Myth and Hero Tale
The world is a wonder-palace to the child. “Everything hints at something
more magical and more marvelous which is to come.” The inanimate objects
about him are given living attributes; animals and flowers are endowed by
his fancy with human thought and feeling. He talks to the clouds and the
stars; he peoples the sky with living inhabitants; to him the winds are
not “forces of nature”; they are boisterous companions or gentle friends.
This applies to the imaginative child, and there are more imaginative
children than the most of us suspect. The imagination may be
suppressed by older and “wiser” companions, or natural shyness may
cause the imaginative fancies to remain unvoiced; but the fancies are
there—bubbling over in fantastic follies or childish imagery, or kept
in those hidden chambers of the soul to which grown-ups are forbidden
entrance.
Because of this mental attitude, children are inherent myth-makers. And
to the same mental attitude upon the part of the children of the race,
is due the fund of mythological lore which has enriched the world’s
literature and inspired much of its art.
To this rich store, then, the child may be introduced by means of
mythological stories. Their appeal is strong because they are in harmony
with his own spontaneous interests. Froebel says: “Would’st thou know how
to teach the child? Observe him, and he will show you what to do.” If,
then, the child so loves the myth, let us hold him and help him by means
of the mythological story. Those which contain an objectionable element
may readily be withheld; there are plenty which are beautiful in their
form and true in their teaching.
The myth, strictly speaking, differs from the fairy story in that it
personifies the forces and manifestations of nature: Aurora awakening
the sleeping world with her shafts of light; Ceres presiding over the
harvests of golden grain; Jove hurling the dreadful thunderbolts; and
Narcissus living in the beautiful blossom which bears his name.
Few children will accept these stories as absolute statements of fact,
nor need they be so presented. Whatever this personification of the
universal elements may have meant to the ancient Greeks, to us it is
purely imaginary; it is the fairy-land of nature. Children love to “make
believe,” and their own personifications of the forces of nature, while
spontaneous and vivid, are a part of their imaginative world—a part of
their “make believe.” So, mythological stories are never accepted by
them upon the literal plane of the true nature story, nor should they
ever be so presented. When stories of the ancient gods and goddesses are
told, they may be very briefly outlined as the imaginative stories of an
ancient race. This will give them their true place, without in the least
detracting from their charm.
The child who is made familiar with the old mythology by means of stories
and verse, holds the key of understanding to the countless allusions of
the world’s best literature. He may not comprehend the deeper meaning,
nor understand that they were the religion of an ancient people, but when
in his later reading of some masterpiece of poetry or prose he finds an
allusion to Phaeton, to Apollo, or to Neptune, he will experience the
same delight that comes to one who meets an old playfellow in a foreign
land.
_The Hero-Tale_
As the child creates a world of fancy and, when left to himself, lives
within it, so marvelous deeds and achievements are to him as the daily
breath of our own lives. He imagines himself the hero of such wonderful
and impossible adventures that when he is told of Phaeton and his mad
ride, he accepts it with the same calm appreciation which is accorded the
imaginings of his own creative moods. The slaying of the Gorgon is fully
in harmony with his own future plans. Not that he believes in these hero
tales literally, or comprehends their deeper significance, but they fit
in so perfectly with his normal habit of creative fancy that they seem to
him as his very own, and he loves them.
The hero-tale appeals as strongly to the child as does the myth—probably
more strongly to the boy. Indeed, the myth and hero-tale are often one,
for Greek and Norse mythology abound in heroes and heroic adventures,
and the lad who pores breathlessly over the thrilling experiences of a
Captain Kidd, would find equal delight in the story of the Wooden Horse
and the Fall of Troy, were it told him in a manner suited to his age and
understanding.
The story of Arion, returning victorious from the great musical contest,
and threatened by the mutinous seamen of his vessel, stirs any boy to
enthusiasm, as do the adventures of Perseus, who, helped by Minerva and
Mercury, slew the Gorgon, Medusa.
In another field there are the merry tales of Robin Hood, the outlaw
beloved of boys, with his host of adventurous followers; and the
chivalrous deeds of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table.
Stories of the knights appeal to universal boyhood. Well do I remember
a story hour in which the compact body of the audience was fringed all
about with boys under whose arms were shoe-blacking kits, or bundles of
newspapers. They dodged in for a story, and out again for a customer,
but with one voice they demanded—it was not a request—“Give us a knight
story! Give us a knight story!”
Boys can be kept from reading worthless fiction if books and stories
of the right sort are placed in their hands, and the surest way to make
these attractive is to give them the contents or a part of the contents
in story form first. Make the stories vivid, give them plenty of life and
action, and Captain Kidd or Bunco Bill will pale before King Arthur and
Ulysses.
The younger children will listen with greatest delight to stories of
imaginary heroes, such as abound in folk-lore and myth—Jack the Giant
Killer easily leading in favor, as has been proven by statistics.
