Is the child really the father of the man (or mother of the woman) as Wordsworth envisaged back in 1802? I wondered this as I watched a nativity event last week at my grandchildren's school. It was no surprise that this Church of England foundation school, which not only traces its history to 1714 but still uses an early 18th century building, gave us a traditional nativity story. I did wonder at one point about what seemed to be 6 wise men, one of whom was played by a girl, but it turned out that she was playing one of the camels that the magi rode on: both ecologically sound and culturally authentic. There was nothing progressive here, just a lot of youngsters having a good shout and sing which was well organised and supported by teachers. Enjoyable it certainly was.
But, confronted with all those reception and year 1 children, my mind wandered to Wordsworth, and oddly perhaps also to Thomas Gray and his Elergy. Wordsworth, notionally writing about a rainbow, said:
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety
The poem reflects the poet's hope that the fulfilment that he now finds in nature ("the rainbow") which he remembered also having as a child, will continue into old age and death. If not, he says, life will be worthless.
But that is essentially all it says and it is not some Jesuitical text about shaping the adult through the child, or enforced values enduring, and whilst it is entertaining to scan a group of eager-looking children at a nativity, it's surely a mistake to think that you can see the adult in them. Much better to think that the child is, as is the adult, in a state of becoming the person they will eventually be. Just as I am, at my advancing age, and you at yours. I may be running out of time to improve myself, but it is still possible.
As for Thomas Gray, well, this came to mind:
...
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
... .
To look upon a child is simply to wonder what might become, just as Grey, in the churchyard, wondered what might have been had circumstances been different. It is a humbling prospect.
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