Mr. E. V. Lucas has compiled two volumes of old-fashioned tales
for modern readers. In his introductions he analyses the qualities
of his selected stories, and it is generally the case that, except
for incidental detail, what is said of one of a kind might just as
appropriately be meant for the other. If, at moments, the editor is
prone to confuse quaintness with interest, he makes full amends by the
quick humour with which he deals with the moral purpose. Perhaps it
was part of the game for our great-grandfathers to expect didacticism,
but simply because children were then considered “the immature young of
men” is no excuse, although it may be a reason, for the artificiality
which subserved play to contemplation. Wherever he can escape the bonds
of primness, Mr. Lucas never fails to take advantage; the character of
his selections indicates this as well as such critical remarks as the
following:
“The way toward a nice appreciation of the child’s own peculiar
characteristics was, however, being sought by at least two writers of
the eighteenth century, each of whom was before his time: Henry Brooke,
who in ‘The Fool of Quality’ first drew a small boy with a sense of
fun, and William Blake, who was the first to see how exquisitely worth
study a child’s mind may be.”
Mr. Lucas brings together a number of stories by different persons,
treating them as a group. Should you read them you will have a fairly
distinct conception of early nineteenth century writing for children.
But there is yet another way of approaching the subject, and that is
by tracing influence from writer to writer, from group to group; by
seeking for the _impetus_ without which the story becomes even more of
a husk than ever.
Let us conjure up the long row of theoretical children of a bygone age,
painfully pathetic in their staidness, closely imprisoned. They began
with Jean Jacques Rousseau (1712–1778), the iconoclast, who attacked
civil society, the family, the state, the church, and from whose pen
the school did not escape chastisement. His universal cry of “back to
nature” frightened the conservative; even Voltaire could not refrain,
on reading the essay dealing with the origin of inequality among men,
to write him: “Never has any one employed so much genius to make us
into beasts. When one reads your book he is seized at once with a
desire to go down on all-fours.”
Rousseau’s “Émile, or Treatise on Education” (1762) was wholly
revolutionary; it tore down ancient theories, such as those practised
by Dr. Isaac Watts upon his “ideal” boy and girl; all existent
educational strictures were ignored. Rousseau applied to childhood his
belief in the free unfolding of man’s nature; however impracticable his
methods, he loosed the chains that held fast the claims of childhood,
and recognised their existence. He set the pendulum swinging in the
human direction; he turned men’s minds upon the study of the child as
a child, and, because of this, takes his place at the head of modern
education. He opened the way for a self-conscious striving on the part
of authors to meet the demands of a child’s nature, by furnishing the
best literary diet--according to educational theories--for juvenile
minds. Revolutionary in religious as well as in political and social
ideals, Rousseau’s educational machinery was destined to be infused,
by some of his zealous followers, with a piousness which he never would
have sanctioned.
Training should be natural, says Rousseau; the child should discover
beauty, not be told about it; should recognise spontaneously what he
is now taught. Education should be progressive; at the same time it
should be negative. This sounds contradictory, but Rousseau would keep
his child a child until the age of twelve; he would prevent him from
knowing through any mental effort; he would have him grow like “Topsy”
in animal spirits, his mind unbridled and imbibing facts as his lungs
breathe in air. Yet inconsistency is evident from the outset: the child
must observe, at the same time he must not remember. Is it possible, as
Professor Payne challenges, to form the mind before furnishing it?
Rousseau’s precepts are wise and brilliant. We hear him exclaiming:
“It is less consequence to prevent him [the child] from dying than to
teach him how to live;” “The man who has lived most is not he who has
numbered the most years, but he who has had the keenest sense of life;”
“The best bed is that which brings us the best sleep.” These aphorisms
are as apt as those of Franklin; but in their exercise it is necessary
to consider the concomitants brought into play.
Émile is made an orphan; thus Rousseau gives himself full sway; thus
does he free himself from the necessity of constant consultation with
parents. He is determined to love the boy, to encourage him in his
sports, to develop his amiable instincts, his natural self. Émile must
not cry for the sweets of life; he must have a need for all things
rather than a joyful desire for some. Instead of teaching virtue to
him, Rousseau will try to shield him from a knowledge of all vice.
