the richness of the latter half of the nineteenth century; but there are
those of the living who cannot be passed in silence. To deal with those
who are writing to-day is manifestly difficult, but as I merely claim to
cite illustrations no fault can justly be found with omissions.
Naturally Meredith and Hardy come first to mind. He who has read that
exquisite chapter in "The Ordeal of Richard Feverel" which tells of the
meeting of Richard and Lucy in the meadows by the river has in memory a
gracious possession for the rest of his days. Who can recall from "The
Return of the Native" the noonday visit of Mrs. Yeobright to the house
of her son and her journey to death back over Egdon Heath, without a
heart-deep thrill? What sympathetic reader fails to recognize that he is
mentally and imaginatively richer for the honest little reddle-man,
Diggory Venn, for sturdy Gabriel Oak, for the delightful clowns of
"Under the Greenwood Tree" and "Far from the Madding Crowd," or for
ill-starred Tess when on that dewy morning she had the misfortune to
touch the caddish heart of Angel Clare? To have failed to read and to
reread Stevenson,--for one thinks of Stevenson as still of the
living,--to have passed Kipling by, is to have neglected one of the
blessings of the time.
It may be that I have seemed to imply by the examples I have chosen that
the literature of continental Europe is to be shunned. Naturally in
addressing English-speaking folk one selects examples when possible from
literature in that tongue; and I have alluded to books in other
languages only when they brought out more strikingly than do English
books a particular point. It is needless to say that in these
cosmopolitan days no one can afford to neglect the riches of other
nations in contemporary literature. It is difficult to resist the
temptation to make lists, to speak of the men who in France with Guy de
Maupassant at their head have developed so great a mastery of style; one
would gladly dwell on the genius of Turgenieff, perhaps the one writer
who excuses the modern craze for Russian books; or of Sienkiewicz, who
has only Dumas _père_ to dispute his place as first romancer of the
world; and so on for other writers of other lands and tongues. It is
unnecessary, however, to multiply examples, and here there is no attempt
to speak exhaustively even of English literature.
The thing to be kept in mind is that it is our good fortune to live in
the century which in the whole course of English literature is outranked
by the brilliant Elizabethan period only. It is surely worth while to
attempt to prove ourselves worthy of that which the gods have graciously
given us. Men sigh for the good day that is gone, and imagine that had
they lived then they would have made their lives correspondingly rich to
match the splendors of an age now famous. We live in a time destined to
go down to the centuries not unrenowned for literary achievement; it is
for us to prove ourselves appreciative and worthy of this time.
XIV
FICTION
Probably the oldest passion of the race which can lay any claim to
connection with the intellect is the love of stories. The most ancient
examples of literature which have been preserved are largely in the form
of narratives. As soon as man has so far conquered the art of speech as
to get beyond the simplest statements, he may be supposed to begin
instinctively to relate incidents, to tell rudimentary tales, and to put
into words the story of events which have happened, or which might have
happened.
The interest which every human being takes in the things which may
befall his fellows underlies this universal fondness; and the man who
does not love a story must be devoid of normal human sympathy with his
kind. It is hardly necessary, at this late day, to point out the strong
hold upon the sympathies of his fellows which the story-teller has had
from the dawn of civilization. The mind easily pictures the gaunt
reciters who, in savage tribes, repeat from generation to generation the
stories and myths handed orally from father to son; or the professional
narrators of the Orient who repeat gorgeously colored legends and
fantastic adventures in the gate or the market. Perhaps, too, the
mention of the subject of this talk brings from the past the homely,
kindly figure of the nurse who made our childish eyes grow large, and
our little hearts go trippingly in the days of pinafores and
fairy-lore--the blessed days when "once upon a time" was the open sesame
to all delights. The responsiveness of human beings to story-telling the
world over unites all mankind as in a bond of common sympathy.
