HOW TO OBTAIN AND MAINTAIN THE EFFECT OF THE STORY.
WE are now coming to the most important part of the question of
Story-Telling, to which all the foregoing remarks have been gradually
leading, and that is the Effects of these stories upon the child, apart
from the dramatic joy he experiences in listening to them, which would
in itself be quite enough to justify us in the telling. But, since I
have urged upon teachers the extreme importance of giving so much time
to the manner of telling and of bestowing so much care on the selection
of the material, it is right that they should expect some permanent
results, or else those who are not satisfied with the mere enjoyment of
the children will seek other methods of appeal--and it is to them that
I most specially dedicate this chapter.
I think we are on the threshold of the re-discovery of an old truth,
that the Dramatic Presentation is the quickest and surest, because
it is the only one with which memory plays no tricks. If a thing has
appeared before us in a vital form, nothing can really destroy it; it
is because things are often given in a blurred, faint light that they
gradually fade out of our memory. A very keen scientist was deploring
to me, on one occasion, the fact that stories were told so much in the
schools, to the detriment of science, for which she claimed the same
indestructible element that I recognise in the best-told stories.
Being very much interested in her point of view, I asked her to tell
me, looking back on her school days, what she could remember as
standing out from other less clear information. After thinking some
little time over the matter, she said with some embarrassment, but with
a candour that did her much honour:
“Well, now I come to think of it, it was the story of Cinderella.”
Now, I am not holding any brief for this story in particular. I think
the reason it was remembered was because of the dramatic form in which
it was presented to her, which fired her imagination and kept the
memory alight. I quite realise that a scientific fact might also have
been easily remembered if it was presented in the form of a successful
chemical experiment: but this also has something of the dramatic appeal
and will be remembered on that account.
Sully says: “We cannot understand the fascination of a story for
children save in remembering that for their young minds, quick to
imagine, and unversed in abstract reflection, words are not dead things
but _winged_, as the old Greeks called them.”[37]
The Red Queen (in “Through the Looking-Glass”) was more psychological
than she knew when she made the memorable statement: “When once you've
_said_ a thing that _fixes_ it, and you must take the consequences.”
In Curtin's Introduction to “Myths and Folk Tales of the Russians,” he
says:
“I remember well the feeling roused in my mind at the mention or sight
of the name _Lucifer_ during the early years of my life. It stood for
me as the name of a being stupendous, dreadful in moral deformity,
lurid, hideous and mighty. I remember the surprise which, when I had
grown somewhat older and began to study Latin, I came upon the name in
Virgil where it means _light-bringer_--the herald of the Sun.”
Plato has said: “That the End of Education should be the training by
suitable habits of the Instincts of Virtue in the Child.”
About two thousand years later, Sir Philip Sidney, in his “Defence of
Poesy,” says: “The final end of learning is to draw and lead us to so
high a perfection as our degenerate souls, made worse by their clay
lodgings, can be capable of.”
And yet it is neither the Greek philosopher nor the Elizabethan poet
that makes the every-day application of these principles; but we have
a hint of this application from the Pueblo tribe of Indians, of whom
Lummis tells us the following:
“There is no duty to which a Pueblo child is trained in which he has
to be content with a bare command: Do this. For each he learns a
fairy-tale designed to explain how children first came to know that
it was right to ‘do this,’ and detailing the sad results that befell
those who did otherwise. Some tribes have regular story-tellers, men
who have devoted a great deal of time to learning the myths and stories
of their people and who possess, in addition to a good memory, a vivid
imagination. The mother sends for one of these, and having prepared a
feast for him, she and her little brood, who are curled up near her,
await the Fairy Stories of the dreamer, who after his feast and smoke
entertains the company for hours.”
In modern times, the nurse, who is now receiving such complete
training for her duties with the children, should be ready to
imitate the “dreamer” of the Indian tribe. I rejoice to find that
regular instruction in Story-telling is being given in many of the
institutions where the nurses are trained.
Some years ago there appeared a book by Dion Calthrop called “King
Peter,” which illustrates very fully the effect of story-telling. It
is the account of the education of a young prince which is carried on
at first by means of stories, and later he is taken out into the arena
of Life to be shown what is happening there--the dramatic appeal being
always the means used to awaken his imagination. The fact that only
_one_ story a year is told him prevents our seeing the effect from day
to day, but the time matters little. We only need faith to believe that
the growth, though slow, was very sure.
