to take pains to reconcile them to the supernatural. To the normal
child the line between the actual and the unreal does not exist
until this has been drilled into him by adult teaching, conscious
or unconscious. The normal condition of youth is that which accepts
a fairy as simply and as unquestioningly as it accepts a tree or a
cow. Certainly it is true that children are in general ready enough
for what they would call "make-believe," that stage of half-conscious
self-deception which lies between the blessed imaginative faith of
unsophisticated childhood and the more skeptical attitude of those who
have discovered that "there isn't any Santa Claus." For all younger
classes nothing more is likely to be necessary than to assume that the
wonderful will be accepted.
When occasion arises to justify the marvellous, the teacher may always
call attention to the fact that in poems like "The Ancient Mariner,"
or "Comus," or "Macbeth" the supernatural is a part of the hypothesis.
To connect with this the pupil's conception of the part the hypothesis
plays in a proposition in geometry is at once to help to connect one
branch of study with another, always a desirable thing in education,
and to aid them in understanding why and how they are to accept the
wonders of the story entirely without question. The impossible is part
of the proposition, and this they must be made to feel before they can
be at ease with their author or get at all the proper point of view.
The aim of literature is to arouse emotion, but we live in a realistic
age, and the youth of the present is not given to the emotional.
Youth, moreover, instinctively conceals feeling, and the lads in our
school-classes to-day are in their outside lives and indeed in most of
their school-work called upon to be as hard-headed and as unemotional
as possible. They are likely to feel that emotion is weak, that to be
moved is effeminate. They will shy at any statement that they should
feel what they read. The notion of conceiving an hypothesis helps just
here. A boy will accept—not entirely reasoning the thing out, but
really making of it an excuse to himself for being moved—the idea that
if the hypothesis were true he might feel deeply, although he assures
himself that as it is he is actually stable in a manly indifference.
The aim of the teacher is to awake feeling, but not to speak of it; to
touch the class as deeply as possible, yet not to seem aware, or at
least not to show that he is aware that the students are touched.
In this as in all treatment of literature, any connection with the
actual life of the pupil is of the greatest value. It seems to justify
emotion, and it gives to the work of imagination a certain solidity.
Without reasoning the thing out fully, a boy of the present day is
likely to judge the importance of anything presented to him at school
by what he can see of its direct bearing upon his future work, and
especially by its relations to the material side of life. This is even
measurably true of children so young that they might be supposed still
to be ignorant of the realism of the time and of the practical side of
existence. The teacher best evades this danger by starting directly
from some thought or fact in the child's present life and from this
leading him on to the mood of the work of literature which is under
consideration.
Here and everywhere I feel the danger of seeming to be recommending
mechanical processes for that which no mechanical process can reach. If
the teacher has a sympathetic love for literature, he will understand
that I do not and cannot mean anything of the sort; if he has not
that sympathy, he cannot treat literature otherwise than in a machine
fashion, no matter what is said. It sometimes seems that it is hardly
logical to expect every teacher to be an instructor in literature any
more than it would be to ask every teacher to take classes in music and
painting. Art requires not only knowledge but temperament; both master
and pupil must have a responsiveness to the imaginative, or little can
be accomplished. Since the exigencies of our present system, however,
require that so large a proportion of teachers shall make the attempt,
I am simply endeavoring to give practical hints which may aid in the
work; but I wish to keep plainly evident the fact that nowhere do I
mean to imply a patent process, a mechanical method, or anything which
is of value except as it is applied with a full comprehension that the
chief thing, the thing to which any method is to be at need completely
sacrificed, is to awaken appreciation and enthusiasm, to quicken the
imagination of the student, and to develop whatever natural powers he
may have for the enjoying and the loving of good books.[87:1]
FOOTNOTES:
[83:1] Page 69.
[87:1] While this volume was in press a writer in the _Monthly Review_
(London) has remarked: "I fail to see how a literary sense can be
cultivated until a firm foundation of knowledge has been laid whereon
to build, and I tremble to think of the result of an enforced diet of
'The Canterbury Tales,' 'The Faerie Queen,' and 'Marmion' upon a class
as yet ignorant of the elements of English composition."
VII
THE INSPIRATIONAL USE OF LITERATURE
The term "inspirational," which I have used as indicating the second
division of the teaching of literature, is a somewhat absurdly large
word for what is the most simple and natural part of the whole dealing
with books which goes on between teacher and pupil. It is a term,
however, which expresses pretty well what is or should be the exact
character of the study at its best. The chief effect of literature
should be to inspire, and by "inspirational," as applied to teaching, I
mean that presentation of literature which best secures this end.