What old-fashioned theologians seemed to find an inexhaustible pleasure
in calling "the natural man" has always been strongly inclined to turn
in his reading to narratives in preference to what our grandparents
primly designated as "improving works." In any library the bindings of
the novels are sure to be worn, while the sober backs of treatises upon
manners, or morals, or philosophy, or even science, remain almost as
fresh as when they left the bindery. Each reader in his own grade
selects the sort of tale which most appeals to him; and while the range
is wide, the principle of selection is not so greatly varied. The
shop-girl gloats over "The Earl's Bride; or, The Heiress of Plantagenet
Park." The school-miss in the street-car smiles contemptuously as she
sees this title, and complacently opens the volume of the "Duchess" or
of Rhoda Broughton which is the delight of her own soul. The advanced
young woman of society has only contempt for such trash, and accompanies
her chocolate caramels with the perusal of "The Yellow Aster," or the
"Green Carnation," while her mother, very likely, reads the felicitous
foulness of some Frenchman. Those readers who have a sane and wholesome
taste, properly cultivated, take their pleasure in really good novels or
stories; but the fondness for narrative of some sort is universal.
It would be manifestly unfair to imply that there is never a natural
inclination for what is known as "solid reading," but such a taste is
exceptional rather than general. Certainly a person who cared only for
stories could not be looked upon as having advanced far in intellectual
development; but appreciation for other forms of literature is rather
the effect of cultivation than the result of natural tendencies. Most of
us have had periods in which we have endeavored to persuade ourselves
that we were of the intellectual elect, and that however circumstances
had been against us, we did in our inmost souls pant for philosophy and
yearn for abstract wisdom. We are all apt to assure ourselves that if we
might, we should devote our days to the study of science and our nights
to mastering the deepest secrets of metaphysics. We declare to ourselves
that we have not time; that just now we are wofully overworked, but that
in some golden, although unfortunately indeterminate future, for which
we assure ourselves most solemnly that we long passionately, we shall
pore over tremendous tomes of philosophical thought as the bee grapples
itself to a honey-full clover-blossom. It is all humbug; and, what is
more, we know that it is humbug. We do not, as a rule, relish the
effort of comprehending and assimilating profoundly thoughtful
literature, and it is generally more easy to read fiction in a slipshod
way than it is to glide with any amusement over intellectual work. The
intense strain of the age of course increases this tendency to light
reading; but in any age the only books of which practically everybody
who reads at all is fond are the story-books.
* * * * *
It has been from time to time the habit of busy idlers to fall into
excited and often acrimonious discussion in regard to this general love
for stories. Many have held that it is an instinct of a fallen and
unregenerate nature, and that it is to be checked at any cost. It is not
so long since certain most respectable and influential religious sects
set the face steadfastly against novels; and you may remember as an
instance that when George Eliot was a young woman she regarded
novel-reading as a wicked amusement. There is to-day a more rational
state of feeling. It is seen that it is better to accept the instincts
of human nature, and endeavor to work through them than to engage in the
well-nigh hopeless task of attempting to eradicate them. To-day we are
coming to recognize the cunning of the East in inculcating wisdom in
fables and the profound lesson of the statement in the Gospels: "Without
a parable spake He not unto them."
Much of the distrust which has been in the past felt in regard to
fiction has arisen from a narrow and uncomprehending idea of its nature.
Formalists have conceived that the relating of things which never
occurred--which indeed it was often impossible should occur,--is a
violation of truth. The fundamental ground of most of the objections
which moralists have made to fiction has been the assumption that
fiction is false. Of certain kinds of fiction this is of course true
enough, but of fiction which comes within the range of literature it is
conspicuously incorrect.
