Childhood ...
TO ANY READER
Robert Louis Stevenson
As
from the house your mother sees
You
playing round the garden trees,
So
you may see, if you will look
Through
the windows of this book,
Another
child, far, far away,
And
in another garden, play.
But
do not think you can at all,
By
knocking on the window, call
That
child to hear you. His intent
Is
all on his play business bent.
He
does not hear; he will not look,
Nor
yet be lured out of this book.
For,
long ago, the truth to say,
He
has grown up and gone away,
And
it is but a child of air
That
lingers in the garden there.
WRITTEN FOR MY SON, AND SPOKEN BY HIM
AT HIS FIRST PUTTING ON BREECHES
Mary
Barber (1755)
What
is it our mamma’s bewitches,
To
plague us little boys with breeches?
To
tyrant Custom we must yield,
Whilst
vanquish’d Reason flies the field.
Our
legs must suffer by ligation,
To
keep the blood from circulation;
And
then our feet, tho’ young and tender,
We
to the shoemaker’s surrender;
Who
often makes our shoes so strait,
Our
growing feet they cramp and fret;
Whilst,
with contrivance most profound,
Across
our insteps we are bound;
Which
is the cause, I make no doubt,
Why
thousands suffer in the gout.
Our
wiser ancestors wore brogues,
Before
the surgeons brib’d these rogues,
With
narrow toes, and heels like pegs,
To
help to make us break our legs.
Then,
ere we know to use our fists,
Our
mothers closely bind our wrists;
And
never think our cloaths are neat,
Till
they’re so tight we cannot eat.
And,
to increase our other pains,
The
hatband helps to cramp our brains.
The
cravat finishes the work
Like
bowstring sent from the Grand Turk.
Thus,
dress, that should prolong our date,
Is
made to hasten on our fate.
Fair
privilege of nobler natures,
To
be more plagu’d than other creatures!
The
wild inhabitants of air
Are
cloath’d by heav’n with wondrous care;
Their
beauteous, well-compacted feathers
Are
coats of mail against all weathers;
Enamell’d,
to delight the eye;
Gay
as the bow that decks the sky.
The
beasts are cloath’d with beauteous skins;
The
fishes arm’d with scales and fins;
Whose
luster lends the sailor light,
When
all the stars are hid in night.
O
were our dress contriv’d like these,
For
use, for ornament, and ease!
Man
only seems to sorrow born,
Naked,
defenceless, and forlorn.
Yet
we have Reason to supply
What
nature did to man deny:
Weak
Viceroy! Who thy pow’r will own,
When
Custom has usurp’d thy throne?
In
vain did I appeal to thee,
Ere
I would wear his livery;
Who,
in defiance of thy rules,
Delights
to make us act like fools.
O’er
human race the tyrant reigns,
And
binds them in eternal chains.
We
yield to his despotic sway,
The
only monarch all obey.
WRITTEN
FOR MY SON, AND SPOKEN BY HIM IN SCHOOL,
UPON
HIS MASTER’S FIRST BRINGING IN A ROD
Mary
Barber (1755)
Our
master, in a fatal hour,
Brought
in this Rod, to shew his pow’r.
O
dreadful birch! O baleful tree!
Thou
instrument of tyranny!
Thou
deadly damp to youthful joys!
The
sight of thee our peace destroys.
Not
Damocles, with greater dread,
Beheld
the weapon o’er his head.
That
sage was surely more discerning,
Who
taught to play us into learning,
By
graving letters on the dice:
May
heav’n reward the kind device,
And
crown him with immortal fame,
Who
taught at once to read and game!
Take
my advice; pursue that rule;
You’ll
make a fortune by your school.
You’ll
soon have all the elder brothers,
And
be the darling of the mothers.
O
may I live to hail the day,
When
boys shall go to school to play!
To
grammar rules we’ll bid defiance;
For
play will then become a science.