Children demand definite aims, swift action, prompt reward of the good,
and punishment of the evil. They do not understand complex motives nor
the slow working out of nature’s retribution. This comes with later
years. The story-teller must choose her subjects in accordance with the
age of the child. The world of fancy gradually gives way before the
world of fact, and there comes a time when the heroes of the myth and
the fairy tale are received with a certain degree of scorn. They are
“out-grown.” At this period the boy and girl demand heroes of flesh and
blood; men who “do and dare” especially appeal to them. There must still
be rapid action and swift retribution or reward, but motives begin to be
understood more fully, and little by little these motives begin to be
less self-centered; they touch an ever-broadening circle.
To follow this circle and select stories which fit its circumference
should be the aim of mother and teacher. Here, as everywhere in teaching,
the “spontaneous interests” furnish the key for selection.
The range of hero-tales is wide. Among them are the mythological and
folk-lore tales previously suggested; the legendary hero-tales which are
partly fact and partly fancy, such as the _Knights of the Round Table_,
_Robin Hood_, and most of the medieval stories; and Bible stories, among
which there are a host of heroic characters, whose _moral_ heroism should
be made the dominant note.
There are also the heroes who have traveled, explored, and dared in the
interests of science, and those who have endured hardship and privation
in order to carry civilization to the dark corners of the globe. There
are heroes also, often unknown, who risk their lives almost daily to
carry on the mechanical processes of modern civilization. Any of these
will form the nucleus of stories of thrilling interest to the growing
boy and girl. Let the motive for the heroic deed be felt throughout the
story. Do not tack it on as a moral; let it permeate the whole narrative.
It has been truly said that “To add a moral application to a story is as
complete a confession of failure as to append an explanation to a joke.”
The material for hero-tales lies all about us—upon the pages of the
newspaper and the magazine, as well as between the covers of the Iliad
and the Odyssey.
Give the boy and girl stories “clean in the warp and woof”; stories of
brave, noble men and women, worthy of emulation, for “with the great,
one’s thoughts and manners easily become great.”
The following story of “The Coming of Arthur” from _Some Great Stories
and How to Tell Them_ (Newson and Company), by Richard Thomas Wyche,
founder of The Story-Tellers’ League, is one of the best examples
known to the author of the sort of hero or knight story which all boys
love, and which will lead them into the realms of the best and purest
literature.
The Coming of Arthur[3]
One dark stormy night a long time ago, in a land beyond the seas, old
King Uther lay upon his bed dying. He was weeping and lamenting, not
so much because he was leaving this world, as because he had no son or
daughter to come after him and rule England. There were two old men who
stood near the king, whose names were Bleys and Merlin. When they saw
that their king was silent in death, they passed out into the black night
and walked down toward the ocean where the great waves came rolling in
from the deep.
The night was stormy, and they noticed that the waves grew larger and
larger. They counted them—one, two, three, up to the ninth—which seemed
to gather half the sea. Suddenly, on the highest crest of this wave,
they saw a shining ship in the form of a dragon, and all from stem to
stern the deck was covered with shining people. No sooner had they seen
the ship than it disappeared. But nevertheless this great wave came
rolling in and tumbled at their feet. Strange to say out of this wave
there rolled a little naked child, and Merlin picked it up and cried,
“The King! The King! An heir for Uther!” Then the long wave swept up the
beach, wrapped about the old man and flashed like fire. After which there
was a calm, and the stars came out, and the elves and fairies blew their
horns from cliff to cliff.
Merlin gave the little child to an old woman to nurse. He was given the
name of Arthur, and as the years passed by he grew into a beautiful boy
with blue eyes and golden hair. Merlin, who was a very wise old man,
became the boy’s teacher.
But let me tell you a story about the boy. One day, as Arthur was walking
out all alone in the sunny fields, he came upon a little girl sitting
upon a bank of heath, weeping as if her heart would break, and saying:
“I hate this fair world and all that’s in it.” She had been beaten for
a fault of which she was not guilty. When she looked up there stood the
boy, Arthur. Whether he could walk unseen like his old teacher Merlin,
who was something of a wizard, she did not know, but there he stood
smiling at her. He dried her tears, comforted her heart, and was a
child with her. But one day after that when she saw him again he was so
dignified and cold she was afraid of him. But again when she saw him his
ways were sweet and they played as children together. They were golden
hours for her and for him. She said then, “Some day he will be King.”
As Arthur grew into manhood he wanted a sword, as all boys did in those
days. One summer day he was in his boat on the lake. All around him
spread the shining water, above him bent the sky, soft and blue. He moved
to the center of the lake and stopped. It was noon, and he sat thinking.
Perhaps he was wondering what he would do when he became a man. Suddenly
he heard the water ripple, and near by he saw, rising from the lake a
white arm and hand holding a sword. Arthur reached out and took the sword
and then the hand disappeared.
The hilt of the sword was in the shape of a cross, studded with jewels
that sparkled and flashed. He pulled it from the scabbard and the blade
was so bright that it hurt his eye to look at it. On one side of the
blade he saw cut in the steel in the oldest language of all the world,
the words, “Take me,” but on the other side, in the language of the
people, “Cast me away.” It made him sad to think he must cast it away.
