the children-第7部分

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the　seasons；　not　waxing　and　waning；　not　bearing；　not　turning　that
circle　of　the　seasons　whereof　no　one　knows　which　is　the　highest
point　and　the　secret　and　the　ultimate　purpose；　not　recreated；　not
new；　and　not　yielding　to　the　child　anything　raw　and　irregular　to
eat。

Sand　castles　are　well　enough；　and　they　are　the　very　commonplace　of
the　recollections　of　elders；　of　their　rhetoric；　and　of　what　they
think　appropriate　for　their　young　ones。　　Shingle　and　sand　are　good
playthings；　but　absolute　play　is　not　necessarily　the　ideal　of　a
child；　he　would　rather　have　a　frolic　of　work。　　Of　all　the　early
autumn　things　to　be　done　in　holiday　time；　that　game　with　the　beach
and　the　wave　is　the　least　good　for　holiday…time。

Not　that　the　shore　is　everywhere　so　barren。　　The　coast　of　the
Londonersall　round　the　southern　and　eastern　borders　of　Englandis
indeed　the　dullest　of　all　sea…margins。　　But　away　in　the　gentle　bays
of　Jersey　the　summer　grows　a　crop　of　seaweed　which　the　long　ocean
wave　leaves　in　noble　curves　upon　the　beach；　for　under　sunny　water
the　storms　have　gathered　the　crops。　　The　Channel　Island　people　go
gleaning　after　the　sea；　and　store　the　seaweed　for　their　fields。
Thus　the　beaches　of　Jersey　bays　are　not　altogether　barren；　and　have
a　kind　of　dead　and　accessory　harvest　for　the　farmer。　　After　a　night
of　storm　these　crops　are　stacked　and　carted　and　carried；　the　sea…
wind　catching　away　loose　shreds　from　the　summits　of　the　loads。

Further　south；　if　the　growth　of　the　sea　is　not　so　put　to　use；　the
shore　has　yet　its　seasons。　　You　could　hardly　tell；　if　you　did　not
know　the　month；　whether　a　space　of　sea　or　a　series　of　waves；　at
Aldborough；　say；　or　at　Dover；　were　summer　or　winter　water；　but　in
those　fortunate　regions　which　are　southern；　yet　not　too　southern　for
winter；　and　have　thus　the　strongest　swing　of　change　and　the　fullest
pulse　of　the　year；　there　are　a　winter　sea　and　a　summer　sea；
brilliantly　different；　with　a　delicate　variety　between　the　hastening
blue　of　spring　and　the　lingering　blue　of　September。　　There　you　bathe
from　the　rocks；　untroubled　by　tides；　and　unhurried　by　chills；　and
with　no　incongruous　sun　beating　on　your　head　while　your　fingers　are
cold。　　You　bathe　when　the　sun　has　set；　and　the　vast　sea　has　not　a
whisper；　you　know　a　rock　in　the　distance　where　you　can　rest；　and
where　you　float；　there　float　also　by　you　opalescent　jelly…fish；　half
transparent　in　the　perfectly　transparent　water。　　An　hour　in　the　warm
sea　is　not　enough。　　Rock…bathing　is　done　on　lonely　shores。　　A　city
may　be　but　a　mile　away；　and　the　cultivated　vineyards　may　be　close
above　the　seaside　pine…trees；　but　the　place　is　perfectly　remote。
You　pitch　your　tent　on　any　little　hollow　of　beach。　　A　charming
Englishwoman　who　used　to　bathe　with　her　children　under　the　great
rocks　of　her　Mediterranean　villa　in　the　motionless　white　evenings　of
summer　put　white　roses　in　her　hair；　and　liked　to　sit　out　on　a　rock
at　sea　where　the　first　rays　of　the　moon　would　touch　her。