Put in simpler terms the whole matter might be expressed by saying that
the most important office of literature in the school as in life is to
minister to delight and to enthusiasm; and whoever is familiar with the
limited extent to which the required training in college requirements
or in prescribed courses fulfils this office will realize the need
which exists for the emphasizing of this view of the matter. Literature
is made a gymnasium for the training of the intellect or a treadmill
for the exercise of the memory, but it is too seldom that delight which
it must be to accomplish its highest uses.
That the secondary schools should be chiefly concerned with this phase
of literature seems to me a truth so obvious and so indisputable that
I can see only with astonishment that it is so generally ignored. In
the lower grades, it is true, something is done in the way of letting
children enjoy literature without bothering about didactic meanings,
history of authors, philological instances, critical manipulations, and
all the devices with which later the masterpieces of genius are turned
into bugbears; but even here too many teachers feel an innate craving
to draw morals and to make poetry instructive. They seem to forget
that as children themselves they skipped the moral when they read a
story, or at best received it as an uninteresting necessity, like the
core of an apple, to be discarded when from it had been gleaned all
the sweets of the tale. Nothing is more amazing than the extent to
which all we teachers, in varying degrees, but universally, even to the
best of us, go on dealing with a sort of imaginary child which from
our own experience we know never did and never could exist. The first
great secret of all teaching is to recognize that we must deal with our
pupils as if we were dealing with our own selves at their age. If we
can accomplish this, we shall not bore them with dull moralizings under
the pretext that we are introducing them to the delights of literature.
Where a class has to be dealt with, the work in any branch must be
adapted to the average mind, and not to the understanding of the
individual; so that in school many things are impossible which at
home, or in individual training, are not difficult. It is not hard, I
believe, to interest even the average modern boy, distracted by the
multiplicity of current impressions, in the best literature, provided
he may be taken alone and competently handled. Almost any wholesome and
sane lad may at times be found to be indifferent in class to the plays
of Shakespeare, for instance; yet I believe few healthy and fairly
intelligent boys of from ten to fifteen could resist the fascination of
the plays if these were read with them by a competent person at proper
times, and without the dilution of mental perception which necessarily
comes with the presence of classmates. Be this, however, as it may,
the teacher must be content with arousing as well as he can the spirit
of the class as a whole. Some one or two of the cleverest pupils will
lead, and may seem to represent the spirit of all; but even they are
not what they would be alone, and in any case the instructor must not
devote himself to the most clever while the rest of the pupils are
neglected.
It follows that in the choice of pieces to be read to students the
first thing to be considered is that these shall be effective in a
broad sense so that they will appeal to the average intelligence and
taste of a given class easily and naturally. They must first of all
have that strong appeal to general human emotion which will insure a
ready response from youth not well developed æsthetically and rendered
less sensitive by being massed with other students in a class. Such
a selection is not easy, and it involves the careful study of what
may be termed the individuality of any given group of pupils; but it
seems to me to be at once one of the most obvious and one of the most
important of the points which should be considered in the beginning of
any attempt to create in school a real enjoyment in literature.
A danger which naturally presents itself at the very outset is the
likelihood of forgetting that the possession of this easy and obvious
interest is not a sufficient reason why a work should be presented to a
class. It too often happens that the desire of arousing and interesting
pupils leads teachers to bring forward things that are sensational and
have little if any further recommendation. Doubtless Dr. Johnson was
right when he declared that "you have done a great thing when you have
brought a boy to have entertainment from a book;" yet after all the
teacher is not advancing in his task and may be doing positive harm
if he sacrifice too much to the desire to be instantly and strongly
pleasing. Flashy and unworthy books are so pressed upon the reading
public at the present day that especial care is needed to avoid
fostering the tendency to receive them in place of literature.
It is not my purpose to give lists of selections, for in the first
place it has been done over and over, notably in such a collection as
the admirable "Heart of Oak" series; and in the second no selection
can be held to be equally adapted to different classes or to have
real value unless it has been made with a view to the actual needs of
a definite body of pupils. Pupils must be interested, yet the things
chosen to arouse their interest should be those which have not only the
superficial qualities which make an instant appeal, but possess also
those more lasting merits essential to genuine literature.
In the lower grades it is generally, I believe, possible for the
teacher to control the choice of selections put before students,
although even here this is not always the case. If errors of selection
are made, however, they are largely due to inability to judge wisely
and to a too great deference to general literary taste. A teacher
must remember that two points are absolutely essential to any good
teaching of literature: first, that the selection be suited to the
possibilities of the individual class; second, that the teacher be
qualified so to use and present the selection as to make it effective.
Many conscientious teachers take poems which they know are regarded
as of high merit, and which have been used with advantage by other
instructors, yet which they individually, from temperament or from
training, are utterly inadequate to handle. They either lack the
insight and delight in the pieces which are essential if the pupils
are to be kindled, or are deficient in power so to present their own
appreciation and enjoyment that these appeal to the children.
For illustration of one of the ways in which a child may be led into
the heart of a poem I have chosen "The Tiger," by William Blake.