There is something of the same idea in the “Adventures of Telemachus,”
written by Fénélon for his royal pupil, the young Duke of Burgundy; but
whereas Calthrop trusts to the results of indirect teaching by means of
dramatic stories, Fénélon, on the contrary, makes use of the somewhat
heavy, didactic method, so that one would think the attention of the
young prince must have wandered at times; and I imagine Telemachus was
in the same condition when he was addressed at some length by Mentor,
who, being Minerva (though in disguise), should occasionally have
displayed that sense of humour which must always temper true wisdom:
Take, for instance, the heavy reproof conveyed in the following
passage:
“Death and shipwreck are less dreadful than the pleasures that attack
Virtue.... Youth is full of presumption and arrogance, though nothing
in the world is so frail: it fears nothing, and vainly relies on its
own strength, believing everything with the utmost levity and without
any precaution.”
And on another occasion, when Calypso hospitably provides clothes for
the shipwrecked men, and Telemachus is handling a tunic of the finest
wool and white as snow, with a vest of purple embroidered with gold,
and displaying much pleasure in the magnificence of the clothes, Mentor
addresses him in a severe voice, saying: “Are these, O Telemachus, the
thoughts that ought to occupy the heart of the son of Ulysses? A young
man who loves to dress vainly, as a woman does, is unworthy of wisdom
or glory.”
I remember, as a schoolgirl of thirteen, having to commit to memory
several books of these adventures, so as to become familiar with the
style. Far from being impressed by the wisdom of Mentor, I was simply
bored, and wondered why Telemachus did not escape from him. The only
part in the book that really interested me was Calypso's unrequited
love for Telemachus, but this was always the point where we ceased to
learn by heart, which surprised me greatly, for it was here that the
real human interest seemed to begin.
Of all the effects which I hope for from the telling of stories in the
schools, personally I place first the dramatic joy we bring to the
children and to ourselves. But there are many who would consider this
result as fantastic, if not frivolous, and not to be classed among the
educational values concocted with the introduction of stories into the
school curriculum. I therefore propose to speak of other effects of
story-telling which may seem of more practical value.
The first, which is of a purely negative character, is that through
means of a dramatic story we can counteract some of the sights and
sounds of the streets which appeal to the melodramatic instinct in
children. I am sure that all teachers whose work lies in the crowded
cities must have realised the effect produced on children by what they
see and hear on their way to and from school. If we merely consider
the hoardings, with their realistic representations, quite apart from
the actual dramatic happenings in the street, we at once perceive
that the ordinary school interests pale before such lurid appeals as
these. How can we expect the child who has stood open-mouthed before
a poster representing a woman chloroformed by a burglar, whilst that
hero escapes in safety with her jewels, to display any interest in the
arid monotony of the multiplication-table? The illegitimate excitement
created by the sight of the depraved burglar can only be counteracted
by something equally exciting along the realistic but legitimate side;
and this is where the story of the right kind becomes so valuable, and
why the teacher who is artistic enough to undertake the task can find
the short path to results which theorists seek for so long in vain. It
is not even necessary to have an exceedingly exciting story; sometimes
one which will bring about pure reaction may be just as suitable.
I remember in my personal experience an instance of this kind. I had
been reading with some children of about ten years old the story from
Cymbeline, of Imogen in the forest scene, when the brothers strew
flowers upon her, and sing the funeral dirge,
“Fear no more the heat of the sun.”
Just as we had all taken on this tender, gentle mood, the door opened
and one of the prefects announced in a loud voice the news of the
relief of Mafeking. The children were on their feet at once, cheering
lustily, and for the moment the joy over the relief of the brave
garrison was the predominant feeling. Then, before the Jingo spirit
had time to assert itself, I took advantage of a momentary reaction and
said: “Now, children, don't you think we can pay England the tribute
of going back to England's greatest poet?” In a few minutes we were
back in the heart of the Forest, and I can still hear the delightful
intonation of those subdued voices repeating:
Golden lads and girls all must
Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.
It is interesting to note that the same problem that is exercising
us to-day was a source of difficulty to people in remote times. The
following is taken from an old Chinese document, and has particular
interest for us to-day.
“The Philosopher Mentius (born 371 B.C.) was left fatherless at a very
tender age and brought up by his mother Changsi. The care of this
prudent and attentive mother has been cited as a model for all virtuous
parents. The house she occupied was near that of a butcher: she
observed at the first cry of the animals that were being slaughtered,
the little Mentius ran to be present at the sight, and that, on his
return, he sought to imitate what he had seen. Fearful lest his heart
might become hardened, and accustomed to the sights of blood, she
removed to another house which was in the neighbourhood of a cemetery.
The relations of those who were buried there came often to weep upon
their graves, and make their customary libations. The lad soon took
pleasure in their ceremonies and amused himself by imitating them.
This was a new subject of uneasiness to his mother: she feared her
son might come to consider as a jest what is of all things the most
serious, and that he might acquire a habit of performing with levity,
and as a matter of routine merely, ceremonies which demand the most
exact attention and respect. Again therefore she anxiously changed the
dwelling, and went to live in the city, opposite to a school, where her
son found examples the most worthy of imitation, and began to profit
by them. This anecdote has become incorporated by the Chinese into a
proverb, which they constantly quote: The Mother of Mentius seeks a
neighbourhood.”
