This is perhaps the greatest oddity of all.
"Art for art" is their motto; and the doings of grown folk are only
interesting as the raw material for play. Not Theophile Gautier, not
Flaubert, can look more callously upon life, or rate the reproduction
more highly over the reality; and they will parody an execution, a
deathbed, or the funeral of the young man of Nain, with all the
cheerfulness in the world.

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. Our day-dreams can no longer lie all in the air like a story
in the "Arabian Nights"; they read to us rather like the history of a
period in which we ourselves had taken part, where we come across many
unfortunate passages and find our own conduct smartly reprimanded. And
then the child, mind you, acts his parts. He does not merely repeat them
to himself; he leaps, he runs, and sets the blood agog over all his
body. And so his play breathes him; and he no sooner assumes a passion
than he gives it vent. 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.

In the child's world of dim sensation, play is all in all. "Making
believe" is the gist of his whole life, and he cannot so much as take a
walk except in character. I could not learn my alphabet without some
suitable _mise-en-scene_, and had to act a business man in an office
before I could sit down to my book. Will you kindly question your
memory, and find out how