This belongs to the class of literature constantly taken for use with
children because it is reputed to be beautiful, yet which constantly
fails in its appeal to a class. It is to me one of the most wonderful
lyrics in the language, yet I doubt if it would ever have occurred to
me to use it in our common schools, and certainly I should never have
dreamed that it was to be presented to children in the lower grades.
I do not know with what success teachers in general may have used it,
but in one or two Boston schools with which I happen to be fairly
well acquainted the effect is pretty justly represented by the mental
attitude of the small lad spoken of in the next chapter. The extent to
which children acquiesce in a sort of mechanical compliance in what to
them are the vagaries of their elders in the matter of literature can
hardly be exaggerated. Doubtless they often unconsciously gain much
of which they do not dream in the way of the development of taste and
perception, but too often the whole of the instruction given along
æsthetic lines slides over them without producing any permanent effect
of appreciable value.
Of course I do not contend that children are not advancing unless they
know it. Early training in literature may often be of the highest value
without definite consciousness on the part of the child. Self-analysis
is no more to be expected here than anywhere else in the early stages
of training. The child does not in the least comprehend, for instance,
that the ditties of Mother Goose, meaningless jingles as they are,
are educating his sense of rhythm; he does not understand that his
imaginative powers are being nourished by the fairy-tale, the normal
mental food for a certain stage of the development of the individual as
it is the natural and inevitable product of a corresponding stage in
the development of the race. So long as a child has genuine interest
in a poem or a tale he is getting something from it, but he does not
concern himself to consider anything beyond present enjoyment. In the
earlier stages at least, and for that matter at any stage, the thing
to be secured is interest; and instruction in the lower school grades
should be confined to what is actually needed to make children enjoy a
given piece. Anything beyond this may wisely be deferred.
In many of the lower grades it is now the fashion to have children
act out poems. The method is spoken of with satisfaction by teachers
who have tried it. I know nothing of it by experience, but should
suppose it might be good if not carried too far. Children are naturally
histrionic, and advantage may be taken of this fact to stimulate their
imagination and to quicken their responsiveness to literature, if
seriousness and sincerity are not forgotten.
In this early work it does not seem to me that much can wisely be done
in the study of metrical effects. Indeed, I have serious doubts whether
much in the way of the examination of the technique of poetry properly
has place anywhere in preparatory schools. The child, however, should
be trained gradually to notice metrical effects, by having attention
called to passages which are especially musical or impressive. By
beginning with ringing and strongly marked verse and leading on to
effects more delicate the teacher may do much in this line.
I have called this early work "inspirational" because it should be
directed to making literature a pleasure and an inspiration. The word,
clumsy as it may seem, does express the real function of art, and the
only function which may with any profit be considered in the earlier
stages of the "study" of literature. The object is to make the children
care for good books; to show them that poetry has a meaning for them;
and to awaken in them—although they will be far from understanding the
fact—a sensitiveness to ideals. The child will not be aware that he
is being given higher views of life, that he is being trained to some
perception of nobler aims and possibilities greater than are presented
by common experiences; but this is what is really being accomplished.
Any training which opens the eyes to the finer side of life is in the
best and truest sense inspiration; and it should be the distinct aim
of the teacher to see to it that whatever else may happen, in the
lower grades or in the higher, this chief function of the teaching of
literature shall not be lost sight of or neglected.
VIII
AN ILLUSTRATION
To attempt to give a concrete illustration of the method in which any
teaching is to be carried on is in a way to try for the impossible.
Every class and every pupil must be treated according to the especial
nature of the case and the personal equation of the teacher. I perhaps
expose myself to the danger of seeming egotistic if I insert here an
experience of my own, and, what is of more consequence, I may possibly
obscure the very points I am endeavoring to make clear. As well as I
can, however, I shall set down an actual talk, in the hope that it
may afford some hint of the way in which even difficult pieces of
literature may be made to appeal to a child. Of course this is not in
the least meant as a model, but solely and simply as an illustration.
I once asked a fine little fellow of eight what he was doing at school.
He answered—because this happened to be the task which at the moment
was most pressing—that he was committing to memory William Blake's
"Tiger."
"Do you like it?" I asked.
"Oh, we don't have to like it," he responded with careless frankness,
"we just have to learn it."
The form of his reply appealed to one's sense of humor, and I wondered
how many of my own students in literature might have given answers not
dissimilar in spirit, had they not outgrown the delicious candor which
belongs to the first decade of a lad's life. The afternoon chanced to
be rainy and at my disposal. I was curious to see what I could do with
this combination of Blake and small boy, and I made the experiment.
I should not have chosen the poem for one so young; but it is real,
compact of noble imagination, the boy was evidently genuine, and a real
poem must have something for any sincere reader even if he be a child.