He took it to his old teacher Merlin, who was then a hundred winters
old. Merlin said: “‘Take me’ means that you must take the sword, clear
the forest, let in the light and make broad pathways for the hunter and
the knight; break up the robber bands and bandit holds; drive back the
heathen that come swarming over the seas, burning the houses and killing
the people.” Then he whispered into Arthur’s ear and said: “Some day you
may be king. After you have ruled the land and made it better, the time
will come when you may cast the sword away, but that is a long way off.”
The years passed. Not since the dark stormy night on which King Uther
died had there been a strong ruler in England. The people fought among
themselves. The heathen came swarming over the seas; the wild animals
came from the woods and carried off the children. The land was going to
ruin. One day the people came together and said: “We must make one man
king.” Whom do you suppose they crowned? Merlin, with his knowledge
and power, had Arthur lifted up and put on the throne. Many believed he
was the rightful king, but others said: “Away with him, he is no king
of ours, he is base-born.” But then Arthur spoke to the people in the
hall, and asked all the young men who would help him rule the land to
come forward. Many heard his manly voice and came and stood before him.
He said to them: “Will you speak the truth; be pure; right the wrong; be
strong, yet gentle; be true in love; obey the king and your conscience?”
When they said “yes,” they kneeled before him, and he made them his
knights. When they arose from the knighting, he spoke to them in a low
deep voice of authority and told them that he wished to make a good king,
and that he wanted them to rule the land and make the world better, and
the people happier.
While he stood speaking to them, for a moment every man seemed to favor
the king; their faces were radiant. Then suddenly three rays of light
fell as if from heaven, and lit up the faces of three tall queens, who
stood near the throne to help the king at his need. Near him stood his
old teacher Merlin, and the Lady of the Lake who, it was said, made and
gave him Excalibur, the wonderful sword. After that, other young men came
and took the vows of knighthood, until there were hundreds of knights.
They were called Knights of the Round Table.
Then King Arthur went against the heathen, and in twelve great battles
drove the last one from the country. One day, as he was passing with
his army through the streets of a village, he saw, standing by a castle
wall, a beautiful young woman. He did not know her, nor did she know him;
for Arthur was clad simply as one of his knights, and not in his kingly
robes. Arthur could not forget the face. He was in love with the young
woman, and wanted to make her his wife and queen. When he returned to his
palace, he called Sir Bedivere and two other knights, and sent them to
search for the young woman.
The young woman’s name was Guinevere, called the pearl of beauty, and her
father was an old king, Leodogran, King of Camelaird. When the knights
stood before him, and said, “King Arthur wishes Guinevere to be his wife
and queen,” the old man spoke roughly to them, and said, “Who is Arthur,
that I should give my daughter in marriage to him? He is base-born, and
not the son of a king. Even though he has helped me in battle, how can I,
being a king, give my daughter in marriage to a man that is not a king,
or the son of a king?”
When Leodogran was persuaded to make further inquiries, and heard of
Arthur’s birth and boyhood, of the wonderful sword Excalibur, of the
three rays of light at his coronation, and of his pure life and great
deeds, he still doubted.
He sat upon his seat and actually nodded, napped, and kept the knights
waiting. But while he napped, he dreamed, and in his dream saw a great
battlefield starting at his feet and sloping away as far as the eye could
reach. On this field armies were passing and moving. Arthur, the newly
crowned king, with his army, was victorious and glorious. When Leodogran
woke up, he called the knights and said: “Yes, Guinevere, my daughter,
may go.”
Some time after that, King Arthur called Sir Lancelot, his best knight
and warrior, and sent him to bring the Queen-to-be to his palace. Sir
Lancelot and the other knights with him rode away on horseback, while
King Arthur stood and watched them from the gates as they disappeared.
Guinevere was ready and came with Sir Lancelot. It was the first of
May, when the earth was white with hyacinths. The woods were all abloom
and seemed full of singing birds. Guinevere rode on horseback by Sir
Lancelot. Each day couriers went before and pitched a tent where the
Queen-to-be might rest at noon. The journey was soon at an end. Sir
Lancelot had entertained Guinevere with talk of the tourney, the chase,
the hunt, and of King Arthur and his noble deeds. Sir Lancelot was so
strong, yet gentle and tender, that she could not help but like him,
and love him. When King Arthur came out to meet her, clad in his kingly
robes, he seemed so tall and dignified that she felt a little afraid of
him. But she knew that she was to be his wife and queen. Straightway
they went to the church, and there before the highest of altar shrines,
the bishop made them man and wife, and blessed them. Then as they went
from the church King Arthur’s Knights, clad in stainless white, marched
before him with trumpets and a song:
Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May!
Blow trumpet, the long night hath rolled away!
Blow thro’ the living world, “Let the King reign!”
And that was the coming of King Arthur.
FOOTNOTES
[3] By permission of the author, and publishers.