Another influence we have to counteract is that of newspaper headings
which catch the eye of children in the streets and appeal so powerfully
to their imagination.
Shakespeare has said:
Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engendered in the eyes
With gazing fed: and Fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies.
Let us all ring Fancy's knell.
I'll begin it--ding, dong, bell.
“_Merchant of Venice._”
If this be true, it is of importance to decide what our children shall
look upon as far as we can control the vision, so that we can form some
idea of the effect upon their imagination.
Having alluded to the dangerous influence of the street, I should
hasten to say that this influence is very far from being altogether
bad. There are possibilities of romance in street life which may have
just the same kind of effect on children as the telling of exciting
stories. I am indebted to Mrs. Arnold Glover (Hon. Sec. of the National
Organisation of Girls' Clubs), one of the most widely informed people
on this subject, for the two following experiences gathered from the
streets which bear indirectly on the subject of story-telling:
Mrs. Glover was visiting a sick woman in a very poor neighbourhood,
and found, sitting on the doorstep of the house, two children, holding
something tightly grasped in their little hands, and gazing with much
expectancy towards the top of the street. She longed to know what they
were doing, but not being one of those unimaginative and tactless
folk who rush headlong into the mysteries of children's doings, she
passed them at first in silence. It was only when she found them still
in the same silent and expectant posture half-an-hour later that
she said tentatively: “I wonder whether you would tell me what you
are doing here?” After some hesitation, one of them said, in a shy
voice: “We're waitin' for the barrer.” It then transpired that, once a
week, a vegetable-and flower-cart was driven through this particular
street, on its way to a more prosperous neighbourhood, and on a few
red-letter days, a flower, or a sprig, or even a root sometimes fell
out of the back of the cart; and those two little children were waiting
there in hope, with their hands full of soil, ready to plant anything
which might by golden chance fall that way, in their secret garden of
oyster-shells.
This seems to me as charming a fairy-tale as any that our books can
supply.
Another time Mrs. Glover was collecting the pennies for the Holiday
Fund Savings Bank from the children who came weekly to her house. She
noticed on three consecutive Mondays that one little lad deliberately
helped himself to a new envelope from her table. Not wishing to
frighten or startle him, she allowed this to continue for some weeks,
and then one day, having dismissed the other children, she asked him
quite quietly why he was taking the envelopes. At first he was very
sulky, and said: “I need them better than you do.” She quite agreed
this might be, but reminded him that, after all, they belonged to her.
She promised, however, that if he would tell her for what purpose he
wanted the envelopes, she would endeavour to help him in the matter.
Then came the astonishing announcement: “I am building a navy.” After
a little more gradual questioning, Mrs. Glover drew from the boy the
information that the Borough Water Carts passed through the side
street once a week, flushing the gutter; that then the Envelope Ships
were made to sail on the water and pass under the covered ways which
formed bridges for wayfarers and tunnels for the “navy.” Great was the
excitement when the ships passed out of sight and were recognised as
they arrived safely at the other end. Of course the expenses in raw
material were greatly diminished by the illicit acquisition of Mrs.
Glover's property, and in this way she had unconsciously provided the
neighbourhood with a navy and a Commander. Her first instinct, after
becoming acquainted with the whole story, was to present the boy with a
real boat, but on second thought she collected and gave him a number of
old envelopes with names and addresses upon them, which added greatly
to the excitement of the sailing, because they could be more easily
identified as they came out of the other side of the tunnel, and had
their respective reputations as to speed.
Here is indeed food for romance, and I give both instances to prove
that the advantages of street life are to be taken into consideration
as well as the disadvantages; though I think we are bound to admit that
the latter outweigh the former.
One of the immediate results of dramatic stories is the escape from
the commonplace, to which I have already alluded in quoting Mr.
Goschen's words. The desire for this escape is a healthy one, common to
adults and children. When we wish to get away from our own surroundings
and interests, we do for ourselves what I maintain we ought to do for
children; we step into the land of fiction. It has always been a source
of astonishment to me that, in trying to escape from our own every-day
surroundings, we do not step more boldly into the land of pure romance,
which would form a real contrast to our every-day life, but in nine
cases out of ten the fiction which is sought after deals with the
subjects of our ordinary existence--namely, frenzied finance, sordid
poverty, political corruption, fast society, and religious doubts.
There is the same danger in the selection of fiction for children:
namely, a tendency to choose very utilitarian stories, both in form and
substance, so that we do not lift the children out of the commonplace.
I remember once seeing the titles of two little books, the contents of
which were being read or told to small children of the poorer class:
one was called “Tom the Boot-black,” the other, “Dan the News-boy.”