Where Plato recommends certain pastimes, he will train Émile to delight
in himself--thus making of him something of a youthful egoist. This
amœba state, endowed with all physical liberty, deprived of all dignity
of childish memory, is to be the boyhood of Émile. He “shall never
learn anything by heart, not even fables and not even those of La
Fontaine, artless and charming as they are.” Though he does not possess
the judgment to discriminate, he must be told the bare facts, and he
must discover for himself the relations which these facts bear to each
other. At the age of twelve, he shall hardly know a book when he sees
it. Rousseau calls books “cheerless furniture.”
So much for the boy; the girl Sophie fares as ill. Being of the woman
kind as well as of the child brand, she is to develop in even a more
colourless fashion. Fortunately all theory is not human actuality, and
Émile must have peopled his world in a way Rousseau could not prevent.
We are given natural rights and hereditary endowments; even the savage
has his standards and his dreams. Rousseau’s plan of existence ignored
the social evolution of history. Yet Émile might by such training have
been saved many wearisome explanations of the Mr. Barlow type, and it
is ofttimes true, as Mr. G. K. Chesterton claims, that the mysteries of
God are frequently more understandable than the solutions of man.
There was much in Rousseau’s book to rouse opposition; there was
equally as much to appeal to those whose instinctive love of childhood
was simply awaiting the flood gates to be opened. Like the Grimm
fairy tales of suspended animation, on the instant, the paternal
instinct began to be active, the maternal instinct to be motherly.
Rousseau--emended, modified, accentuated--overran England, France, and
Germany. Children were now recognised as children; it remained to be
seen whether they _were_ to be children.
The didactic era is in no way more fitly introduced than with the
names of Madame de Genlis and Arnaud Berquin in France, together with
the Edgeworth and Aikin families and Thomas Day in England. To each,
small space may be allotted, but they are worthy of full and separate
consideration.
Stéphanie Félicité [Ducrest de St. Aubin], Comtesse de Genlis
(1746–1830), is represented upon the library shelves by nearly a
hundred volumes. They were written during the course of a varied
existence, at the court of Louis XV and at home. Her _Mémoires_
are told in a facile and delightful style, and indicate how she so
thoroughly balanced the many conflicting elements in her duties that
she remains for those days a rare example of wife, mother, society
woman, and student. Her discernment of people, as revealed in these
pages, was penetrating and on the whole just; and, though a typical
product of her time, her nature was chastened by a refined and noble
spirit.
The first glimpse she affords of herself is as a child of six, when
she was taken to Paris. There, her brother was placed at a seat of
learning, where the master guaranteed within six weeks’ time to teach
him reading and spelling by means of a system of counters. The little
girl’s teeth were shedding--not a prepossessing phase of growth at
best. But, in addition, she was encased in whalebone stays, her feet
were squeezed into tight shoes, her curls done up in corkscrew papers,
and she was forced to wear goggles. The height of cruelty now followed.
Country-bred as she had been, her manner was not in accord with the
best ideas; her awkwardness was a matter of some concern. In order to
give better poise to her head, a thick iron collar was clapped upon
her supple throat. Here she was then, ready for regular lessons in
walking. To run was to court disfavour, for little girls, especially
city ones, were not allowed to do such an improper thing; to leap was
an unspeakable crime; and to ask questions was an unwarranted license.
It is small wonder that later on she should utilise the memory of such
abject slavery in “The Dove,” one of the numerous plays included in her
“Theatre of Education.”
Her early years thus prepared Madame de Genlis for the willing
acceptance of any new educational system, especially one which would
advocate a constant companionship between parents and child. For she
had been reared with but exceptional glimpses of her father and mother;
during one of these times she relates how the former, in his desire
to make her brave, forced her to catch spiders in her hands. Such a
picture is worthy a place by the side of Little Miss Muffet.
Like all children, Madame de Genlis was superior to her limited
pleasures; she possessed an imagination which expanded and placed her
in a heroic world of her own making. There is peculiar pleasure in
discovering under narrow circumstances the good, healthy spirit of
youth. Madame de Genlis seemed proud to record a certain dare-devil
rebellion in herself during this period. The pendulum that is made to
swing to its unnatural bent brings with the downward stroke unexpected
consequences. And so, when she married De Genlis, it is no surprise to
read that she did so secretly--a union which is most charmingly traced
in the Memoirs.
