FOOTNOTES:

“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 tous; 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,Quebecwas 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 mindThose 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.”

“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 tous; 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,Quebecwas burned and Farmer slain, by us remembered not;But thanks be to the French book wherein they're not forgot.

'Twas the sixth day of October, Seventeen-hundred-seventy-nine,

A year when nations ventured against us to combine,

Quebecwas 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 mindThose 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.”

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 theentente cordialewill 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'sPsychologyin 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.

Agrande damevisiting 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: “Butoh!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 showidealjustice.

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, thehistorian, 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—herworld 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 translatethe 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 ofthe 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 ofleger 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 storyquite 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. Wecould 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 isexpected 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 owingThat the child in me has never died.

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.

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 owingThat the child in me has never died.

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]SeeLittle Cousin Seriesin 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 theAgamemnon(speaking of the victor's attitude after the taking of Troy):“Yea, let no craving for forbidden gainBid 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 hasnone. 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.

[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.

[40]SeeLittle Cousin Seriesin 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 theAgamemnon(speaking of the victor's attitude after the taking of Troy):“Yea, let no craving for forbidden gainBid conquerors yield before the darts of greed.”

[43]This is even a higher spirit than that shown in the advice given in theAgamemnon(speaking of the victor's attitude after the taking of Troy):

“Yea, let no craving for forbidden gainBid conquerors yield before the darts of greed.”

“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 hasnone. 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.

On Questions Asked by Teachers.

Thefollowing questions have been put to me so often by teachers, in my own country and the States, that I have thought it might be useful to give in my book some of the attempts I have made to answer them; and I wish to record here an expression of gratitude to the teachers who have asked these questions at the close of my lectures. It has enabled me to formulate my views on the subject and to clear up, by means of research and thought, the reason for certain things which I had more or less taken for granted. It has also constantly modified my own point of view, and has prevented me from becoming too dogmatic in dealing with other people's methods.

Question I.Why do I consider it necessary to spend so many years on the Art of Story-Telling, which takes in, after all, such a restricted portion of literature?

Just in the same way that an actor thinks it worth while to go through so many years' training to fit him for the stage, although dramatic literature is also only one branch of general literature. The region of Storyland is the legitimate stage for children. They crave for drama as we do, and because there are comparatively few good story-tellers, children do not have their dramatic needs satisfied. What is the result? We either take them to dramatic performances for grown-up people, or we have children'stheatres where the pieces, charming as they may be, are of necessity deprived of the essential elements which constitute a drama—or they are shrivelled up to suit the capacity of the child. Therefore it would seem wiser, whilst the children are quite young, to keep them to the simple presentation of stories, because, their imagination being keener at that period, they have the delight of the inner vision and they do not need, as we do, the artificial stimulus provided by the machinery of the stage.[48]

Question II.What is to be done if a child asks you: Is a story true?

I hope I shall not be considered Utopian in my ideas if I say that it is quite easy, even with small children, to teach them that the seeing of truth is a relative matter which depends on the eyes of the seer. If we were not afraid to tell our children that all through life there are grown-up people who do not see things that others see, their own difficulties would be helped.

In hisImagination Créatrice, Queyrat says:“To get down into the recesses of a child's mind, one would have to become even as he is; we are reduced to interpreting that child in the terms of an adult. The children we observe live and grow in a civilised community, and the result of this is that the development of their imagination is rarely free or complete, for as soon as it rises beyond the average level, the rationalistic education of parents and schoolmasters at once endeavours to curb it. It is restrained in its flight by an antagonistic power which treats it as a kind of incipient madness.”

It is quite easy to show children that if you keep things where they belong they are true with regard to each other, but that if you drag these things out of the shadowy atmosphere of the “make-believe,” and force them into the land of actual facts, the whole thing is out of gear.

To take a concrete example: The arrival of the coach made from a pumpkin and driven by mice is entirely in harmony with the Cinderella surroundings, and I have never heard one child raise any question of the difficulty of travelling in such a coach or of the uncertainty of mice in drawing it. But suggest to the child that this diminutive vehicle could be driven among the cars of Broadway, or amongst the motor omnibuses in the Strand, and you would bring confusion at once into his mind.