My chief objection to these stories was the fact that neither of
the heroes rejoiced in their work for the work's sake. Had Tom even
invented a new kind of blacking, or if Dan had started a splendid
newspaper, it might have been encouraging for those among the listeners
who were thinking of engaging in similar professions. It is true, both
gentlemen amassed large fortunes, but surely the school age is not to
be limited to such dreams and aspirations as these! One wearies of the
tales of boys who arrive in a town with one cent in their pockets, and
leave it as millionaires, with the added importance of a Mayoralty, not
to speak of a Knighthood. It is true that the romantic prototype of
these boys is Dick Whittington, for whom we unconsciously cherish the
affection which we often bestow on a far-off personage. Perhaps--who
knows?--it is the picturesque adjunct of the cat--lacking to modern
millionaires.[38]
I do not think it Utopian to present to children a fair share of
stories which deal with the importance of things “untouched by hand.”
They too can learn at an early age that “the things which are seen are
temporal, but the things which are unseen are spiritual.” To those who
wish to try the effect of such stories on children, I present for their
encouragement the following lines from Whitcomb Riley:
THE TREASURE OF THE WISE MAN.[39]
Oh, the night was dark and the night was late,
When the robbers came to rob him;
And they picked the lock of his palace-gate,
The robbers who came to rob him--
They picked the lock of the palace-gate,
Seized his jewels and gems of State
His coffers of gold and his priceless plate,--
The robbers that came to rob him.
But loud laughed he in the morning red!--
For of what had the robbers robbed him?
Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed,
When the robbers came to rob him,--
They robbed him not of a golden shred
Of the childish dreams in his wise old head--
“And they're welcome to all things else,” he said,
When the robbers came to rob him.
There is a great deal of this romantic spirit, combined with a
delightful sense of irresponsibility, which I claim above all things
for small children, to be found in our old Nursery Rhymes. I quote from
the following article written by the Rev. R. L. Gales for the _Nation_.
After speaking on the subject of Fairy Stories being eliminated from
the school curriculum, the writer adds:
“This would be lessening the joy of the world and taking from
generations yet unborn the capacity for wonder, the power to take a
large unselfish interest in the spectacle of things, and putting them
forever at the mercy of small private cares.
A Nursery Rhyme is the most sane, the most unselfish thing in the
world. It calls up some delightful image,--a little nut-tree with a
silver walnut and a golden pear; some romantic adventure only for the
child's delight and liberation from the bondage of unseeing dulness: it
brings before the mind the quintessence of some good thing:
'The little dog laughed to see such sport'--there is the soul of
good humour, of sanity, of health in the laughter of that innocently
wicked little dog. It is the laughter of pure frolic without
unkindness. To have laughed with the little dog as a child is the best
preservative against mirthless laughter in later years--the horse
laughter of brutality, the ugly laughter of spite, the acrid laughter
of fanaticism. The world of Nursery Rhymes, the old world of Mrs.
Slipper-Slopper, is the world of natural things, of quick, healthy
motion, of the joy of living.
In Nursery Rhymes the child is entertained with all the pageant of
the world. It walks in Fairy Gardens, and for it the singing birds
pass. All the King's horses and all the King's men pass before it in
their glorious array. Craftsmen of all sorts, bakers, confectioners,
silversmiths, blacksmiths are busy for it with all their arts and
mysteries, as at the court of an Eastern King.”
In insisting on the value of this escape from the commonplace, I cannot
prove the importance of it more clearly than by showing what may happen
to a child who is deprived of his birthright by having none of the
Fairy Tale element presented to him. In “Father and Son,” Mr. Edmund
Gosse says:
“Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found my greatest pleasure
in the pages of books. The range of these was limited, for story-books
of every description were sternly excluded. No fiction of any kind,
religious or secular, was admitted into the house. In this it was to
my Mother, not to my Father, that the prohibition was due. She had a
remarkable, I confess, to me somewhat unaccountable impression that to
‘tell a story,’ that is, to compose fictitious narrative of any kind,
was a sin.... Nor would she read the chivalrous tales in the verse of
Sir Walter Scott, obstinately alleging that they were not true. She
would read nothing but lyrical and subjective poetry.... As a child,
however, she had possessed a passion for making up stories, and so
considerable a skill in it, that she was constantly being begged to
indulge others with its exercise.... ‘When I was a very little child,’
she says, ‘I used to amuse myself and my brothers with inventing
stories such as I had read. Having, as I suppose, naturally a restless
mind and busy imagination, this soon became the chief pleasure of
my life. Unfortunately, my brothers were always fond of encouraging
this propensity, and I found in Taylor, my maid, a still greater
tempter. I had not known there was any harm in it, until Miss Shore (a
Calvinistic governess), finding it out, lectured me severely and told
me it was wicked. From that time forth I considered that to invent
a story of any kind was a sin.... But the longing to invent stories
grew with violence. The simplicity of Truth was not enough for me. I
must needs embroider imagination upon it, and the folly and wickedness
which disgraced my heart are more than I am able to express....’ This
(the Author, her son, adds) is surely a very painful instance of the
repression of an instinct.”