She developed into a woman with deep religious sensibility; with
forceful personality; with artistic talent, well exemplified by a
masterly execution on the harp. Living in an atmosphere of court
fêtes, the drama occupied no small part in her daily life. Whether at
her Château Genlis or elsewhere, she was ever ready for her rôle in
theatricals, as dramatist or as actress. She played in Molière, and was
accounted excellent in her characters; naught pleased her better than a
disguise; beneath it her vivacity always disported itself.
Her interest in teaching began early; no sooner was she a mother than
she hastened to fix her opinions as to the duties that lay before her,
in a written treatise called “Reflections of a Mother Twenty Years
of Age,” views which in their first form were lost, but which were
rehabilitated in the later “Adèle et Théodore,” consisting of a series
of letters on education.
After her mind had been drawn to the style of Buffon--for Madame de
Genlis was a widely read woman--she determined upon improving her own
manner of literary expression. She burned her bridges behind her, and
fed the flames with all of her early manuscripts. Then she started
over again to reconstruct her views, and in her study she made careful
notes of what she fancied of importance for her future use. She was on
intimate terms with Rousseau, took him to the theatre, and conversed
with him on education chiefly, and about diverse matters generally. If
she did not agree with him, Madame de Genlis was told that she had
not as yet reached the years of discretion when she would find his
writings suited to her. But Rousseau enjoyed the vivacious lady, who
was kind-hearted and worth while talking to, notwithstanding the fact
that she had the courtier’s love of banter. She writes:
“Not to appear better than I am, I must admit that I have often been
given to ridicule others, but I have never ridiculed anything but
arrogance, folly, and pedantry.”
Madame de Genlis was not a hero-worshipper; on first meeting Rousseau,
his coat, his maroon-coloured stockings, his round wig suggested comedy
to her, rather than gravity. We wonder whether she asked his advice
regarding the use of pictures in teaching history, a theory which she
originated and which Mrs. Trimmer was to follow in her Bible lessons.
Full as the days were, Madame de Genlis, nevertheless, seems to have
been able to give to her children every care and attention. This must
have won the unstinted commendation of Rousseau, who preached that a
boy’s tutor should be his father, and not a hired person.
Madame de Genlis created her own theatre; she wrote little comedies
of all kinds, which met with great success. Often these would be
presented in the open air, upon platforms erected beneath the shade of
forest trees; by means of the drama she sought to teach her daughters
elementary lessons of life; the stage to her was an educational
force. Through the plays her popularity and reputation increased to
such an extent, that the Electress of Saxony demanded her friendship.
She became instructress to the children of the Duke and Duchess of
Chartres, and she prided herself upon being the first in France to
adopt the foreign method of teaching language by conversation.[31]
The rooms for her royal pupils were fitted according to her special
indications. Rough sketches were made upon a wall of blue, representing
medals, busts of kings and emperors of Rome. Dates and names were
frescoed within easy view. Every object was utilised, even to the fire
screens, which were made to represent the kings of France; and over the
balustrades were flung maps, like banners upon the outer walls.
Up and down such staircases, and through such rooms wandered the
cultivated flowers of royalty. They did not suffer, because their
teacher was luckily human as well as theoretical; because she had a
vein of humour as well as a large seriousness. Her whole educational
scheme is described in her “Lessons of a Governess” and “Adèle et
Théodore.” When she engaged a tutor to attend to the special studies of
the young prince in her charge, she suggested the keeping of an hourly
journal which would record the little fellow’s doings--each night she,
herself, to write critical comments upon the margins of every page.
In addition, she kept a faithful record of everything coming within
her own observation; and this she read aloud each day to her pupils,
who had to sign their names to the entries. But much to the chagrin of
Madame de Genlis, the Duke and Duchess refused to take the time to read
the voluminous manuscripts; they trusted to the wisdom and discretion
of the teacher.
Not a moment was lost during these busy periods; history was played
in the garden, and civic processions were given with ponies gaily
caparisoned. Even a real theatre was built for them. Royalty was
taught to weave, and was taken on instructive walks and on visits to
instructive places. But, through all this artificiality, the woman in
Madame de Genlis saved the teacher.
