“If they don’t learn when they can’t, they won’t understand when they can?” puzzled Richard, making Margaret laugh; but Ethel was too much in earnest for amusement.
“If they don’t learn them by rote when they have strong memories. Yes, that’s it!” she continued; “they will not know them well enough to understand them when they are old enough!”
“Who won’t learn and understand what?” said Richard.
“Oh, Ritchie, Ritchie! Why the children—the Psalms—the Gospels—the things. They ought to know them, love them, grow up to them, before they know the meaning, or they won’t care. Memory, association, affection, all those come when one is younger than comprehension!”
“Younger than one’s own comprehension?”
“Richard, you are grown more tiresome than ever. Are you laughing at me?”
“Indeed, I beg your pardon—I did not mean it,” said Richard. “I am very sorry to be so stupid.”
“My dear Ritchie, it was only my blundering—never mind.”
“But what did you mean? I want to know, indeed, Ethel.”
“I mean that memory and association come before comprehension, so that one ought to know all good things—fa—with familiarity before one can understand, because understanding does not make one love. Oh! one does that before, and, when the first little gleam, little bit of a sparklet of the meaning does come, then it is so valuable and so delightful.”