His unaffected
lamentations when he lifts up his voice on high, or, more beautiful, the
sobbing child,--the face all liquid grief, as he tries to swallow his
vexation,--soften all hearts to pity, and to mirthful and clamorous
compassion. The small despot asks so little that all reason and all
nature are on his side. His ignorance is more charming than all
knowledge, and his little sins more bewitching than any virtue. His
flesh is angels' flesh, all alive. "Infancy," said Coleridge, "presents
body and spirit in unity: the body is all animated." All day, between
his three or four sleeps, he coos like a pigeon-house, sputters, and
spurs, and puts on his faces of importance; and when he fasts, the
little Pharisee fails not to sound his trumpet before him. By lamp-light
he delights in shadows on the wall; by daylight, in yellow and scarlet.
Carry him out of doors,--he is overpowered by the light and the extent
of natural objects, and is silent. Then presently begins his use of his
fingers, and he studies power, the lesson of his race. First it appears
in no great harm, in architectural tastes. Out of blocks, thread-spools,
cards, and checkers, he will build his pyramid with the gravity of
Palladio. With an acoustic apparatus of whistle and rattle, he explores
the laws of sound.
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