In contrast to the stifling of the imagination, it is good to recall
the story of the great Hermits who, having listened to the discussion
of the Monday sitting at the Académie des Sciences (Institut de France)
as to the best way to teach the young how to shoot in the direction
of mathematical genius, said: “_Cultivez l'imagination, messieurs.
Tout est là. Si vous voulez des mathématiciens, donnez à vos enfants à
lire--des Contes de Fées._”
Another important effect of the story is to develop at an early
age sympathy for children of other countries where conditions are
different from our own. There is a book used in American schools
called “Little Citizens of other Lands,” dealing with the clothes,
the games and occupations of those little citizens. Stories of this
kind are particularly necessary to prevent the development of insular
notions, and are a check on that robust form of Philistinism, only
too prevalent, alas! among grown-ups, which looks askance at new
suggestions and makes the withering remark: “How un-English! How
queer!”--the second comment being, it would seem, a natural corollary
to the first.[40]
I have so constantly to deal with the question of confusion between
Truth and Fiction in the mind of children that it might be useful
to offer here an example of the way they make the distinction for
themselves.
Mrs. Ewing says on this subject:
“If there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable of
distinguishing between Fancy and Falsehood, it is most desirable to
develop in them the power to do so, but, as a rule, in childhood,
we appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which as elders our
care-clogged memories fail to recall.”
Mr. P. A. Barnett, in his book on the “Commonsense of Education,” says,
alluding to Fairy Tales:
“Children will _act_ them but not act _upon_ them, and they will
not accept the incidents as part of their effectual belief. They
will imagine, to be sure, grotesque worlds, full of admirable and
interesting personages to whom strange things might have happened.
So much the better; this largeness of imagination is one of the
possessions that distinguish the better nurtured child from others less
fortunate.”
The following passage from Stevenson's essay on _Child Play_[41] will
furnish an instance of children's aptitude for creating their own
dramatic atmosphere:
“When my cousin and I took our porridge of a morning, we had a device
to enliven the course of a meal. He ate his with sugar, and explained
it to be a country continually buried under snow. I took mine with
milk, and explained it to be a country suffering gradual inundation.
You can imagine us exchanging bulletins; how here was an island still
unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with snow; what inventions
were made; how his population lived in cabins on perches and travelled
on stilts, and how mine was always in boats; how the interest grew
furious as the last corner of safe ground was cut off on all sides and
grew smaller every moment; and how, in fine, the food was of altogether
secondary importance, and might even have been nauseous, so long as we
seasoned it with these dreams. But perhaps the most exciting moments I
ever had over a meal, were in the case of calves' feet jelly. It was
hardly possible not to believe, and you may be quite sure, so far from
trying it, I did all I could to favour the illusion--that some part of
it was hollow, and that sooner or later my spoon would lay open the
secret tabernacle of that golden rock. There, might some Red-Beard
await this hour; there might one find the treasures of the Forty
Thieves. And so I quarried on slowly, with bated breath, savouring
the interest. Believe me, I had little palate left for the jelly; and
though I preferred the taste when I took cream with it, I used often to
go without because the cream dimmed the transparent fractures.”
In his work on Imagination, Ribot says: “The free initiative of
children is always superior to the imitations we pretend to make for
them.”
The passage from Robert Stevenson becomes more clear from a scientific
point of view when taken in connection with one from Karl Groos' book
on the “Psychology of Animal Play”:
“The Child is wholly absorbed in his play, and yet under the ebb and
flow of thought and feeling like still water under wind-swept waves, he
has the knowledge that it is pretence after all. Behind the sham ‘I’
that takes part in the game, stands the unchanged ‘I’ which regards the
sham ‘I’ with quiet superiority.”
Queyrat speaks of play as one of the distinct phases of a child's
imagination; it is “essentially a metamorphosis of reality, a
transformation of places and things.”
Now to return to the point which Mrs. Ewing makes, namely, that we
should develop in normal children the power of distinguishing between
Truth and Falsehood.
I should suggest including two or three stories which would test that
power in children, and if they fail to realise the difference between
romancing and telling lies then it is evident that they need special
attention and help along this line. I give the titles of two stories of
this kind in the collection at the end of the book.[42]
So far we have dealt only with the negative results of stories, but
there are more important effects, and I am persuaded that if we are
careful in our choice of stories, and artistic in our presentation
(so that the truth is framed, so to speak, in the memory), we can
unconsciously correct evil tendencies in children which they only
recognise in themselves when they have already criticised them in
the characters of the story. I have sometimes been misunderstood on
this point, therefore I should like to make it quite clear. I do
_not_ mean that stories should take the place entirely of moral or
direct teaching, but that on many occasions they could supplement
and strengthen moral teaching, because the dramatic appeal to the
imagination is quicker than the moral appeal to the conscience. A child
will often resist the latter lest it should make him uncomfortable
or appeal to his personal sense of responsibility: it is often not in
his power to resist the former, because it has taken possession of him
before he is aware of it.
