 
| is a more important personage, and the lovers 
| are represented as having beheld one another in 
| dreams, as an excuse, we presume, for the
| <pb n="252"> 
| heroine's so readily yielding her heart. Also some 
| fresh and bright descriptions are given of the 
| dawn, from which we are led to infer the benefits 
| of early rising, and the invigorating nature of the 
| morning air.
| There is no taste in which children more widely 
| differ than in a love of verse. Some consider it so 
| great a hindrance to the flow of the story, such a 
| bar to natural expression in the characters, so 
| huge an addition to the trouble of reading and 
| extracting the sense, that they hardly regard a 
| story in verse as a story at all, but look upon it as 
| a task, and as such discard it, if the matter is left 
| to their own option. Nor is this any sign that in 
| maturer years they may not become real lovers 
| of poetry. Its use and meaning will then dawn 
| upon them. They will find themselves invested 
| with another taste, and their eyes be enlightened 
| to enjoy a new pleasure. With others there is no 
| such gradual breaking; the sweet sing-song of 
| numbers is delightful to their earliest intelligence. 
| Hymns and songs and rhymes are on their 
| tongue's end before their lips can frame the 
| words; and while this indiscriminate taste is in 
| them, the music of verse atones often for the 
| want of most things beside. It gives pathos to 
| what is insipid, meaning to the senseless, and 
| grace to the vulgar. And, perhaps throughout life, 
| when roused from this first unjudging affection, 
| theirs will still be the more ready and 
| spontaneous pleasure in the poet's labours; 
| though this very facility may render them less 
| accurate judges and critics, as being less 
| thoughtful readers, and swayed by early likings 
| and prejudices.
| To such youthful devotees this book will give 
| great pleasure. There is a variety in the measure, 
| and a flow and smoothness in the versification, 
| which will gratify their ear; while it possesses, 
| besides, so much feeling and play of fancy, as 
| will tempt the lovers of prose to read for the 
| story's sake. As an example, we give the 
| following pretty and graceful description of the 
| Fairy, and her great feat of transformation:  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="253">
| <pb n="254">
| </quotation>
| Another work by the same author seems on that account to
| require notice at the same time; though the difference of subject is
| so great as to need some apology to the reader for the suddenness
| of the transition. 'The Wreath of Lilies' is a series of chapters on
| the various events of the Blessed Virgin's life. Each incident
| recorded in Scripture is dwelt on at length, with, reference to local
| tradition, and to the opinions of the, Fathers; and the whole work
| bears traces of sustained thought and extensive reading.
| <paragraph>
| It has evidently been a labour of love to the writer, and in
| accordance with a natural tone of deep, quiet feeling, expressing
| itself always with reverence and earnestness. We are glad to see so
| important and neglected a subject treated in this
| spirit. The style in itself we consider open to criticism. The real
| freshness of the thoughts is often lost in a hazy diffuseness of
| expression; and, in unwillingness to leave anything bearing on the
| subject unsaid, the author runs the risk of wearing out the attention
| of her young readers. And that they are always taken for granted to
| be young ones is evident from the constant appeal to them as <p> 'dear
| children,' </p> or <p>'Oh! my dear children,' </p>
| a form of tenderness which
| though we believe perfectly genuine in this instance, we confess to
| have always found wearisome. It gives the whole too a
| sermonizing Character, and nothing that is not a sermon should
| sound like one. That this style of address when in its appropriate
| place, the sermon, may be used too frequently, and ceases in time
| to be a connecting bond between speaker and listener, most of
| our readers will bear witness to who can call to mind how often in
| the course of one hour they have heard themselves affectionately or
| deferentially addressed as <p> 'beloved brethren,' </p> 
| and  <p> dear hearers,'</p> by their own pastor, or, 
| <p> 'respected audience,' </p> in the language of
| occasional extempore eloquence; till the jaded attention refuses to
| be roused or flattered my longer by this appeal to its sympathies.
| Any criticism, however, on a particular style, must be accompanied
| by a general admission of the difficulty there must always exist in
| making the style at once attractive and intelligible to the minds of
| children, and at the same time grave enough and dignified enough
| to become the subject, if a
| serious or a deep one. For it is in such subjects that the difficulty
| chiefly lies. So long as the matter in hand is within the range of their
| every-day experience and comprehension, it is no hard task to
| express it in easy language; but the abstract and unfamiliar must,
| also be brought before them,  ~~ either religions
| <pb n="255">
| and moral truths, or history, or some touch of science, or
| descriptions of distant countries and remote times, or what is
| mysterious, vague, and imaginative. Children must be taught
| new things, and towards the comprehension of which they have
| not such a stock of previous knowledge as their elders possess.
| They must in fact be taught things they do not know in words
| they do not know. 
| To such as begin their education late in life, this difficulty is
| commonly found an insurmountable obstacle to any great progress;
| the mature and set mind cannot master the double labour. But a
| child's intelligence is incredibly quick and apt (in a sense we can
| hardly bring ourselves to understand or
| recall) to seize upon any clue to a fresh thought; to force its way
| through any but impenetrable hindrances. It possesses, like the
| bee, an instinctive power at once to track out the necessary
| aliment, to extract its sweetness, to make it its own, to store it up
| for future use. As an instance, ~~ of all the thousand words we know
| and use, how few were ever taught or explained to us! let them be
| as long and crabbed as they will, we made them our own before we
| can remember to have heard them. They became parts of ourselves
| we know not how, except so far as we may guess from hearing, as
| now and then happens, an infant of some three years old, speak a
| new and recondite word in a somewhat ostentatious manner,
| returning to it once or twice in the course of the day, as it were to
| get used to the acquisition. We learnt our vocabulary either from
| conversation or books, and the context, made the meaning plain.
| And so long as the context does this as fully as can be expected
| from it, there need be no shrinking in a youthful style from long
| words. It is necessary that children should become acquainted with
| them, and a long word is as easy as a short one in itself, as far as
| mere understanding it goes, independent of the technical
| difficulties of reading and spelling, which we would not 
| underrate. But when long words come together all in a string, 
| presenting an entirely abstract thought; or if when there is 
| something real and visible to be spoken of, it is disguised under a high
| sounding periphrasis, while all the attendant members of a sentence
| are figurative and allegorical ~~ however hacknied and familiar the
| figure may be to older cars, to a child the whole stands a chance of
| being unintelligible. The leading subject of the sentence is not ex
| pressed distinctly enough to throw light upon its other complex and
| far-fetched members, while these in their turn only further
| confuse the main idea. As an example of, the obscurity we think
| the consequence of this style, we quote the following sentence from
| a very young child's book, now before us,  'Early English Princes.'