You　bathe　in　the　Channel　in　the　very　prose　of　the　day。　　Nothing　in
the　world　is　more　uninteresting　than　eleven　o'clock。　　It　is　the　hour
of　mediocrity　under　the　best　conditions；　but　eleven　o'clock　on　a
shingly　beach；　in　a　half…hearted　summer；　is　a　very　common　thing。
Twelve　has　a　dignity　always；　and　everywhere　its　name　is　great。　　The
noon　of　every　day　that　ever　dawned　is　in　its　place　heroic；　but
eleven　is　worldly。　　One　o'clock　has　an　honest　human　interest　to　the
hungry　child；　and　every　hour　of　the　summer　afternoon；　after　three；
has　the　grace　of　deepening　and　lingering　life。　　To　bathe　at　eleven
in　the　sun；　in　the　wind；　to　bathe　from　a　machine；　in　a　narrow　sea
that　is　certainly　not　clear　and　is　only　by　courtesy　clean；　to　bathe
in　obedience　to　a　tyrannical　tide　and　in　water　that　is　always　much
colder　than　yourself；　to　bathe　in　a　hurry　and　in　publicthis　is　to
know　nothing　rightly　of　one　of　the　greatest　of　all　the　pleasures
that　humanity　takes　with　nature。

By　the　way；　the　sea　of　Jersey　has　more　the　character　of　a　real　sea
than　of　mere　straits。　　These　temperate　islands　would　be　better
called　the　Ocean　Islands。　　When　Edouard　Pailleron　was　a　boy　and
wrote　poetry；　he　composed　a　letter　to　Victor　Hugo；　the　address
whereof　was　a　matter　of　some　thought。　　The　final　decision　was　to
direct　it；　〃A　Victor　Hugo；　Ocean。〃　　It　reached　him。　　It　even
received　a　reply：　　〃I　am　the　Past；　you　are　the　Future；　I　am；　etc。〃
If　an　English　boy　had　had　the　same　idea　the　name　of　the　Channel
Islands　would　have　spoilt　it。　　〃A　Victor　Hugo；　La　Manche；〃　would
hardly　have　interested　the　postal　authorities　so　much；　but　〃the
Channel〃　would　have　had　no　respect　at　all。　　Indeed；　this　last　is
suggestive　of　nothing　but　steamers　and　of　grey　skies　inland
formless　grey　skies；　undesigned；　with　their　thin　cloud　torn　to
slender　rags　by　a　perpetual　wind。

As　for　the　children；　to　whom　belongs　the　margin　of　the　sea；　machine…
bathing　at　eleven　o'clock　will　hardly　furnish　them　with　a　magical
early　memory。　　Time　was　when　this　was　made　penitential　to　them；　like
the　rest　of　life；　upon　a　principle　that　no　longer　prevails。　　It　was
vulgarized　for　them　and　made　violent。　　A　bathing　woman；　type　of　all
ugliness　in　their　sensitive　eyes；　came　striding；　shapeless；　through
the　unfriendly　sea；　seized　them　if　they　were　very　young；　ducked
them；　and　returned　them　to　the　chilly　machine；　generally　in　the
futile　and　superfluous　saltness　of　tears。　　〃Too　much　of　water　had
they；〃　poor　infants。

None　the　less　is　the　barren　shore　the　children's；　and　St。　Augustine；
Isaac　Newton；　and　Wordsworth　had　not　a　vision　of　sea…beaches　without
a　child　there。



THE　BOY



After　an　infancy　of　more　than　common　docility　and　a　young　childhood
of　few　explicit　revolts；　the　boy　of　twelve　years　old　enters　upon　a
phase　which　the　bystander　may　not　well　understand　but　may　make　shift
to　note　as　an　impression。

Like　other　subtle　things；　his　position　is　hardly　to　be　described　but
by　negatives。　　Above　all；　he　is　not　demonstrative。　　The　days　are
long　gone　by　when　he　said　he　wanted　a　bicycle；　a　top　hat；　and　a
pipe。　　One　or　two　of　these　things　he　has；　and　he　takes　them　without
the　least　swagger。　　He　avoids　expression　of　any　kind。　　Any
satisfaction　he　may　feel　with　things　as　they　are　is　rather　to　be
surprised　in　his　manner　than　perceived　in　his　action。　　Mr。　Jaggers；
when　it　befell　him　to　be　astonished；　showed　it　by　a　stop　of　manner；
for　an　indivisible　momentnot　by　a　pause　in　the　thing　he　chanced　to
be　about。　　In　like　manner　the　boy　cannot　prevent　his　most　innocent
pleasures　from　arresting　him。