As a concrete example, I offer three verses from a poem entitled “A
Ballad for a Boy,” written some twelve years ago by W. Cory, an Eton
master. The whole poem is to be found in a book of poems known as
“Ionica” (published by George Allen and Co.).
The poem describes a fight between two ships, the French ship
_Téméraire_ and the English ship _Quebec_. The English ship was
destroyed by fire. Farmer, the captain, was killed, and the officers
taken prisoners:
“They dealt with us as brethren, they mourned for Farmer dead;
And as the wounded captives passed, each Breton bowed the head.
Then spoke the French lieutenant, 'Twas the fire that won, not we:
You never struck your flag to _us_; you'll go to England free.'[43]
'Twas the sixth day of October, Seventeen-hundred-seventy-nine,
A year when nations ventured against us to combine,
_Quebec_ was burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;
But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.
And you, if you've to fight the French, my youngster, bear in mind
Those seamen of King Louis so chivalrous and kind;
Think of the Breton gentlemen who took our lads to Brest,
And treat some rescued Breton as a comrade and a guest.”
This poem is specially to be commended because it is another example of
the finer qualities which are developed in war.[44]
Now, such a ballad as this, which, being pure narrative, could
easily be introduced into the story-hour, would do as much to foster
“_L'entente cordiale_” as any processions or civic demonstrations,
or lavish international exchange of hospitality. It has also a great
practical application now that we are encouraging visits between
English and foreign children. Let us hope the _entente cordiale_ will
not stop at France. There must be many such instances of magnanimity
and generosity displayed to us by other nations, and it might be
well to collect them and include them among stories for the school
curriculum.
But in all our stories, in order to produce desired effects we must
refrain from holding, as Burroughs says, “a brief for either side,” and
we must leave the decision of the children free in this matter.[45]
In a review of Ladd's _Psychology_ in the “Academy,” we find a passage
which refers as much to the story as to the novel:
“The psychological novelist girds up his loins and sets himself
to write little essays on each of his characters. If he have the
gift of the thing he may analyse motives with a subtlety which is
more than their desert, and exhibit simple folk passing through the
most dazzling rotations. If he be a novice, he is reduced to mere
crude invention--the result in both cases is quite beyond the true
purpose of Art. Art--when all is said and done--is a suggestion,
and it refuses to be explained. Make it obvious, unfold it in
detail, and you reduce it to a dead letter.”
Again there is a sentence by Schopenhauer applied to novels which would
apply equally well to stories:
“Skill consists in setting the inner life in motion with the smallest
possible array of circumstances, for it is this inner life that excites
our interest.”
Now, in order to produce an encouraging and lasting effect by means
of our stories, we should be careful to introduce a certain number
from fiction where virtue is rewarded and vice punished, because
to appreciate the fact that “virtue is its own reward” calls for a
developed and philosophic mind, or a born saint, of whom there will
not, I think, be many among normal children: a comforting fact, on the
whole, as the normal teacher is apt to confuse them with prigs.
A _grande dame_ visiting an elementary school listened to the telling
of an exciting story from fiction, and was impressed by the thrill
of delight which passed through the children. But when the story was
finished, she said: “But _oh!_ what a pity the story was not taken from
actual history!”
Now, not only was this comment quite beside the mark, but the lady
in question did not realise that pure fiction has one quality which
history cannot have. The historian, bound by fact and accuracy, must
often let his hero come to grief. The poet (or, in this case, we may
call him, in the Greek sense, the “maker” of stories) strives to show
_ideal_ justice.
What encouragement to virtue (except for the abnormal child) can be
offered by the stories of good men coming to grief, such as we find in
Miltiades, Phocion, Socrates, Severus, Cicero, Cato and Cæsar?
Sir Philip Sidney says in his “Defence of Poesy”:
“Only the Poet declining to be held by the limitations of the lawyer,
the _historian_, the grammarian, the rhetorician, the logician, the
physician, the metaphysician, if lifted up with the vigour of his own
imagination; doth grow in effect into another nature in making things
either better than Nature bringeth forth or quite anew, as the Heroes,
Demi-gods, Cyclops, Furies and such like, so as he goeth hand in hand
with Nature not enclosed in the narrow range of her gifts but freely
ranging within the Zodiac of his own art--_her_ world is brazen; the
poet only delivers a golden one.”
The effect of the story need not stop at the negative task of
correcting evil tendencies. There is the positive effect of translating
the abstract ideal of the story into concrete action.
