ty for looking; they do not use their eyes for the pleasure of
using them, but for by-ends of their own; and the things I call to
mind seeing most vividly were not beautiful in themselves, but merely
interesting or enviable to me, as I thought they might be turned to
practical account in play.

*****

The true parallel for play is not to be found, of course, in conscious
art, which, though it be derived from play, is itself an abstract,
impersonal thing, and depends largely upon philosophical interests
beyond the scope of childhood. It is when we make castles in the air and
personate the leading character in our own romances, that we return to
the spirit of our first years. Only, there are several reasons why the
spirit is no longer so agreeable to indulge. Nowadays, when we admit
this personal element into our divagations, we are apt to stir up
uncomfortable and sorrowful memories, and remind ourselves sharply of
old wounds..Alas! when we betake ourselves to our intellectual form of
play, sitting quietly by the fire or lying prone in bed, we rouse
many hot feelings for which we can find no outlet. Substitutes are not
acceptable to the mature mind, which desires the thing itself; and
even to rehearse a triumphant dialogue with one's enemy, although it is
perhaps the most satisfactory piece of play still left within our reach,
is not entirely satisfying, and is even apt to lead to a visit and an
interview which may be the reverse of triumphant after all.

Whatever we are to expect at the hands of children, it should not be any
peddling exactitude about matters of fact. They walk in a vain show,
and among mists and rainbows; they are passionate after dreams and
unconcerned about realities; speech is a difficult art not wholly
learned; and there is nothing in their own tastes or purposes to
teach them what we mean by abstract truthfulness. When a bad writer is
inexact, even if he can look back on half a century of years, we charge
him with incompetence and not, with dishonesty. And why not extend the
same allowance to imperfect speakers? Let a stockbroker be dead stupid
about poetry, or a poet inexact in the details of business, and we
excuse them heartily from blame. But show us a miserable, unbreeched,
human entity, whose whole profession it is to take a tub for a fortified
town and a shaving-brush for the deadly stiletto, and who
passes three-fourths of his time in a dream and the rest in open
self-deception, and we