He　will　not　endure　（albeit　he　does　not　confess　so　much）　to　be　told
to　do　anything；　at　least　in　that　citadel　of　his　freedom；　his　home。
His　elders　probably　give　him　as　few　orders　as　possible。　　He　will
almost　ingeniously　evade　any　that　are　inevitably　or　thoughtlessly
inflicted　upon　him；　but　if　he　does　but　succeed　in　only　postponing
his　obedience；　he　has；　visibly；　done　something　for　his　own　relief。
It　is　less　convenient　that　he　should　hold　mere　questions；　addressed
to　him　in　all　good　faith；　as　in　some　sort　an　attempt　upon　his
liberty。

Questions　about　himself　one　might　understand　to　be　an　outrage。　　But
it　is　against　impersonal　and　indifferent　questions　also　that　the　boy
sets　his　face　like　a　rock。　　He　has　no　ambition　to　give　information
on　any　point。　　Older　people　may　not　dislike　the　opportunity；　and
there　are　even　those　who　bring　to　pass　questions　of　a　trivial　kind
for　the　pleasure　of　answering　them　with　animation。　　This；　the　boy
perhaps　thinks；　is　〃fuss；〃　and；　if　he　has　any　passions；　he　has　a
passionate　dislike　of　fuss。

When　a　younger　child　tears　the　boy's　scrapbook　（which　is
conjectured；　though　not　known；　to　be　the　dearest　thing　he　has）　he
betrays　no　emotion；　that　was　to　be　expected。　　But　when　the　stolen
pages　are　rescued　and　put　by　for　him；　he　abstains　from　taking　an
interest　in　the　retrieval；　he　will　do　nothing　to　restore　them。　　To
do　so　would　mar　the　integrity　of　his　reserve。　　If　he　would　do　much
rather　than　answer　questions；　he　would　suffer　something　rather　than
ask　them。

He　loves　his　father　and　a　friend　of　his　father's；　and　he　pushes
them；　in　order　to　show　it　without　compromising　his　temperament。

He　is　a　partisan　in　silence。　　It　may　be　guessed　that　he　is　often
occupied　in　comparing　other　people　with　his　admired　men。　　Of　this
too　he　says　little；　except　some　brief　word　of　allusion　to　what　other
men　do　NOT　do。

When　he　speaks　it　is　with　a　carefully　shortened　vocabulary。　　As　an
author　shuns　monotony；　so　does　the　boy　shun　change。　　He　does　not
generally　talk　slang；　his　habitual　words　are　the　most　usual　of　daily
words　made　useful　and　appropriate　by　certain　varieties　of　voice。
These　express　for　him　all　that　he　will　consent　to　communicate。　　He
reserves　more　by　speaking　dull　words　with　zeal　than　by　using　zealous
words　that　might　betray　him。　　But　his　brevity　is　the　chief　thing；　he
has　almost　made　an　art　of　it。

He　is　not　〃merry。〃　　Merry　boys　have　pretty　manners；　and　it　must　be
owned　that　this　boy's　manners　are　not　pretty。　　But　if　not　merry；　he
is　happy；　there　never　was　a　more　untroubled　soul。　　If　he　has　an
almost　grotesque　reticence；　he　has　no　secrets。　　Nothing　that　he
thinks　is　very　much　hidden。　　Even　if　he　did　not　push　his　father；　it
would　be　evident　that　the　boy　loves　him；　even　if　he　never　laid　his
hand　（and　this　little　thing　he　does　rarely）　on　his　friend's
shoulder；　it　would　be　plain　that　he　loves　his　friend。　　His　happiness
appears　in　his　moody　and　charming　face；　his　ambition　in　his
dumbness；　and　the　hopes　of　his　life　to　come　in　ungainly　bearing。
How　does　so　much　heart；　how　does　so　much　sweetness；　all　unexpressed；
appear？　　For　it　is　not　only　those　who　know　him　well　that　know　the
child's　heart；　strangers　are　aware　of　it。　　This；　which　he　would　not
reveal；　is　the　only　thing　that　is　quite　unmistakable　and　quite
conspicuous。

What　he　thinks　that　he　turns　visibly　to　the　world　is　a　sense　of
humour；　with　a　measure　of　criticism　and　of　indifference。　　What　he
thinks　the　world　may　divine　in　him　is　courage　and　an　intelligence。
But　carry　himself　how　he　will；　he　is　manifestly　a　tender；　gentle；
and　even　spiritual　creature；　masculine　and　innocent〃a　nice　boy。〃
There　is　no　other　way　of　describing　him　than　that