"_The child_," says Wordsworth, "_is father of the man;_" thus calling into conscious notice the fact, else faintly or not at all perceived, that whatsoever is seen in the maturest adult, blossoming and bearing fruit, must have preëxisted by way of germ in the infant. Yes; all that is now broadly emblazoned in the man once was latent--seen or not seen--as a vernal bud in the child. But not, therefore, is it true inversely, that all which preëxists in the child finds its development in the man. Rudiments and tendencies, which _might_ have found, sometimes by accidental, _do_ not find, sometimes under the killing frost of counter forces, _cannot_ find, their natural evolution. Infancy, therefore, is to be viewed, not only as part of a larger world that waits for its final complement in old age, but also as a separate world itself; part of a continent, but also a distinct peninsula. Most of what he has, the grown-up man inherits from his infant self; but it does not follow that he always enters upon the whole of his natural inheritance. Childhood, therefore, in the midst of its intellectual weakness, and sometimes even by means of this weakness, enjoys a limited privilege of strength. The heart in this season of life is apprehensive, and, where its sensibilities are profound, is endowed with a special power of listening for the tones of truth--hidden, struggling, or remote; for the knowledge being then narrow, the interest is narrow in the objects of knowledge; consequently the sensibilities are not scattered, are not multiplied, are not crushed and confounded (as afterwards they are) under the burden of that distraction which lurks in the infinite littleness of details. That mighty silence which infancy is thus privileged by nature and by position to enjoy coöperates with another source of power,--almost peculiar to youth and youthful circumstances,--which Wordsworth also was the first person to notice. It belongs to a profound experience of the relations subsisting between ourselves and nature--that not always are we called upon to seek; sometimes, and in childhood above all, we are sought. "Think you, 'mid all this mighty sum Of things forever speaking, That noting _of itself_ will come, But we must still be seeking?" And again:-- "Nor less I deem that there are powers Which _of themselves_ our minds impress; And we can feed this mind of ours In a wise passiveness."