Page 16 - English
P. 16

geography, mathematics, and so on, and left in that incomplete state;
            no, there’s machinery for clarifying and expanding their minds. They
            are required to take poems and analyze them, dig out their common
            sense, reduce them to statistics, and reproduce them in a luminous
            prose translation which shall tell you at a glance what the poet was
            trying to get at. One sample will do. Here is a stanza from “The Lady
            of the Lake,” followed by the pupil’s impressive explanation of it:

                               Alone; but with unbated zeal,
                         The horseman plied with scourge and steel;
                             For jaded now and spent with toil,
                          Embossed with foam and dark with soil,
                            While every gasp with sobs he drew,
                           The laboring stag strained full in view.

               The man who rode on the horse performed the whip and an instrument
               made of steel alone with strong ardor not diminishing, for, being tired
               from the time passed  with  hard labor  overworked  with anger and
               ignorant with  weariness,  while every breath  for labor he drew  with
               cries full of sorrow, the young deer made imperfect who worked hard
               filtered in sight.

               I see, now, that I never understood that poem before. I have had
            glimpses of its meaning, in moments when I was not as ignorant with
            weariness as usual, but this is the first time the whole spacious idea
            of it ever filtered in sight. If I were a public-school pupil I would put
            those other studies aside and stick to analysis; for, after all, it is the
            thing to spread your mind.
               We come now to historical matters, historical remains, one might
            say. As one turns the pages, he is impressed with the depth to which
            one date has been driven into the American child’s head—1492. The
            date is there, and it is there to stay. And it is always at hand, always
            deliverable at a moment’s notice. But the Fact that belongs with it?
            That is quite another matter. Only the date itself is familiar and sure:
            its vast Fact has failed of lodgment. It would appear that whenever
            you ask a public-school pupil when a thing—anything, no  matter
            what—happened, and he is in doubt, he always rips out his 1492. He
            applies it  to  everything, from the  landing of the ark to  the
            introduction of the horse-car. Well, after all, it is our first date, and
            so it is right enough to honor it, and pay the public schools to teach
            our children to honor it:




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