I was told by Lady Henry Somerset that when the first set of slum
children came down for a fortnight's holiday in the country, she was
much startled and shocked by the obscenity of the games they played
amongst themselves. Being a sound psychologist, Lady Henry wisely
refrained from appearing surprised or from attempting any direct method
of reproof. “I saw,” she said, “that the ‘goody’ element would have no
effect, so I changed the whole atmosphere by reading to them or telling
them the most thrilling mediæval tales without any commentary. By the
end of the fortnight the activities had all changed. The boys were
performing astonishing deeds of prowess, and the girls were allowing
themselves to be rescued from burning towers and fetid dungeons.”
Now, if these deeds of chivalry appear somewhat stilted to us, we can
at least realise that, having changed the whole atmosphere of the
filthy games, it is easier to translate the deeds into something a
little more in accordance with the spirit of the age, and boys will
more readily wish later on to save their sisters from dangers more
sordid and commonplace than fiery towers and dark dungeons, if they
have once performed the deeds in which they had to court danger and
self-sacrifice for themselves.
And now we come to the question as to how these effects are to be
maintained. In what has already been stated about the danger of
introducing the dogmatic and direct appeal into the story, it is
evident that the avoidance of this element is the first means of
preserving the story in all its artistic force in the memory of the
child, and we must be careful, as I point out in the chapter on
Questions, not to interfere by comment or question with the atmosphere
we have made round the story, or else, in the future, that story will
become blurred and overlaid with the remembrance, not of the artistic
whole, as presented by the teller of the story, but by some unimportant
small side issue raised by an irrelevant question or a superfluous
comment.
Many people think that the dramatisation of the story by the children
themselves helps to maintain the effect produced. Personally, I fear
there is the same danger as in the immediate reproduction of the story,
namely, that the general dramatic effect may be weakened.
If, however, there is to be dramatisation (and I do not wish to
dogmatise on the subject), I think it should be confined to facts
and not fancies, and this is why I realise the futility of the
dramatisation of Fairy Tales.
Horace Scudder says on this subject:
“Nothing has done more to vulgarise the Fairy than its introduction
on the stage. The charm of the Fairy Tale is its divorce from human
experience; the charm of the stage is its realisation in miniature of
Human Life. If a frog is heard to speak, if a dog is changed before
our eyes into a prince by having cold water dashed over it, the charm
of the Fairy Tale has fled, and, in its place, we have the perplexing
pleasure of _leger de main_. Since the real life of a Fairy is in the
imagination, a wrong is committed when it is dragged from its shadowy
hiding-place and made to turn into ashes under the calcium light of the
understanding.”[46]
I am bound to confess that the teachers have a case when they plead for
this re-producing of the story, and there are three arguments they use
whose validity I admit, but which have nevertheless not converted me,
because the loss, to my mind, would exceed the gain.
The first argument they put forward is that the reproduction of the
story enables the child to enlarge and improve his vocabulary. Now
I greatly sympathise with this point of view, only, as I regard the
story-hour as a very precious and special one, which I think may have a
lasting effect on the character of a child, I do not think it important
that, during this hour, a child should be called upon to improve his
vocabulary at the expense of the dramatic whole, and at the expense
of the literary form in which the story has been presented. It would
be like using the Bible for parsing or paraphrase or pronunciation.
So far, I believe, the line has been drawn here, though there are
blasphemers who have laid impious hands on Milton or Shakespeare for
this purpose.
There are surely other lessons (as I have already said in dealing with
the reproduction of the story quite apart from the dramatisation),
lessons more utilitarian in character, which can be used for this
purpose: the facts of history (I mean the mere facts as compared with
the deep truths) and those of geography, above all, the grammar lessons
are those in which the vocabulary can be enlarged and improved. But
I am anxious to keep the story-hour apart as dedicated to something
higher than these excellent but utilitarian considerations.
The second argument used by the teachers is the joy felt by the
children in being allowed to dramatise the stories. This, too, appeals
very strongly to me, but there is a means of satisfying their desire
and yet protecting the dramatic whole, and that is occasionally to
allow children to act out their own dramatic inventions; this, to my
mind, has great educational significance: it is original and creative
work and, apart from the joy of the immediate performance, there is
the interesting process of comparison which can be presented to the
children, showing them the difference between their elementary attempts
and the finished product of the experienced artist, which they can be
led to recognise by their own powers of observation if the teachers are
not in too great a hurry to point it out themselves.
Here is a short original story (quoted by the French psychologist,
Queyrat, in his “Jeux de l'enfance”) written by a child of five:
“One day I went to sea in a life-boat--all at once I saw an enormous
whale, and I jumped out of the boat to catch him, but he was so big
that I climbed on his back and rode astride, and all the little fishes
laughed to see.”