| The author is speaking
| <pb n="256">
| of the present infant royal family, and says,
| <quotation> </quotation>
| Here there is hardly one
| single part of the sentence which throws light upon the rest,
| all perfectly comprehensible to ourselves, because we are well
| used to the figurative and conventional language in which the
| meaning is conveyed. We know that great and wise people are
| meant by <p> 'the great, the learned, and the pious;' </p>
| and that England, or Great Britain, is to be 
| understood by <p> 'the land.'</p> We know that <p> 'to seize 
| with eager pleasure upon a trifling  incident,' </p> is to be glad
| when any favourable story is told of the royal children, and that 
| <p> 'a germ of promise in an infant mind,' </p> 
| is such a show of goodness in
| an infant as leads men to hope that this goodness will increase with
| its growth, as the tender green shoots of a young tree come in time
| to be far-spreading, noble branches. But to the young reader there
| is so little to lay hold of that is positive and intelligible, that we can
| easily suppose even an intelligent child reading the whole sentence
| without attaining a glimpse of its meaning, and if much of the
| book is written in the same style, giving up its perusal in impatience
| or listless indifference.
| <paragraph>
| The qualities that overcome these difficulties, and can really make
| abstract and unfamiliar subjects interesting to children, are no
| common ones. If the writer naturally thinks in short sentences,
| and through the medium of Saxon words, it is a great preliminary
| recommendation. But also it is necessary that he should have
| clearly in his own mind what he has got to tell and to teach, and
| speak direct from his own heart and brain, not through the
| traditional tropes and figures which form the common mode of
| expression, and which clothe a thought much as the family 
| great-coat clothes the person of its different wearers. On a second glance
| you can indeed recognise each by turn, but you feel that in
| concealing the close-fiting outline of his own garments, each loses
| half his identity, and more than half his good looks. It is almost as
| rare to possess
| an original way of speaking and writing as of thinking. The
| resources and changes of our own language are as little known to
| many as the charms and varieties of nature are to others. And as it
| has been asserted that some men's ideas of the beauty of the sky are
| founded on the pictures of great artists rather than from observation
| of the sky itself, so the ordinary class of writers do not go to
| nature's treasury for their words, but borrow them as they have
| been strung together ready for their use by their predecessors.
| <p> 'the sacred well of English undefil'd' </p>
| <pb n="257">
| is deserted, that they may draw from the crystal or earthen vases
| in which others have collected its waters before them. Children are
| practically as alive as their elders to the charm of an original style,
| or the tedium of a common-place one. There is something in a close
| fit between the thought and the words that express it that is felt and
| appreciated by all ages. It has a mysterious affinity, to wit, and has
| the same fascinating effect. We defy 
| <reg orig="any one"> anyone </reg> not to feel some
| inclination to smile over Bishop Butler's sermon on the government
| of the tongue, serious as the subject is, and the mode of treating it,
| from this perfect adaptation of the words to the thoughts. The
| humour of the 'Spectator,' which children are quite capable of
| entering into, also very much depends on this quality. Another
| important requisite for success in writing for the young, is a
| constant sympathy with them and a clear remembrance of the
| thoughts and feelings of childhood; to teach where every word
| must be simple and straightforward, or where again new ideas, and
| faint allusions may be ventured upon with a certainty of being
| instantly comprehended. Many writers, for the want of this sympathy,
| are ostentatiously and offensively simple, where the child's mind is
| in fact equal to the man's, till from this insulting condescension ~~ 
| teaching, e.g. where the eyes and the nose are, or elaborately
| explaining that a portrait is not a real living person, ~~ they plunge
| suddenly and without warning into impenetrable metaphysics, or
| the profoundest mysteries of man's nature.
| In order to obtain such sympathy, in most cases an intimate
| intercourse with children is necessary. It is not enough for the
| writer to have his own childhood to look back upon; he needs the
| presence of the living child to verify his recollections by; for
| memory is treacherous, and confuses the feelings of many years
| into one. The first five or six years of recollection may be said to
| make up childhood, or even longer, if that period has been quiet
| and uneventful, and therefore late in developing into youth; and
| persons constantly, in looking back to their early thoughts and
| feelings, attribute to six years old the reflections and opinions
| of twice that age, and thus compose those curious anomalies we
| complain of here where the little hero is alternately a simpleton,
| unacquainted with facts and objects most babies are familiar
| with, and the next minute shows himself competent to carry on
| scientific or theological disquisitions on subjects that puzzle the
| wisest.
| Perhaps <reg orig="no one"> no-one </reg> 
| has succeeded better than Miss Edgeworth in
| adapting her stories for the ages for which she designed them, and
| this without any ostentatious simplicity. Her father's numerous
| marriages supplied her with a succession of infants to
| <pb n="258">
| study from, and her observant and industrious mind knew how to
| use the advantage.
| Another writer occurs to us as eminently excelling; though in his
| case the success arises from natural felicity of expression rather
| than any deep knowledge of the character of children: there is such
| uniform simplicity in Charles Lamb's style, that he needs to put
| very little restraint upon himself in order to address them in the
| best way the subject will admit of. He can be simple without being
| poor; his natural habit of short
| sentences, the exceeding precision of his thoughts, his plain 
| matter-of-fact statements, which other writers leave to be inferred, but
| which, in the homely exactly-fitting words in which he invests
| them, tell upon his hearers in quite a new light, and with a sort of
| surprise, are all aids and facilities for children understanding under
| his treatment, what might be beyond them, or at least beyond their
| interest, in a style less vivid or less simple. 'The Adventures of
| Ulysses' have always struck us as remarkable for the apparent ease
| with which what most people would find a difficult task, is
| achieved. Remote ages are brought out into strong reality;
| obsolete manners appear natural ; the truths which lay at the bottom
| of paganism gleam forth through its errors, and the awe which it
| threw over dark and terrible scenes of nature, personifying them as
| avenging demons, is so truly given, that in reading we share
| something of the same fear. The book does not profess to be much
| more than a translation of the Odyssey; but 
| <reg orig="any one"> anyone </reg> attempting to
| read one of our Poetical versions with a view to
| a child's power of entering into it, will feel by the contrast how
| skilfully the writer has adapted it for children, both in the order in
| which the events are set, the choice of such as will most interest
| them, and the spirit with which the tone of the original is caught.