The latter part of her eventful life was filled with vexations, for
the thunders of the French Revolution rolled about her. A short while
before the storm broke, she went on a visit to England, where she came
in contact with Fox and Sheridan, with Walpole and Reynolds; and where
she paid a special visit to the House of Commons and was a guest at
Windsor.
All told, here was a writer for children, self-conscious and yet
ofttimes spontaneous in her style. She is interesting because of
herself, and in spite of many of her literary attempts. She is little
read to-day, in fact rarely mentioned among juvenile book lists;
education killed a keen perception and vivacity by forcing them along
prescribed lines. One glimpse of Madame de Genlis in old age is
recorded by Maria Edgeworth, who called on her in 1803.
“She came forward, and we made our way towards her as well as we
could, through a confusion of tables, chairs, and work-baskets, china,
writing-desks and inkstands, and bird-cages and a harp.... She looked
like the full-length picture of my great-great-grandmother Edgeworth
you may have seen in the garret, very thin and melancholy, but her
face not so handsome as my great-grandmother’s; dark eyes, long sallow
cheeks, compressed, thin lips, two or three black ringlets on a high
forehead, a cap that Mrs. Grier might wear,--altogether an appearance
of fallen fortunes, worn-out health, and excessive but guarded
irritability. To me there was nothing of that engaging, captivating
manner which I had been taught to expect by many even of her enemies;
she seemed to me to be alive only to literary quarrels and jealousies;
the muscles of her face as she spoke, or as my father spoke to her,
quickly and too easily expressed hatred and anger whenever any not of
her own party were mentioned.”
A frontispiece to the 1802 edition of Arnaud Berquin’s (1749–1791)
works represents his bust being garlanded and crowned, and his “L’Ami
des Enfans” being regarded by a group of admirers, both young
and old. But though this very volume was received with honours by
the French Academy, and though by it Berquin claims his right to
immortality, French children of the present refrain from reading him
as systematically as we refrain from reading “Sandford and Merton,”
which, as it happens, Berquin translated into French. There are popular
editions of “L’Ami des Enfans,” but children do not relish the tameness
of such moral literature. The editor detailed to write Berquin’s short
life, which was spent in the study of letters, and in following up one
“Ami” by another, sacrifices incident and fact for encomium. It is easy
to claim for Berquin modesty and goodness during his residence in his
native town near Bordeaux and after his arrival in Paris during 1772;
it is interesting to know that he was encouraged to use his talents
by the praise of his friends, but far more valuable would it have
been to tell just in what manner he reached that ethical state which
overflowed in his “L’Ami des Enfans,” published during the years 1782
and 1783. The full purport of the volume is summed up exuberantly in
the following paragraph:
“Quelle aimable simplicité! quel naturel! quel sentiment naïf
respirent dans cette ingénieuse production! Au lieu de ces fictions
extravagantes, et de ce merveilleux bizarre dans lesquels on a si
longtemps égaré l’imagination des enfans, Berquin ne leur présente
que des aventures dont ils peuvent être témoins chaque jour dans leur
famille.”
The tales and playlets written by Berquin are almost immoral in their
morality. It is a question whether the interest of children will
become absorbed by the constant iteration of virtue; whether goodness
is best developed through the exploitation of deceit, of lying, of
disobedience, and of wilful perverseness. To be kind means to be
rewarded, to be bad is synonymous with punishment. Berquin and his
followers might have drawn up a moral code book in pocket form, so
stereotyped was their habit of exacting an eye for an eye and a tooth
for a tooth. What are the punishments of vanity, what the outcome of
playing when the afternoon task is to watch the sheep? The pictures
made to illustrate the stories depict boys and girls kneeling in
supplication, while the grown persons almost invariably stand in
disdainful attitude. The children who would be their own masters
and go out in a boat, despite parental warning, are upset: there is
the algebraic formula. “Plainness the Dress of Use” is probably a
worthy subject for a tale, and “A Good Heart Compensates for Many
Indiscretions” a pathetic title for a play. But young people as a
general rule are not maudlin in their feelings; even granting that
there are some given that way, they should not be encouraged in holding
a flabby standard of human, as well as of divine, justice. “L’Ami des
Enfans” is filled with such sentimental mawkishness.