Here is a complete and exciting drama, making a wonderful picture
and teeming with adventure. We could scarcely offer anything to so
small a child for reproduction that would be a greater stimulus to the
imagination.
Here is another, offered by Loti, but the age of the child is not given:
“Once upon a time, a little girl out in the Colonies cut open a huge
melon, and out popped a green beast and stung her, and the little child
died.”
Loti adds: “The phrases ‘out in the Colonies’ and ‘a huge melon’
were enough to plunge me suddenly into a dream. As by an apparition,
I beheld tropical trees, forests alive with marvellous birds. Oh!
the simple magic of the words 'the Colonies'! In my childhood they
stood for a multitude of distant sun-scorched countries, with their
palm-trees, their enormous flowers, their black natives, their wild
beasts, their endless possibilities of adventure.”
I quote this in full because it shows so clearly the magic force of
words to evoke pictures, without any material representation. It is
just the opposite effect of the pictures presented to the bodily eye
without the splendid educational opportunity for the child to form his
own mental image.
I am more and more convinced that the rare power of visualization is
accounted for by the lack of mental practice afforded along these lines.
The third argument used by the teachers in favour of the dramatisation
of the stories is that it is a means of discovering how much the child
has really learnt from the story. Now this argument makes absolutely no
appeal to me.
My experience, in the first place, has taught me that a child very
seldom gives out any account of a deep impression made upon him: it
is too sacred and personal. But he very soon learns to know what is
expected of him, and he keeps a set of stock sentences which he has
found out are acceptable to the teacher. How can we possibly gauge the
deep effects of a story in this way, or how can a child, by acting
out a story, describe the subtle elements which you have tried to
introduce? You might as well try to show with a pint measure how the
sun and rain have affected a plant, instead of rejoicing in the beauty
of the sure, if slow, growth.
Then, again, why are we in such a hurry to find out what effects have
been produced by our stories? Does it matter whether we know to-day or
to-morrow how much a child has understood? For my part, so sure do I
feel of the effect that I am willing to wait indefinitely. Only I must
make sure that the first presentation is truly dramatic and artistic.
The teachers of general subjects have a much easier and more simple
task. Those who teach science, mathematics, even, to a certain extent,
history and literature, are able to gauge with a fair amount of
accuracy, by means of examination, what their pupils have learnt. The
teaching carried on by means of stories can never be gauged in the
same manner. We must be content, though we have nothing to place in
our “shop window,” content to know of the possessions behind, and make
up our mind that we can show the education authorities little or no
results from our teaching, but that the real fruit will be seen by the
next generation; and we can take courage, for, if our story be “a thing
of beauty,” it will never “pass into nothingness.”
Carlyle has said:[47]
“Of this thing be certain: wouldst thou plant for Eternity, then plant
into the deep infinite faculties of man, his Fantasy and Heart. Wouldst
thou plant for Year and Day, then plant into his shallow superficial
faculties, his self-love and arithmetical understanding, what will grow
there.”
If we use this marvellous Art of Story-Telling in the way I have tried
to show, then the children who have been confided to our care will one
day be able to bring to us the tribute which Björnson brought to Hans
C. Andersen:
Wings you give to my Imagination,
Me uplifting to the strange and great;
Gave my heart the poet's revelation,
Glorifying things of low estate.
When my child-soul hungered all-unknowing,
With great truths its needs you satisfied:
Now, a world-worn man, to you is owing
That the child in me has never died.
(_Translated from the Danish by Emilie Poulson._)
FOOTNOTES:
[37] From “Studies of Childhood,” page 55.
[38] I always remember the witty jibe of a chairman at my expense on
this subject, who, when proposing a vote of thanks to me, asked whether
I seriously approved of the idea of providing “wild-cat schemes” in
order to bring romance into the lives of millionaires.
[39] From The Lockerbie Book, by James Whitcomb Riley. Copyright 1911.
Used by special permission of the publishers, the Bobbs-Merrill Company.
[40] See Little Cousin Series in American collection of tales at the
end of book.
[41] From “Virginibus Puerisque and other Essays.”
[42] See Longbow story, “John and the Pig.”
[43] This is even a higher spirit than that shown in the advice given
in the _Agamemnon_ (speaking of the victor's attitude after the taking
of Troy):
“Yea, let no craving for forbidden gain
Bid conquerors yield before the darts of greed.”
[44] The great war in which we have become involved since this book was
written has furnished brilliant examples of these finer qualities.
[45] It is curious to find that the story of “Puss-in-Boots” in its
variants is sometimes presented with a moral, sometimes without. In the
valley of the Ganges it has _none_. In Cashmere it has one moral, in
Zanzibar another.
[46] From “Childhood in Literature and Art.” Study of Hans C. Andersen,
page 201.
[47] “Sartor Resartus,” Book III, page 218.