| So that not only is this the only representation of the Odyssey in
| our language which children would have patience
| and sustained attention to read, but we believe it does really give
| them the best notion of' the original Greek that they are capable of
| receiving: and whatever can make them realise remote times and
| the thoughts and feelings of a distant age, must
| be valuable as enlarging and expanding the mind. The Present is
| always keenly enough before them, ~~ no need to press it upon their
| attention, ~~ but any opening into the past is as it were a glimpse
| into a new world. Like the streak of far-off horizon in a picture, it
| carries away the fancy with it, teaching it to expatiate, and lending
| it wings to range. For this it is well to introduce children early to
| ancient history, thus to make the past part of themselves, which,
| perhaps, can only be done, or
| at all events can best be done at that age when impressions are
| <pb n="259">
| at once most vivid and most lasting. It is not easy 
| to offer any fair specimen, short enough for our 
| limits, of 'The Adventures of Ulysses.' Many of 
| our readers may be familiar with them, in Lamb's 
| collected works, (though amongst children we do 
| not think them commonly known,) and will readily 
| recall the visit to Polyphemus's cave, the journey 
| to the infernal regions, and the sights which met 
| Ulysses there  ~~ heroes, and demi-gods, and 
| giants  ~~ especially those two, so striking to a 
| child's imagination, Otus and Ephialtes. Again, 
| the sweet interview with Nausicaa, or where he 
| expresses his constancy to Penelope, in that 
| delicate and embarrassing interview with the 
| goddess, wherein he pleads:  ~~ 
| <quotation> </quotation>
| Perhaps, however, the Sirens, and those sea 
| monsters, Scylla and Charybdis, depend most on 
| the power with which they are described, for 
| exciting wonder and interest in a child; we 
| therefore extract his account of them:  ~~ 
| <quotation> 
| <pb n="260">
| </quotation>
| But we have wandered too long from the books 
| before us, and must now turn from those of an 
| imaginative character, with their indefinite 
| teaching, to another class, whose aim is more 
| direct; books especially intended for the 
| instruction of the young minds they are 
| addressed to; showing them scenes in which 
| they may themselves be called to act, or giving 
| them true examples for their guidance  ~~ or by 
| a gentle ascent and through flowery paths, 
| leading them to the pursuit and attainment of 
| practical knowledge.
| 'Godfrey Davenant,' by the Rev. W. Heygate  ~~ 
| one of the
| <pb ="261">
| series of the  Juvenile Englishman's Library' gives the life of a
| boy at a public school, with much spirit and a thorough acquaintance 
| with his trials and difficulties. These indeed are dwelt on at
| such length and in such deep colours, as may possibly produce a
| result quite beyond the intention of the author: and from being a
| salutary lesson to the boy, may be interpreted instead, as a warning
| to his parents against committing him unto such a scene of
| temptation. They may say ~~ <p> 'If with a
| model head master and a model head scholar, the risks and perils
| are so great, what must these be in a more ordinary school ?' </p>
| and appalled by this reflection, may resolve at least to shun known
| danger, and decide, without further hesitation, on some new
| scheme of education, which promises an immunity from
| evil; or if they are not experimentalists, take the more common
| alternative of sending their boy to a private tutor, under the hope that
| where the society is smaller it may therefore be more select.
| <paragraph>
| We do not think that 'Godfrey Davenant' was written to excite such
| practical alarms. While the author feels deeply the perils of a public
| school, he is evidently alive to its advantages ~~ 
| its exclusive advantages ~~ and would present his head boy Barrow as
| the legitimate fruit of the system working on a pure and religious
| mind. Not, however, to enter further on the <p> vexata quaestio </p> of
| public and private education, we will confine ourselves to the book
| itself. There is some discrepancy between its size and getting-up,
| and the subject-matter within. The one seems to fit it for little boys,
| while the general tone, especially where it touches upon the state of
| parties and the prospects of the Church, makes it better adapted to
| an older class. It thus runs the chance of not falling into the hands
| of those for whom it was written, or for whom particular parts at
| least were written. Whether, however, such passages be duly dwelt
| on or not, there is still a great deal that will interest young readers,
| and which may be very useful to them.
| Godfrey Davenant is represented with the disposition and previous
| education, which are almost necessary to render him the proper
| subject for such a story. A perfect boy would keep out of scrapes
| and remain uncontaminated by evil example; a bad one would not
| be worth describing under the trial. One therefore is wanted of
| good feelings and impulses and withal of a yielding and vacillating
| will, and such is our hero with the
| addition of superior talents and some amiable and attractive
| qualities which attach those better than himself to him. Barrow, as
| we have said before, is the idea of what a school-boy ought to be,
| and on the whole is a well-drawn and successful character, except
| that he is more of a talker ~~ more in the habit of expressing 
| <pb n="262">
| his feelings and convictions, than it is in the nature of the best 
| school-boys to be, and this being the case than it is quite desirable 
| to represent him as being. On such occasions one often feels 
| the want of the Greek chorus ~~ something to stand by and instruct 
| the reader in what he ought to know, and in the moral of each event 
| as it occurs, and thus leave the characters of the piece only their 
| own natural parts to perform. The following extract 
| will give the reader a fair idea of the volume, 
| and we think also a favourable one. It is from a 
| chapter, headed 'More vacillations.' Godfrey 
| sees two of his schoolfellows in conversation 
| with a low fellow, a cock-fighter and 
| badger-baiter of the town, whose appearance 
| is first described:  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="263">
| <pb n="264">
| </quotation>
| <pb n="265">
| The following is a letter from Barrow to 
| Davenant. Both have been successful in their 
| efforts, the one at College, the younger at 
| school. We cannot but feel it a mistake to make a 
| modest youth allude as he does to his own 
| powers and attainments. True humility has the 
| marvellous gift of forgetting itself entirely, or at 
| least of appearing to others to do so. Its 
| struggles are all internal; other eyes are not 
| called on to witness the combat or to bear 
| testimony to the victory. How it is that some 
| gifted persons succeed in keeping their gifts out 
| of their own sight as they do, so as to appear 
| actually unconscious of them is, and must always 
| be, a mystery  ~~ it is one of those many 
| paradoxes that religion makes us acquainted 
| with. We only know that it is possible because 
| we have seen it; but of this we may be certain 
| that such a marvel is not brought about in the 
| subject of it by his relating to others the difficulty 
| of the task, and realizing and dilating on the 
| hardness of the struggle.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| It is in such passages as the following that we 
| feel the want of harmony that exists between the 
| form of the book (which very much determines its 
| class of readers) and the subjects discussed in it. 
| Godfrey goes home, and finds his father, the old 
| rector, succeeded by a clergyman of low church 
| and Calvinistic opinions.
