on them, because
they are so graceful, and simple, and natural, and frank, and artless;
but though this may make us happy, it does not make them happy, because
they don't know anything about it. It never occurs to them that they
are graceful. No child is ever artless to himself. The only
difference he sees between you and himself is, that you are grown-up
and he is little. Sometimes I think he does have a dim perception that
when he is ill, it is because he has eaten too much, and he must take
medicine, and feed on heartless dry toast, while, when you are ill, you
have the dyspepsia, and go to Europe. But the beauty and sweetness of
children are entirely wasted on themselves, and their frankness is a
source of infinite annoyance to each other. A man enjoys HIMSELF. If
he is handsome, or wise, or witty, he generally knows it, and takes
great satisfaction in it; but a child does not. He loses half his
happiness because he does not know that he is happy. If he ever has
any consciousness, it is an isolated, momentary thing, with no relation
to anything antecedent or subsequent. It lays hold on nothing. Not
only have they no perception of themselves, but they have no perception
of anything. They never recognize an exigency. They do not salute
greatness. Has not the Autocrat told us of some lady who remembered a
certain momentous event in our Revolutionary War, and remembered it
only by and because of the regret she experienced at leaving her doll
behind when her family was forced to fly from home? What humiliation
is this! What an utter failure to appreciate the issues of life! For
her there was no revolution, no upheaval of world-old theories, no
struggle for freedom, no great combat of the heroisms. All the passion
and pain, the mortal throes of error, the glory of sacrifice, the
victory of an idea, the triumph of right, the dawn of a new era,--all,
all were hidden from her behind a lump of wax. And what was true of
her is true of all her class. Having eyes, they see not; with their
ears they do not hear. The din of arms, the waving of banners, the
gleam of swords, fearful sights and great signs in the heavens, or the
still, small voice that thrills when wind and fire and earthquake have
swept by, may proclaim the coming of the Lord, and they stumble along,
munching bread-and-butter. Out in the solitudes Nature speaks with her
many-toned voices, and they are deaf. They have a blind sensational
enjoyment, s