Fiction is literature which is false to the letter that it may be true
to the spirit. It is unfettered by narrow actualities of form, because
it has to express the higher actualities of emotion. It uses incident
and character as mere language. It is as unfair to object to the
incidents of a great novel that they are untrue, as it would be to say
that the letters of a word are untrue. There is no question of truth or
untruth beyond the question whether the symbols express that which they
are intended to convey. The letters are set down to impart to the
intelligence of the reader the idea of a given word; the incidents of a
novel are used to embody a truth of human nature and life. Truth is here
the verity of the thing conveyed. In a narrow and literal sense Hamlet
and Othello and Colonel Newcome and Becky Sharp are untrue. They never
existed in the flesh. They have lived, however, in the higher and more
vital sense that they have been part of the imagination of a master.
They are true in that they express the truth. It is a dull
misunderstanding of the value of things to call that book untrue which
deals with fictitious characters wisely, yet to hold as verity that
which records actual events stolidly and unappreciatively. The history
may be false from beginning to end and the fiction true. Fiction which
is worthy of consideration under the name of literature is the truest
prose in the world; and I believe that it is not without an instinctive
recognition of this fact that mankind has so generally taken it to its
heart.
The value of at least certain works of fiction has come to be generally
recognized by the intellectual world. There are some novels which it is
taken for granted that every person of education has read. Whoever makes
the smallest pretense of culture must, for instance, be at least
tolerably familiar with Scott, Thackeray, Dickens, and Hawthorne; while
he will find it difficult to hold the respect of cultivated men unless
he is also acquainted with Miss Austen, George Eliot, and Charlotte
Brontë, with Dumas _père_, Balzac, and Victor Hugo, and with the works
of leading living writers of romance. "Don Quixote" is as truly a
necessary part of a liberal education as is the multiplication table;
and it would not be difficult to extend the list of novels which it is
assumed as a matter of course that persons of cultivation know
familiarly.
Nor is it only the works of the greater writers of imaginative narration
which have secured a general recognition. If it is not held that it is
essential for an educated man to have read Trollope, Charles Reade,
Kingsley, or Miss Mulock, for example, it is at least recognized that
one had better have gained an acquaintance with these and similar
writers. Traill, the English critic, speaks warmly of the books which
while falling below the first rank are yet richly worth attention. He
says with justice:--
The world can never estimate the debt that it owes to second-class
literature. Yet it is basely afraid to acknowledge the debt,
hypocritically desiring to convey the impression that such literature
comes to it in spite of protest, calling off its attention from the
great productions.
It is true enough that there is a good deal of foolish pretense in
regard to our genuine taste in reading, but in actual practice most
persons do in the long run read chiefly what they really enjoy. It is
also true that there are more readers who are capable of appreciating
the novels of the second grade than there are those who are in sympathy
with fiction of the first. The thing for each individual reader is to
see to it that he is honest in this matter with himself, and that he
gives attention to the best that he can like rather than to the poorest.
Even those who accept the fact that cultivated persons will read novels,
and those who go so far as to appreciate that it is a distinct gain to
the intellectual life, are, however, very apt to be troubled by the
dangers of over-indulgence in this sort of literature. It has been said
and repeated innumerable times that the excessive reading of novels is
mentally debilitating and even debauching. This is certainly true. So is
it true that there is great mental danger in the excessive reading of
philosophy or theology, or the excessive eating of bread, or the
excessive doing of any other thing. The favorite figure in connection
with fiction has been to compare it to opium-eating or to dram-drinking;
and the moral usually drawn is that the novel-reader is in imminent
danger of intellectual dissoluteness or even of what might be called the
delirium tremens of the imagination. I should not be honest if I
pretended to have a great deal of patience with most that is said in
this line. The exclusive use of fiction as mental food is of course
unwise, and the fact is so patent that it is hardly worth while to waste
words in repeating it. When I said a moment ago that there is danger in
the eating of bread if it is carried to excess I indicated what seems to
me to be the truth in this matter. If one reads good and wholesome
fiction, I believe that the natural instincts of the healthy mind may be
trusted to settle the question of how much shall be read. If the fiction
is unhealthy, morbid, or false, any of it is bad. If it is good, if it
calls into play a healthy imagination, there is very little danger that
too much of it will be taken. When there is complaint that a girl or a
boy is injuring the mind by too exclusive a devotion to novels, I
believe that it generally means, if the facts of the case were
understood, that the mind of the reader is in an unwholesome condition,
and that this excessive devotion to fiction is a symptom rather than a
disease. When the girl coughs, it is not the cough that is the trouble;
this is only a symptom of the irritation of membranes; and I believe
that much the same is the case with extravagant novel-readers.