| <quotation>
| <pb n="266">
| </quotation>
| The boys who read this can hardly help feeling 
| themselves m some sort set up as judges 
| between the Doctors arguments and 
| Godfrey's feelings' and the latter is pretty sure 
| to carry the point, inasmuch as he expresses 
| the real opinion of the author ~~ the Doctor's 
| letter only what he thinks ought to be said to 
| very young people when placed in such a 
| perplexity. These young umpires, though 
| perhaps not very competent to decide, on the 
| merits of the two schools in our Church, will 
| yet be alive enough to the palpable 
| inconsistency of the good Doctor, who seems 
| to pray that a race of priests may pass away 
| who are members of a body which has been 
| and still is very useful to our Church, and to 
| whom we owe more than he has time to 
| explain.
| Next, and of the same series, stands 
| 'Christian Endurance,' by the Rev. J. M. 
| Neale, a very beautiful collection of true 
| stories, told in most affecting and heart-stirring 
| language. The general simplicity of the style 
| as well as the form of the volume show it to 
| be intended for children, whom it is certain to 
| interest warmly, but older readers can more 
| fully enter into the merit and felicity of 
| expression of many passages: as, for 
| example, the descriptions of scenery and 
| localities, which though given in few words, in 
| consideration of that youthful eagerness which 
| commonly hurries over such matters in 
| impatience to reach the action of the narrative, 
| have yet great force and graphic effect. We 
| would mention as especial instances of this the 
| account of the rainy season in Madeira, and the 
| evening scene in Lahore. The stories range 
| from the days of imperial Roman greatness to 
| the present time. In the former the difficulties of 
| imparting anything like life and reality to the 
| talking and acting of that period, wrapped by out 
| imaginations in the
| <pb n="267">
| frozen state of a dead language and obsolete 
| manners, are very successfully overcome: in all, 
| we feel that the author believes and realizes his 
| narrative, and is as much impressed by its feeling 
| and beauty, as the reader himself can be. We are 
| reminded, in the zeal with which he records the 
| good works of others, of that high quality which 
| the Apostle desires for the heads of the Church, 
| <p> 'that they be lovers of good men;' </p> a 
| virtue which such histories of Christian courage 
| and self-devotion ought also to foster in his 
| readers. We hardly do justice to our own 
| commendation, by extracting part of a story when 
| its effect depends so much, as in this instance it 
| does, on the sustained interest of the whole; we 
| will, however, with this deprecatory remark, give 
| a scene from the 'Martyrs of Alpujarras,' as the 
| whole would be beyond our limits.
| After the conquest of the Moors by Ferdinand 
| and Isabella, the remnant who remained in Spain 
| were kept in strict bondage by their conquerors, 
| till in 1568 they rose in simultaneous rebellion. 
| Vowing vengeance against the Spaniards and 
| the Christian religion, they spread over the 
| country with the utmost rapidity, bringing 
| desolation and slaughter wherever they came. 
| The news of their revolt scarcely preceded their 
| actual appearance, and the unhappy country 
| people had hardly time to look for shelter before 
| they were upon them. In the little village of 
| Oanez, one of the first in the route of the 
| insurgents, a hasty consultation was being held 
| by the inhabitants, as to whither they must fly 
| from the impending danger, when the Moorish 
| guns were heard close at hand. The parish priest, 
| the good father Gonzago, seeing that escape to 
| any distant shelter was now impossible, called 
| upon the men to bring what arms they could 
| muster, and hurried his flock into the church 
| tower, which, having been originally built as a 
| fortress, presented some means of defence. 
| Having done what was possible for the safety of 
| his little garrison, he continued to fortify them by 
| his prayers and counsels up to the moment when 
| the enemy, headed by Ferag ben Ferag, came 
| up and summoned them to surrender.
| <quotation>
| <pb n="268">
| <pb n="269">
| <pb n="270">
| </quotation>
| Changing their purpose towards Engracia and 
| her companion, they and thirty other maidens 
| were shortly after put to a cruel death, which 
| they bore with unshaken constancy.
| 'Poynings, a Tale of the Revolution' (another 
| volume of the same series) aims a blow at the 
| glorious and immortal memory of William III. and 
| the revolution of which he is the hero, and is 
| written with such sympathy for the loyal party of 
| that period, and so fully realizes their position, 
| their hopes and fears, that it is a useful auxiliary 
| to all who would inspire their children with the 
| same political views. The arguments are well 
| chosen and easy to enter into and understand. 
| We do not see that the Whigs could place the 
| justice of their cause before children's minds in 
| at all the same self-evident and convincing style; 
| though they might probably give different 
| versions of the same characters. James II. 
| certainly figures more to advantage than in our 
| every-day histories; while Dr. Burnet, by being 
| lowered in the esteem of some readers, so far 
| gains his more proper level. The story itself is too 
| slight and undeveloped to excite much interest, 
| and few of the fictitious characters are drawn out 
| sufficiently to bring out individual peculiarities, or 
| to make the Lucy and Charles of this narrative 
| distinguishable to the memory from all the other 
| Lucies and Charleses with which story-books 
| are peopled, after a few days have blended 
| them with their fellows. The historical 
| personages are more vividly drawn: The scene 
| on the Prince of Orange's arrival at Exeter, 
| whither
| <pb n="271">
| he marched immediately on his landing, is well 
| given. He had been ill-received by the populace 
| along the whole line of his march ~~ a 
| disappointment which made him anxious for the 
| success of his adventure, and ruffled his never 
| very amiable temper. Sir Ralph Montague, 
| devoted to the legitimate sovereign, chances to 
| form one of the cavalcade, having, under the 
| protection of a pretended safe conduct, sought 
| an audience of the Prince, whose party he 
| believes to be in some way concerned in the 
| sudden disappearance of his son. The youth had 
| in fact been stolen away by their emissary, to 
| secure the quiescence of the father. Sir Ralph 
| speaks to his servant: ~~
| <quotation>
| <pb n="272">
| </quotation>
| We come next to two very small books, which in 
| different ways, are both successful attempts to 
| make the little songsters for our choirs alive to 
| their duties and privileges. The first ~~  'Michael 
| the Chorister,' is written with exceeding simplicity 
| of language, such as is seldom attained to. This 
| quality increases the effect of the narrative, which 
| in parts is very pathetic and affecting, though 
| always within the compass of a child's 
| understanding and sympathies. The story must be 
| read as a whole, and does not admit of being 
| broken into extracts. It is a common suggestion, in 
| behalf of a certain class of little books, that they 
| are well adapted as presents and school prizes. 
| Anything peculiarly safe, touching on no forbidden 
| topics, and entering on no disputed ones, which 
| the giver may part with without fear of its 
| producing a host of embarrassing questions, or 
| any other than a quiet result, recommends itself 
| especially for this destination, which demands 
| virtues chiefly of a passive nature; and all this may 
| safely be pronounced of Little Michael. It is 
| invaluable as a gift, to any little boy or girl of one's 
| acquaintance, but beyond this the story has the 
| active merit and qualification of being very 
| pleasant and interesting reading for the donor 
| himself, though only about a little singing-boy. 'The 
| Island Choir,' is of a somewhat bolder character. 
