Childhood in literature and art, with some observations on literature for children : $b A studyScudder, Horace Elisha
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Childhood in literature and art, with some observations on literature for children : $b A study
Scudder, Horace Elisha
Children in art; Children in literature
The explanation is rather ingenious than satisfying. Where did
Shakespeare get his knowledge of the abundant life which his dramas
present? He had the privilege of most people of remembering his own
boyhood, and the mind which could invent Hamlet out of such stuff
as experience and observation furnished could scarcely have missed
acquaintance enough with children to enable him to portray them whenever
the exigencies of his drama required. No, it is simpler to refer the
absence of children as actors to the limitations of the stage, and to
ascribe the infrequent references to childhood to the general neglect
of the merely domestic side of life in Shakespeare’s art. Shakespeare’s
world was an out-of-doors, public world, and his men, women, and lovers
carried on their lives with no denser concealment than a wood or an arras
could afford.
The comprehensiveness of Shakespeare found some place for children; the
lofty narrowness of Milton, none. The word _child_, even, can scarcely
be found on a page of Milton’s verse. In his Ode on the Morning of
Christ’s Nativity, with its Hymn, how slight is the mention of the child
Jesus! How far removed is the treatment from that employed in the great
procession of Madonnas!
“Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein
Afford a present to the Infant God?”
The Infant God!—that is Milton’s attitude, more than half pagan. In
L’Allegro and in Comus the lightness, which denotes the farthest swing
of Milton’s fancy, is the relief which his poetic soul found from the
high themes of theology, in Greek art. One is aware that Milton’s fine
scholarship was the salvation of his poetry, as his Puritan sense of
personality held in check a nature which else might have run riot in
sportiveness and sensuousness. When he permitted himself his exquisite
short flights of fancy, the material in which he worked was not the fresh
spring of English nature, human or earthly, but the remote Arcadian
virginity which he had learned of in his books. Not dancing children,
but winged sprites, caught his poetic eye.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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