The following report of our talk was not written down at the time,
and makes no pretense of being literal. It does represent, so far
as I can judge, with substantial accuracy what passed between the
straightforward lad and myself. Too deliberate and too diffuse to have
taken place in a school-room, it yet gives, on an extended scale,
what I believe is the true method of "teaching literature" in all the
secondary-school work. I do not claim to have originated or to have
discovered the method; but I hope that I may be able to make clearer
to some teachers how children may be helped to do their own thinking
and thus brought to a vital and delighted enjoyment of the masterpieces
they study.
I began to repeat aloud the opening lines of the poem.
"Why," said the boy, "do you know that? Did you have to learn it at
school when you were little like me?"
"I'm not sure when I did learn it," I answered; "I've known it for a
good while; but I didn't just learn it. I like it."
I repeated the whole poem, purposely refraining from giving it very
great force, even in the supreme symphonic outburst of the magnificent
fifth stanza:
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?
"It sounds rather pretty," I commented, as carelessly as possible.
"Yes, I suppose so," he assented colorlessly, looking at me rather
suspiciously.
He was a shrewd little mortal, and he had been so often told at school
that he should like this and that for which in reality he did not
care a button that he was on his guard. I made a casual remark about
something entirely unrelated to the subject. It was well that the lad
should not feel that he was being instructed. Then in a manner as
natural and easy as I could make it I asked:
"Did you ever see a tiger?"
"Oh, yes; I've seen lots of them at the circus. Tom Bently never went
to but one circus, but I've been to four."
"What does a tiger look like?" I went on, ignoring the irrelevant.
"He's a fierce-looking thing! Didn't you ever see one?"
"Yes, I've seen them, but I wondered if they looked the same to you as
they do to me."
"Why, how do they look to you?"
"I asked you first. It's only fair for you to say first."
"Well," the small boy said, with a fine show of being determined to
play fair, "I think they look like great big, big, big cats. Did you
think that?"
"That's exactly what I should have said. They really are a sort of cat,
you know. Did you ever see a keeper stir them up?"
"Oh, yes, sir; and they snarled like anything, and licked their lips
just like this!"
He gave a highly gratifying imitation, and then added vivaciously: "If
I were the keeper, I'd keep stirring them up all the time. They did
look so mad!"
"And they opened and shut their eyes slowly," I suggested, "as if
they'd like to get hold of their keeper."
"Yes; and their eyes were just like green fire."
"'Burning bright,'" I quoted; and then without giving the boy time to
suspect that he was being led on, I asked at once: "Did you ever see a
cat's eyes in the dark?"
"Oh, I saw our cat once last summer, when we were in the country, under
a rosebush after dark, when Dick and I got out of the window after we'd
gone to bed. She just scared me; her eyes were just like little green
lanterns. Dick said they were like little bicycle lamps."
"If it had been a tiger under a bush in the night,—'in the forests of
the night,'—"
"Oh," interrupted the boy with the eagerness of a discoverer, "is that
what it means! Did he see a tiger in the night under a bush? A real,
truly tiger, all loose? I'd have run away."
"I don't know if he ever saw one," I answered. "I rather think he
saw a tiger or a picture of one, or thought of one, and then got to
thinking how it must seem to come across one in the woods; when one was
travelling, say, in the East where tigers live wild. If you came upon
one in the forest in the dark, what do you think would be the first
thing that would tell you a tiger was near?"
"I'd hear him."
"Did you ever hear a cat moving about?"
"No," the boy said doubtfully. "Aunt Katie says Spot doesn't make any
more noise than a sunbeam. Could a sunbeam make a noise?"
"She meant that Spot didn't make any. You'd never hear a tiger coming,
for it's a kind of cat, and moves without sound. You wouldn't know that
way."
"I'd see him."
"In the night? You couldn't see him."
"Yes, I could! Yes, I could!" he cried triumphantly. "I'd see his eyes
just like green fire."
I had interested the lad and taken him far enough to feel sure he would
follow me if I helped him on a little faster. I was ready to use clear
suggestion when I felt that he would respond to it as if the thought
were his own.
"Well," I said, "don't you see that this is just what the man who wrote
the poem meant? He got to thinking how the tiger would look in the
night to anybody that came on him in the forest and saw those eyes like
green fires shining at him out of the jungle. Don't you suppose you or
I would think they were pretty big fires if we saw them, and knew there
was a tiger behind them?"
"I guess we should! Wooh! Do you suppose Bruno'd run?"
Bruno was a small and silky water-spaniel, a charming beast in his
way, but not especially welcome at this point of the conversation.
"Very likely;" I slid over the subject. "The man knew that he would
have a feeling how big and strong that tiger must be: and it gave him
a shock to think what a fearful thing the beast would be there in the
dark, with all the warm, damp smells of the plants in the air, and the
strange noises. It would almost take away his breath to think what a
mighty Being it must have taken to make anything so awful as a tiger."