See, moreover, how the fashion of hurrying childhood prevailed in literature, and how it abolished little girls.  It may be that there were in all ages—­even those—­certain few boys who insisted upon being children; whereas the girls were docile to the adult ideal.  Art, for example, had no little girls.  There was always Cupid, and there were the prosperous urchin-angels of the painters; the one who is hauling up his little brother by the hand in the “Last Communion of St. Jerome” might be called Tommy.  But there were no “little radiant girls.”  Now and then an “Education of the Virgin” is the exception, and then it is always a matter of sewing and reading.  As for the little girl saints, even when they were so young that their hands, like those of St. Agnes, slipped through their fetters, they are always recorded as refusing importunate suitors, which seems necessary to make them interesting to the mediaeval mind, but mars them for ours.

So does the hurrying and ignoring of little-girl-childhood somewhat hamper the delight with which readers of John Evelyn admire his most admirable Mrs. Godolphin.  She was Maid of Honour to the Queen in the Court of Charles II.  She was, as he prettily says, an Arethusa “who passed through all those turbulent waters without so much as the least stain or tincture in her christall.”  She held her state with men and maids for her servants, guided herself by most exact rules, such as that of never speaking to the King, gave an excellent example and instruction to the other maids of honour, was “severely careful how she might give the least countenance to that liberty which the gallants there did usually assume,” refused the addresses of the “greatest persons,” and was as famous for her beauty as for her wit.  One would like to forget the age at which she did these things.  When she began her service she was eleven.  When she was making her rule never to speak to the King she was not thirteen.

Marriage was the business of daughters of fourteen and fifteen, and heroines, therefore, were of those ages.  The poets turned April into May, and seemed to think that they lent a grace to the year if they shortened and abridged the spring of their many songs.  The particular year they sang of was to be a particularly fine year, as who should say a fine child and forward, with congruous syntax at two years old, and ellipses, figures, and tropes.  Even as late as Keats a poet would not have patience with the process of the seasons, but boasted of untimely flowers.  The “musk-rose” is never in fact the child of mid-May, as he has it.