A while ago we read these passages from Robert Louis Stevenson's "Child's Garden of Verses" as an example of how children were disciplined to diligence and orderliness by the guarantee of an eternal reward:
> Every night my prayers I say, > And get my dinner every day; > And every day that I've been good, > I get an orange after food. > > The child that is not clean and neat, > With lots of toys and things to eat, > He is a naughty child, I'm sure --- > Or else his dear papa is poor. I was reminded of the teachings of William Blake in his SONGS OF INNOCENCE AND OF EXPERIENCE (1789 & 1794) where he dramatically compares those two "states" of being where "innocence" corresponds to the false consciousness of the sort purveyed by Stevenson. ++++++++++++++++++++++++ SONGS Of INNOCENCE and Of EXPERIENCE Shewing the Two Contrary States of the Human Soul The Author & Printer W Blake (1789 & 1794) SONGS Of INNOCENCE (1789) *The Little Boy Lost* Father, father, where are you going O do not walk so fast. Speak father, speak to your little boy Or else I shall be lost, The night was dark no father was there The child was wet with dew, The mire was deep, & the child did weep And away the vapour flew. *The Little Boy Found* The little boy lost in the lonely fen, Led by the wand'ring light, Began to cry, but God ever nigh, Appeard like his father in white. He kissed the child & by the hand led And to his mother brought, Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale Her little boy weeping sought. SONGS of EXPERIENCE (1794) *A Little Boy Lost* Nought loves another as itself Nor venerates another so. Nor is it possible to Thought A greater than itself to know: And Father, how can I love you, Or any of my brothers more? I love you like the little bird That picks up crumbs around the door. The Priest sat by and heard the child. In trembling zeal he siez'd his hair: He led him by his little coat: And all admir'd the Priestly care. And standing on the altar high, Lo what a fiend is here! said he: One who sets reason up for judge Of our most holy Mystery. The weeping child could not be heard. The weeping parents wept in vain: They strip'd him to his little shirt. And bound him in an iron chain. And burn'd him in a holy place, Where many had been burn'd before: The weeping parents wept in vain. Are such things done on Albions shore. SONGS Of INNOCENCE *The Chimney Sweeper* When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue, Could scarcely cry weep weep weep weep. So your Chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep. Theres little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head That curl'd like a lambs back, was shav'd, so I said. Hush Tom never mind it, for when your head's bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair. And so he was quiet, & that very night, As Tom was a sleeping he had such a sight, That thousands of sweepers Dick, Joe, Ned & Jack Were all of them lockd up in coffins of black, And by came an Angel who had a bright key, And he open'd the coffins & set them all free. Then down a green plain leaping laughing they run And wash in a river and shine in the Sun. Then naked & white, all their bags left behind, They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind. And the Angel told Tom if he'd be a good boy, He'd have God for his father & never want joy. And so Tom awoke and we rose in the dark And got with our bags & our brushes to work. Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm, So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. SONGS of EXPERIENCE *The Chimney Sweeper* A little black thing among the snow: Crying weep, weep, in notes of woe! Where are thy father & mother? say? They are both gone up to the church to pray. Because I was happy upon the heath, And smil'd among the winters snow: They clothed me in the clothes of death, And taught me to sing the notes of woe. And because I am happy, & dance & sing, They think they have done me no injury: And are gone to praise God & his Priest & King Who make up a heaven of our misery. SONGS Of INNOCENCE *Holy Thursday* Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean The children walking two & two in red & blue & green Grey headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door SONGS of EXPERIENCE *Holy Thursday* Is this a holy thing to see, In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine. And their fields are bleak & bare. And their ways are fill'd with thorns. It is eternal winter there. SONGS of EXPERIENCE *LONDON* I wander thro' each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow. And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe. In every cry of every Man, In every Infants cry of fear, In every voice: in every ban, The mind-forg'd manacles I hear How the Chimney-sweepers cry Every blackning Church appalls, And the hapless Soldiers sigh Runs in blood down Palace walls But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse -- from Blake, Songs of Innocence and Experience http://www.english.uga.edu/nhilton/Blake/blaketxt1/songs_of_innocence_and_of_experience.html Stephen Straker <[EMAIL PROTECTED]> Vancouver, B.C. 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