Of course this view of the matter will not commend itself to everybody.
It is hard for us to shake off the impression of all the countless
homilies which have been composed against novel-reading; and we are by
no means free from the poison of the ascetic idea that anything to which
mankind takes naturally and with pleasure cannot really be good in
itself. I hope, however, that it will not appear to you unreasonable
when I say that it seems to me far better to insist upon proper methods
of reading and upon the selection of books which are genuine literature
than to wage unavailing war against the natural love of stories which is
to be found in every normal and wholesome human being. If I could be
assured that a boy or a girl read only good novels and read them
appreciatively and sympathetically, I should never trouble myself to
inquire how many he or she read. I should be hopefully patient even if
there was apparently a neglect of history and philosophy. I should be
confident that it is impossible that the proper reading of good fiction
should not in the end both prove beneficial in itself and lead the mind
to whatever is good in other departments of literature. I am not
pleading for the indiscriminating indulgence in doubtful stories. I do
not believe that girls are brought to fine and well-developed womanhood
by an exclusive devotion to the chocolate-caramel-and-pickled-lime sort
of novels. I do not hold that boys come to nobility and manliness
through the influence of sensational tales wherein blood-boultered
bandits reduce to infinitesimal powder every commandment of the
decalogue. I do, however, thoroughly believe that sound and imaginative
fiction is as natural and as wholesome for growing minds as is the air
of the seashore or the mountains for growing bodies.
The fact is of especial importance as applied to the education of
children. A healthy child is instinctively in the position of a learner.
He is unconsciously full of deep wonderment concerning this world in
which he finds himself, and concerning this mysterious thing called life
in which he has a share. His mind is eager to receive, but it is
entirely free from any affectation. A child accepts what appeals to him
directly, and he is without scruple in neglecting what does not interest
him. He learns only by slow degrees that knowledge may have value and
interest from its remote bearings; and in dealing with him in the
earlier stages of mental development there is no other means so sure and
effective as story-telling. It is here that a child finds the specific
and the concrete while he is still too immature to be moved by the
general and the abstract.
It is "to cater to this universal taste," the circulars of the
publishers assure us, that so-called "juvenile literature" was invented.
I do not wish to be extravagant, but it does seem to me that modern
juvenile literature has blighted the rising generation as rust blights a
field of wheat. The holiday counters are piled high with hastily
written, superficial, often inaccurate, and, what is most important of
all, unimaginative books. The nursery of to-day is littered with
worthless volumes, and the child halfway through school has already
outlived a dozen varieties of books for the young.
A good many of these works are as full of information as a sugar-coated
pill is of drugs. Thirst for practical information is one of the
extravagances of the age. Parents to-day make their children to pass
through tortures in the service of what they call "practical knowledge"
as the unnatural parents of old made their offspring to pass through the
fires of Moloch. We are all apt to lose sight of the fact that wisdom is
not what a man knows but what he is. The important thing is not what we
drill into our children, but what we drill them into. There are times
when it is the most profound moral duty of a parent to substitute
Grimm's fairy stories for text-books, and to devote the whole stress of
educational effort to the developing of the child's imagination. I am
not at all sure that it is not of more importance to see to it that a
child--and especially a boy--is familiar with "the land east of the sun
and west of the moon" than to stuff his brain with the geographical
details of the wilds of Asia, Africa, or the isles of the far seas. I am
sure that he is better off from knowing about Sindbad and Ali Baba than
for being able to extract a cube root. I do not wish to be understood as
speaking against the imparting of practical information, although I must
say that I think that the distinction between what is really practical
and what is not seems to me to be somewhat confused in these days. I
simply mean that just now there is need of enforcing the value of the
imaginative side of education. No accumulation of facts can compensate
for the narrowing of the growing mind; and indeed facts are not to be
really grasped and assimilated without the development of the
realizing--the imaginative--faculty.