| The author looks back with affection to the times 
| when choirs were first founded, and has imagined 
| a story, which sounds like a legend of those 
| by-gone days. The scene lies in a solitary island, to 
| which a <p> 'good bishop sends men to build a 
| church, and a cell for four good men to live like 
| brothers in, and to take  care of twelve little 
| choristers, who were to sing God's praises all day 
| long.' </p> What we desire for the story is, that it 
| should really be a legend or tradition, not an 
| invention of the author's, seeing that it calls in the 
| most sacred supernatural agency,
| <pb n="273">
| even beyond the intervention of angels; this we 
| feel open to objection, though the tone 
| throughout the ' Island Choir,' is reverential and 
| impressive. After describing the original founding 
| of the church and choir, the story opens with the 
| departure of the venerable superior to the 
| mainland, to defend the cause of their body 
| against the slanders of enemies. His three 
| brethren insist on escorting him to the opposite 
| shore, and set out in the only boat the island 
| possesses, leaving the twelve choristers, now 
| the island's only inhabitants, standing on the 
| shore, to wait and watch for their return.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| The various characters of the boys are happily 
| described, and their different ways of showing 
| grief, till we come to the master Spirit of this 
| deserted little band:  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="274">
| </quotation>
| The boys wandered about in listless grief; <p> 
| 'but Clement  sat still on the sea-shore, and 
| rested his head on his hand, and  looked 
| wistfully on the waves where the boat went 
| down.' </p> He is joined by his friend Hilary, 
| who, after long watching with him, falls asleep.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| Grief makes him fall into a deep sleep, and Hilary 
| summons his companions; these <p> 'could not 
| look on the six dead men, so <p> 'they turned 
| their heads away, but they wrapped their 
| vestments round Clement as he slept and carried 
| him, two at the head and two at the feet, all the 
| way up to the cell.' </p> On his awaking, he 
| reminds his companions that, <p> 'if there are 
| not  priests for the praying, there are children for 
| the singing,' </p> and leads them to the church, 
| where they sing their parts till all their hearts, 
| even his, fail, for their desolation. He passes, the
| <pb n="275">
| night alone in  the church, and his spirit is 
| strengthened by prayer.  In the morning
| <quotation> </quotation>
| They willingly receive him as their superior, and to 
| each he sets a task, summoning Hilary with some 
| others to the beach. These he bid to cut down a 
| great tree which grew there, which after long 
| labour they succeed in, and afterwards remove all 
| the branches. Of the larger ones, he charges 
| Hilary to make crosses in preparation for the 
| graves of the dead, and so dismissed him and the 
| rest.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| The child whom he had set to watch, seeing 
| something on the waters, ran to him who stood by 
| the bell, and both began to toll, which sound 
| reaching Clement on the waters, seemed to him 
| like his death-knell, and his faith began to fail, till 
| he beheld behind him an angel in the likeness of 
| his little brother, and before him the vision of a 
| child like that of the picture over the altar, and so 
| he crossed to the mainland and was cast on 
| shore. Here he hastens to a church, and implores 
| the priest he finds there to listen to his tale; but he 
| was a proud, hard man, and would not believe 
| Clement's words, and drove him away, Another 
| priest soon passed by, and to him he ran,
| <quotation> </quotation>
| And soon they called a boat, and the Priest sat up 
| in the stern, with his vestment and alb and stole; 
| but Clement lay at his
| <pb n="276">
| feet with his head on the Priest's knee, for his 
| strength was failing fast. Joyfully were they 
| received by the desolate children, only that some 
| grieved for Clement's wan and altered looks. 
| Under the Priest's help and guidance, they dig 
| graves for the dead, after which he leaves them 
| for a time to bring more help.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| 'The Wonder Seeker,' by Miss Margaret Fraser 
| Tytler, author of 'Tales of the Great and Brave,' 
| &c. This lady is not to be confounded with her 
| sister, the authoress of 'Mary and Florence,' and 
| several other well-known stories for children, 
| though we trace a family likeness in their 
| productions.
| 'The Wonder Seeker' is an attempt to render 
| natural history interesting to children, under the 
| sugared disguise of a tale; and, so far, we must 
| regard it as a failure. Truth and fiction will not in 
| this case help one another on, and the two 
| incongruities do not look the better for being 
| forcibly intertwined. The hero who listens to, and 
| discovers, all these wonders, is, at seven or eight 
| years old, when his history opens, a spoilt, 
| ill-mannered, proud, overbearing boy  ~~ an 
| unfavourable specimen of an odious class  ~~ but 
| is presently converted to a state of heavenly and 
| preternatural goodness by a course of natural 
| history.
| In this way, two subjects and two books have, as 
| it were, been spoiled into one rather absurd one.  
| Separately, the boy would have been reformed by 
| ordinary methods, with which our experience of 
| cause and effect could have sympathized,
| <pb n="277">
| while the natural history would have assumed a 
| more orderly, and therefore instructive 
| arrangement, and the young reader's faculties 
| would have been spared the confusion 
| consequent on being hurried from wolves to 
| locusts, from nightingales to dogs, from beetles 
| to tigers, without any reason that we can trace, 
| except the extremely discursive minds of the 
| speakers and thinkers in this volume. Moreover, 
| by the plan it adopts, all the inhabitants of 
| nature's kingdom are represented as always 
| doing wonders, so that any poor child inspired 
| by Charles Douglas's success in wonder-seeking
| to make similar researches, would be in 
| danger of giving up the real pursuit in despair, 
| as a dull one. To the story as a story, another 
| evil, results from this blending of two objects into 
| one; for, in order to satisfy Charles Douglas's 
| awakened curiosity, and thus to bring out the 
| instructive portion of the book, he is made the 
| exclusive object on whom a clergyman of middle 
| life, and from his occupation naturally busy, 
| bestows an unlimited quantity of his time and 
| thoughts. As it is a serious injury to children in 
| real life to make them of overwhelming 
| importance; so it is an error to represent them as 
| such in fiction. It is enough to make Ordinary 
| little boys dissatisfied with their lot in life, to see 
| how eagerly Charles Douglas is attended to, 
| while they are frequently enjoined <p> 'not to 
| interrupt,' 'not to be troublesome,' 'not to ask so 
| many questions,' 'to go into the nursery, or be 
| quiet,' </p> all forms of rebuff which our readers 
| can recall, as having once been familiar as 
| household words in their own ears; and from 
| which they can probably trace some salutary 
| and quieting influence. The little Douglas has at 
| his service, besides his papa, an ancient family 
| retainer, who never says anything, but has a 
| fund of loyal devotion within, which makes him 
| ready to sacrifice his life for his young master on 
| the slightest occasion  ~~ a pony of his own  ~~ a 
| tutor who, however, plays a subordinate part,  ~~ 
| and above all so strong a hold on the affections 
| of the rector of the parish (Mr. Stanley), a 
| gentleman living in a beautiful parsonage, and 
| possessing a horse of the pure Arabian race, 
| that he joyfully devotes the best hours of his day 
| and the best years of his life to the exclusive 
| pleasure and instruction of this young 
| gentleman. They ride and walk about all day, 
| looking for natural wonders and sometimes 
| visiting the poor, and they read natural history all 
| night. Nor is Mr. Stanley ever so busy as not to 
| be able to renounce every other call on his time 
| for this paramount one.
| In the end, Master Douglas, in a fit of reckless 
| bravery, nearly breaks his neck; and after being 
| nursed by Mr. Stanley, is ordered off to 
| Germany. It was a surprise to us, as showing 
| inconsistency in the good rector, that he did not 
| immediately
| <pb n="278">
| resign his living, in order to accompany the invalid, 
| who set out with only his father, his tutor, and his 
| grey-haired retainer in his suite; however, for four 
| years they drag on life asunder, till in the last page 
| we are again introduced to the faithful Mr. Stanley, 
| in a broken-down chariot, somewhere on the Alps, 
| whence he is rescued by Charles Douglas. It 
| seems he had been pursuing the party from town 
| to town for days, having resolved to travel for the 
| future with his young friend. <p> 'Yes,' </p> he 
| says, <p> 'we have met again, my dear boy, not, I 
| trust, to be speedily parted.' </p>
| As an example of the subjects the book treats of, 
| as well as of a certain exaggeration of tone, we 
| extract what follows. Charles has made a 
| discovery of the grave-digging propensity of 
| beetles, and is engaged in an interesting 
| experiment: four black beetles under a glass-case 
| are burying the remains of a bullfinch. At first the 
| beetles are more intent on making an escape from 
| their prison than in pursuing their funeral labours, 
| and in this aspect of affairs Charles is summoned 
| to breakfast.
| <quotation>
| <pb n="279">
| </quotation>
| Then follows a description of the little silken 
| house, or case, in which the worm exists till it 
| becomes a fly, and in which it floats on the water; 
| the whole account given with a sort of romantic 
| unction which makes the more accurate matter-of-fact
| hooks on entomology seem cold and poor.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| Let no mamma or tender friend, charmed by 
| Charles Douglas's sensibility, try experiments on 
| their own little darlings, hoping to train them to 
| the same powers of expression: they will infallibly 
| be disappointed  ~~ at least until the child learns 
| what is expected from it. <p> 'I have done you a 
| little good,' </p> followed by this burst of affection 
| so ready at a summons! Of all sublunary things, a 
| child's deep, real emotions are least under the beck 
| and call of another; they are least to be reckoned 
| on at a, given moment. Children surprise us by 
| showing feeling and emotion when we do not 
| expect it from them, and are dull and passive 
| when we do. We do not know how to touch the 
| chords
| <pb n="280">
| of their hearts; and it is well for them that we do 
| not, else, with a busy, vain curiosity, men would be 
| for ever sounding and prying into the delicate 
| instrument, till its thrilling, divine tones would 
| become no better than a tinkling cymbal, all 
| surface and all noise.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| Though we consider order and system essential in 
| books of instruction, and, besides, feel strongly that 
| the plan of assembling together a quantity of 
| miscellaneous natural wonders defeats its end, by 
| inducing on the reader a very incredulous spirit, 
| yet, so far as a book inspires interest and curiosity 
| on such subjects, it is a valuable one.  Of all tastes 
| which we would wish to encourage early in 
| children, a love of Nature is to our mind the most 
| important.  Childhood seems the appointed time 
| for its development, and if that golden season slips 
| by, unenlightened on the beauties and the marvels 
| around us, maturity finds us too busy and too dull 
| to make room for them, or to discern them. It is 
| beyond measure surprising, and yet a matter of 
| every-day experience in ourselves, and in our 
| friends, that this natural world,  ~~ beautiful, 
| wonderful, and for ever changing, open to all 
| men's eyes, and needing nothing but eyes to see,  
| ~~ should yet be a sealed book to the majority of 
| mankind; that men should walk amid fair scenes, 
| day by day, and yet see only the path they tread 
| on; that the sky should glow over our heads, and 
| the flowers bloom at our feet; that a world of life 
| and wonderful instincts should perpetually be 
| unfolding itself before us; and that we should pass 
| through it so absorbed in business, or care, or vain 
| imaginations, as to be unconscious of all, and 
| return to our daily tasks with little other benefit and 
| refreshment than what bodily exercise and purer 
| air must bring.  We would not of course say that 
| many are utterly blind to the beauties of this outer 
| world, but let most men compare their pleasures 
| and impressions in the course of an ordinary 
| country walk with those of a true lover and 
| observer of Nature, and they will grant there is 
| force in what we say.  It is not, however, that we 
| would have children fluent talkers about such 
| impressions ~~ which in early youth must be 
| unconscious ones, ~~ but that they should then 
| begin to feel them.  After years will prove to them 
| how pure a consolation, how true a freshener of 
| existence this love is; ~~ as time advances, 
| bringing troubles in its train, ~~ as this moral world 
| shows itself harassing, restless, disappointing; and
| <pb n="281">
| all things change and grow dark but Nature, that 
| type of its Creator, ever working, yet ever at rest, 
| and inspiring in those who will watch its 
| movements, both its rejoicing activity and its 
| repose.
| It is some sense (unconscious perhaps) of the 
| value of this intercourse with Nature, which 
| makes it such delight to witness an infant's 
| dawning sympathy with the world, animate and 
| inanimate, around it  ~~ its first intelligent glance 
| at moon and stars, flowers and insects. The 
| homeliest nurse will use all her arts to win such 
| precious smiles, too soon to be attracted from 
| objects like these, by bolder and louder 
| claimants for admiration, but which, if duly 
| nurtured, may grow into a love strong and lasting 
| as life itself.