It is even more important for children than for adults that their
reading shall be imaginative. The only way to protect them against
worthless books is to give them a decided taste for what is good. It is
only after children have been debauched by vapid or sensational books
that they come to delight in rubbish. It is easier in the first place to
interest them in real literature than in shams. The thing is to take the
trouble to see to it that what they read is fine. The most common error
in this connection is to suppose that children need an especial sort of
literature different from that suited to adults. As far, certainly, as
serious education is concerned, there is neither adult literature nor
juvenile literature; there is simply literature. Speaking broadly, the
literature best for grown persons is the literature best for children.
The limitations of youth have, and should have, the same effects in
literature as in life. They restrict the comprehension and appreciation
of the facts of life; and equally they set a bound to the comprehension
and appreciation of what is read. The impressions which a child gets
from either are not those of his elders. The important thing is that
what the growing mind receives shall be vital and wholesome. It is less
unfortunate for the child to mistake what is genuine than to receive as
true what is really false. We all commit errors in the conclusions which
we draw from life; and so will it be with children and books. Books
which are wise and sane, however, will in time correct the
misconceptions they beget, as life in time makes clear the mistakes
which life has produced.
The whole philosophy of reading for children is pretty well summed up by
implication in the often quoted passage in which Charles Lamb describes
under the disguise of Bridget Elia, the youthful experience of his
sister Mary:--
She was tumbled early, by accident or design, into a spacious closet
of good old English reading, without much selection or prohibition,
and browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage. Had I
twenty girls, they should be brought up exactly in this
fashion.--_Mackery End._
Fiction--to return to the immediate subject of this talk--is only a part
of a child's education, but it is a most essential part; and it is of
the greatest importance that the fiction given to a young reader be
noble; that it be true to the essentials of life, as it can be true only
if it is informed by a keen and sane imagination. Children should be fed
on the genuine and sound folk-tales like those collected by the brothers
Grimm; the tales of Hans Christian Andersen, of Asbjörnsen, of
Laboulaye, and of that delightful old lady, the Countess d'Aulnoy; the
fine and robust "Morte d'Arthur" of Malory; the more modern classics,
"Robinson Crusoe" and "Gulliver." Then there are Hawthorne's "Tanglewood
Tales" and the "Wonder-Book," "Treasure Island" and "Kidnapped," "Uncle
Remus," and the "Jungle Books." It may be claimed that these are
"juvenile" literature; but I have named nothing of which I, at least, am
not as fond now as in my youth, and I have yet to discover that adults
find lack of interest in good books even of fairy stories. What has been
said against juvenile literature has been intended against the
innumerable works mustered under that name which are not literature at
all. Wonder lore is as normal food for old as for young, and there is no
more propriety in confining it to children than there is in limiting the
use of bread and butter to the inhabitants of the nursery.
It is neither possible nor wise to attempt here a catalogue of books
especially adapted to children. I should myself put Spenser high in the
list, and very likely include others which common custom does not regard
as well adapted to the young. These, of course, are books to be read to
the child, not that he at first can be expected to go pleasurably
through alone. Prominent among them I would insist first, last, and
always upon Shakespeare. If it were practically possible to confine the
reading of a child to Shakespeare and the Bible, the whole question
would be well and wisely settled. Since this cannot be, it is at least
essential that a child be given both as soon as he can be interested in
them,--and it is equally important that he be given neither until they
do attract him. He is to be guided and aided, but there cannot be a more
rich and noble introduction to fiction than through the inspired pages
of Shakespeare, and the child who has been well grounded in the greatest
of poets is not likely ever to go very widely astray in his reading.
XV
FICTION AND LIFE