| We cannot touch on this subject without being 
| reminded of a treasury of beautiful thoughts on 
| children and their ways  ~~  the latest gift of a 
| poet to whom his generation already owes so 
| much. The following poem, though pursuing a 
| deeper train of thought, will already have 
| occurred to many of our readers. Such, 
| however, as have fallacious memories will yet 
| thank us for quoting  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="282">
| </quotation>
| The simple, passive contemplation of Nature is, 
| however, hardly consonant with childhood. A 
| child does not commonly show himself deeply 
| impressed by merely looking at a fine landscape: 
| he longs to be in it, to be acting in the scene, and 
| thus feel himself part, of it: ~~ he must be doing; 
| must build with the snow, and slide on the ice, 
| and bathe in the stream, and gather the flowers, 
| and sport himself in the sunshine, and climb the 
| trees, and range the hills; but while he thus 
| seems only acting his own part, all the scene 
| wherein he performs it is printing itself indelibly 
| on his memory, and founding a store of pure and 
| freshening thoughts; his present wild joy to 
| become food for happy reflection in future 
| tranquil years.
| This propensity to be doing much excuses to our 
| heart what it is the fashion to apply very hard 
| names to ~~ bird's-nesting and similar vices. 
| Certainly, that child is best who, loving and 
| ardently admiring the prize, yet remembers the 
| absent mother, and, mindful of her fluttering 
| despair, leaves untouched the treasure where he 
| found it; his the subdued will, the gentle heart! 
| his moderation, his forbearance establishes a 
| lasting bond between him and Nature's works; his 
| love for them is purest and most lasting. But is 
| nothing to be said for the town-bred boy, 
| wandering away to the fields and woods in his 
| seldom-recurring holiday? His keen glance 
| detects amongst highest branches a confused 
| mass of rough twigs, which duller eyes could not 
| distinguish from the similar tussock at his feet. A 
| few bold and well-judged springs, and he is 
| looking clown upon his discovery. Where, through 
| his whole life, will he see anything more beautiful? 
| So rough, so unformed it looked from below, and 
| here
| <pb n="283">
| how smooth, how graceful! what sweet contrast 
| between the downy white within and the tender 
| green of its mossy edge! what order, what skilful 
| blending of incongruous and refuse material into 
| an exquisite and perfect whole. And the four 
| small eggs so wondrous bright, and smooth, and 
| round! And all this is his! he has found it  ~~ he 
| may keep it  ~~ he may place it by his bed-side, 
| and find it there when he wakes next morning! 
| The dingy garret is brightened to his imagination 
| already, by its presence; he thinks how his sisters 
| will admire  ~~ how the boys will gather round 
| and envy him his prize; and forgetting that he 
| makes one little pair disconsolate, he carries off 
| the spoil.  It may be he hears a feeble twitter, and 
| his heart misgives him; but it is too late, he 
| thinks, now; and birds will get over their sorrow 
| like men, and build another nest. Happy those 
| who can admire things within their reach without 
| wanting to have them! it is a rare and a noble 
| virtue: but at least, a bird's nest is a temptation, 
| and if men will not think so, they have forgotten 
| their childhood, or have had a very peculiar one. 
| But to return from a long digression to our books, 
| which in this instance, as they relate to boys' 
| pleasures and pursuits, seem rather in harmony 
| with it.
| 'The Boy's own Library' contains a good deal that 
| may amuse them; many lively stories of quaint 
| characters, and village incidents, some of which 
| we recognise as having amused our own 
| childhood, and some information on natural 
| history and country matters, told in an animated 
| manner. Indeed, the cheerfulness of this series is 
| something quite remarkable, reminding us of that 
| determined hilarity to be found in the corners of 
| country newspapers, as the bright season of the 
| year comes on  ~~ and which is often 
| constrained to express itself in quaintnesses and 
| other singularities of style. The author in 
| sympathy with his youthful readers, and in 
| remembrance of his own boyhood, can hardly 
| restrain his own gladness of heart, into which 
| everything, animate and inanimate, is supposed 
| to enter, and which must be his excuse for 
| certain unchristian objurgations (' by Jove!' for 
| example,) and occasional familiarities and 
| vulgarities of style.
| We suppose this resolute happiness affords an 
| example of <p> 'the healthy tone,' </p> which is 
| now so frequent a subject for commendation with 
| reviewers, when they wish to condense strong 
| approval of a publication into the fewest words. 
| The boyfriends of the author are led to suppose 
| all they see as happy and prosperous as 
| themselves. When the hay-makers are described 
| as loading waggons with mountains of hay as 
| heavy as themselves, he exclaims, <p> 'Theirs is 
| a happy life!' </p> an immunity from care, which 
| the village labourer would hardly take to himself;
| <pb n="284">
| ~~ and the travelling chair-mender is described 
| as exempt from every trouble of humanity. It is 
| thus that he and his friend the tinker, to adopt the 
| phraseology of Mark Tapley,<p> 'come out 
| strong,' </p> under adverse circumstances.
| <quotation> </quotation>
| From the successes and failures of individuals, 
| with their narrowness of views, their partial aims, 
| their limited experience, we turn now to a work 
| written for the enlightenment of young children  
| ~~ free from all these hindrances to perfection  ~~ 
| the product of united wisdom, and careful 
| consultation, and enlarged philosophy.
| Children have hitherto been left to see, and feel, 
| and touch, very much as instinct guides them; 
| their senses have been supposed able to do their 
| work without the aid of formal written documents; 
| and, as the common law of England exists in the 
| memories, and experience, and customs of men 
| rather than m books, so those great principles of 
| our physical being, the five senses, have been 
| thought able to act without formal treatises to 
| inform them that they see, and feel, and touch, 
| and smell. We all know that we see, and we also 
| know in a sense what we see, without the 
| assistance of a book to tell us. However, it has 
| been discovered that infants should not be left, as 
| they have
| <pb n="285">
| been, to their own discoveries and conclusions, 
| but that they should take up these earliest 
| pursuits more <p> selon les regles  </p> ~~  that 
| they should not only see the sun, but know that 
| they see it, and also be brought to a distinct 
| statement of where they see it,  ~~ in the 
| heavens out of their reach  ~~ and not, as in 
| uninstructed ignorance they might have 
| imagined, <p> 'in a room, or lying on the road.' 
| </p> To rectify the prevalence of such common 
| and natural errors, the Society for the Diffusion of 
| Useful Knowledge, under the sanction of the fifty 
| distinguished gentlemen who form its Committee, 
| have published a very profound work, entitled, 
| 'Exercises for the Improvement of the Senses  ~~  
| for Young Children;' the aim of which seems to 
| be to throw discredit on intuitive knowledge, and 
| not to admit anything to be known until it has 
| been taught by this learned Society. We quote, 
| <p> verbatim et seriatim, </p> the following <p> 
| 'questions on the body,' </p> which occur early in 
| the volume:  ~~ 
| <quotation>
| <pb n="286">
| </quotation>
| So long as intuition will tell us all this, we believe 
| that most men will prefer its repose, to the bustle 
| of more conscious knowledge. A child does not 
| know anything more at the end of these 
| questions, than it did at the beginning, (except in 
| the matter of right hand and left, which we 
| confess intuition will not teach,) the only new idea 
| it can have acquired, is the knowledge that it 
| knows, and so far it may be a loser in humility. 
| Not but that there is, after all, a sort of difficulty in 
| the questions, for the very strangeness of them. 
| In surprise that we should be asked them, our 
| reasoning powers are held in abeyance. What 
| can a ' noise' coming from the church mean? And 
| again, in that startling and perplexing query, <p> 
| 'Here is a piece of bread; how do you know it is 
| not a piece of cheese?' </p> we feel at first, 
| simply that we know it is not, and we suppose 
| that the questioner also knows; but for a moment 
| we are puzzled. Presently, however, rousing our 
| faculties from a bewilderment which, in his eyes, 
| will surely pass for ignorance, we discriminate, 
| with philosophical accuracy, between cows and 
| corn-fields, and discover that, after all, there is 
| something clever in knowing that we know the 
| difference.
| We extract the following series of questions on 
| liquids, for the sake of the observations the 
| author has appended to this branch of his 
| subject: ~~ 
| <pb n="287">
| Now what does a child really learn from all this 
| parade of teaching, all these experiments, all 
| these precautions against false impressions? 
| Absolutely nothing. From the time that a baby 
| flattens its face against a window-pane, it knows 
| perfectly well that glass is a hard transparent 
| substance. And so soon as it can see the sponge 
| at the bottom of its bath, and stretches forth its 
| hand through the yielding fluid to reach it, it 
| knows that water is a soft transparent substance, 
| though following the suggestion of our author, it 
| does not use the word transparent at present, 
| <p> 'for no additional knowledge will be thereby 
| obtained.' </p> Yet some three or four years 
| after, it may be taught to think it knows a good 
| deal, without one addition to its stock of ideas, 
| from finding all its unconscious impressions 
| made the subject of question and answer in a 
| book, and may gain such a sense of cleverness 
| and importance as elated M. Jourdain, when he 
| first learnt from his grammarian that he was 
| talking prose. He had talked prose just as easily 
| and fluently, for fifty years, as at the moment of 
| this discovery, but he had never been proud of it 
| till now. This method of instruction, with nothing 
| to teach on the one hand, and on the other, of 
| laborious learning, without acquiring any new 
| idea  ~~ has results which reminds one of the fish 
| dinners described in Tancred, <p> 'repletion 
| without sustenance;' </p> or of another still airier 
| banquet, which it may be in the memory of our 
| readers to have seen infants subjected to by 
| some careless nurse, who, to stay the cries of 
| her helpless charge, holds the empty vessel, 
| which once contained its food, to its eager and 
| hungry lips. The poor babe sucks on all the more 
| laboriously for the failure of each successive 
| effort, till its ineffectual exertions end, as in the 
| intellectual repast we compare to it, in painful and 
| empty inflation.
| We cannot conclude our remarks on children's 
| books without some mention of two series of 
| volumes, which merit extensive circulation,  ~~ 
| 'The Family Library,' which is complete, and 'The 
| Select Library,' now in progress. They consist of 
| both republications and new works  ~~ in neither 
| case written for children, but not the less adapted 
| to their taste. For the pleasure children take in 
| books is of two kinds. Naturally, such as are 
| written expressly for them, which are about 
| children like themselves, which tell of joys, and 
| troubles, and interests, just like their own, have 
| their earliest preference; as the first stories told 
| to a little
| <pb n="288">
| pleasure of sympathy.  But as their powers 
| expand, as the simple process of reading 
| becomes mechanical, another class of books is 
| opened to them; such as in no wise directly 
| concern childen, but which tell of the perils and 
| adventures the thoughts and feeing the joys and 
| sorrows of manhood, which reveal to them 
| something of what life is.  The moment  when a 
| child first sees this new world opening before it, 
| is indeed an enchanting one, full of such intense 
| delight such consciousness of awakening 
| powers, that it may be regarded as a turning-point
| of existence  All must, more or less, keenly 
| remember this period in their own lives, and 
| perhaps will be able to point out  some particular 
| book ~~ containing, it may be, a picture of 
| romantic or adventurous life, and read at this 
| critical period of their youth with such full 
| apprehension and sympathy, that it seems as it 
| were to have influenced their whole subsequent 
| current of thought, and set it in one fixed 
| direction from that tune forward. No actual insight 
| into society can produce this effect.  Much 
| intercourse with the world at a very early age 
| has, indeed, a precisely contrary effect, and 
| dwarfs the imagination instead of expanding it.  A 
| child cannot comprehend the busy scene it finds 
| itself in, and in ineffectual  attempts to exercise  
| an immature judgment on objects beyond its 
| reach  ceases to exert those powers which 
| properly belong, to its age. The least injury that 
| can be expected from introducing children early 
| into what is conventionally called the world, is this 
| intellectual blight: their moral nature may be far 
| more fatally injured.   A boy of ten may be blasé; 
| there may be nothing new left for him to see, no 
| scene of society with which, in his own poor way 
| he may not be  familiar. The children of Paris 
| have been described, we trust by  a prejudiced 
| pen,  as having all this air of pre-mature 
| experience and already wearing a look of 
| weariness and Satiety, and that from living 
| always in public, and in a whirl of amusement.
| No books can have quite this ill effect; bad or 
| injurious ones may taint a young imagination, or 
| awaken pride and vanity in all their evil forms, 
| ~~ a course of fashionable novels could hardly 
| fail of involving this consequence; but though 
| childhood, by this means, ceases to be amiable 
| it is still there; fancy is not destroyed; hope, at 
| least, is left. What incalculable extent of moral 
| evil a perfectly promiscuous course of reading 
| may produce on some minds, is of course 
| beyond all human calculation; or how deeply 
| and permanently the imagination may be 
| affected. It is such considerations make us feel the 
| value of a series of books adapted for this stage of 
| childhood; books that will instruct and enlarge the 
| mind, and amuse the fancy; which
| <pb n="289">
| will introduce them to distinguished past and living 
| authors of our own and other countries: and all 
| carefully freed, not only from what is directly 
| harmful, but also from such topics as children had 
| best, for the present, remain ignorant of. 
| This is not really a reading age; the world is busier 
| than ever, and people say, when they grow up 
| and live in it, that they have no leisure. Let our 
| children, then, make good use of the peaceful 
| golden time, and read with such earnestness in 
| youth that the habit may abide with them through 
| life; or even if then they follow the world's fashion, 
| and so are thrown back upon the labours of their 
| childhood, they may have stored up something 
| worth knowing at that age when men learn easiest 
| and remember longest.