Having once grasped this, the children will lose the idea that Fairy Stories are just for them, and not for their elders, and from this they will go on to see that it is the child-like mind of the Poet and Seer that continues to appreciate these things: that it is the dull, heavy person whose eyes so soon become dim and unable to see any more the visions which were once his own.

In his essay onPoetry and Life(Glasgow, 1889), Professor Bradley says:

“It is the effect of poetry, not only by expressing emotion but in other ways also, to bring life into the dead mass of our experience, and to make the world significant.”

This applies to children as well as to adults. There may come to the child in the story-hour, by some stirring poem or dramatic narration, a sudden flashof the possibilities of Life which he had not hitherto realised in the even course of school experience.

“Poetry,” says Professor Bradley, “is a way of representing truth; but there is in it, as its detractors have always insisted, a certain untruth or illusion. We need not deny this, so long as we remember that the illusion is conscious, that no one wishes to deceive, and that no one is deceived. But it would be better to say that poetry is false to literal fact for the sake of obtaining a higher truth. First, in order to represent the connection between a more significant part of experience and a less significant, poetry, instead of linking them together by a chain which touches one by one the intermediate objects that connect them, leaps from one to the other. It thus falls at once into conflict with commonsense.”

Now, the whole of this passage bears as much on the question of the truth embodied in a Fairy Tale as a poem, and it would be interesting to take some of these tales and try to discover where they are false to actual fact for the sake of a higher truth.

Let us take, for instance, the story of Cinderella: The coach and pumpkins to which we have alluded, and all the magic part of the story, are false to actual facts as we meet them in our every-day life; but is it not a higher truth that Cinderella could escape from her chimney corner by thinking of the brightness outside? In this sense we all travel in pumpkin coaches.

Take the story of Psyche, in any one of the many forms it is presented to us in folk-story. The magic transformation of the lover is false to actual fact; but is it not a higher truth that we are often transformed by Circumstance, and that love and courage can overcome most difficulties?

Take the story of the Three Bears. It is not in accordance with established fact that bears should extend hospitality to children who invade their territory. Is it not true, in a higher sense, that fearlessness often lessens or averts danger?

Take the story of Jack and the Bean-Stalk. The rapid growth of the bean-stalk and the encounter with the Giant are false to literal fact; but is it not a higher truth that the spirit of courage and high adventure leads us straight out of the commonplace and often sordid facts of Life?

Now, all these considerations are too subtle for the child, and, if offered in explanation, would destroy the excitement and interest of the story; but they are good for those of us who are presenting such stories: they not only provide an argument against the objection raised by unimaginative people as to the futility, if not immorality, of presenting these primitive tales, but clear up our own doubt and justify us in the use of them, if we need such justification.

For myself, I am perfectly satisfied that, being part of the history of primitive people, it would be foolish to ignore them from an evolutionary point of view, which constitutes their chief importance; and it is only from the point of view of expediency that I mention the potential truths they contain.

Question III.What are you to do if a child says he does not like Fairy Tales?

This is not an uncommon case. What we have first to determine, under these circumstances, is whether this dislike springs from a stolid, prosaic nature, whether it springs from a real inability to visualize such pictures as the Fairy, or marvellous element in the story, presents, or whether (and this isoften the real reason) it is from a fear of being asked to believe what his judgment resents as untrue, or whether he thinks it is “grown-up” to reject such pleasure as unworthy of his years.

In the first case, it is wise to persevere, in hopes of developing the dormant imagination. If the child resents the apparent want of truth, we can teach him how many-sided truth is, as I suggested in my answer to the first question. In the other cases, we must try to make it clear that the delight he may venture to take now will increase, not decrease, with years; that the more you bringtoa thing (in the way of experience and knowledge) the more you will drawoutof it.

Let us take as a concrete example the question of Santa Claus. This joy has almost disappeared, for we have torn away the last shred of mystery about that personage by allowing him to be materialised in the Christmas shops and bazaars.

But the original myth need never have disappeared; the link could easily have been kept by gradually telling the child that the Santa Claus they worshipped as a mysterious and invisible power is nothing but the Spirit of Charity and Kindness that makes us remember others, and that this spirit often takes the form of material gifts. We can also lead them a step higher and show them that this spirit of kindness can do more than provide material things; so that the old nursery tale has laid a beautiful foundation which need never be pulled up: we can build upon it and add to it all through our lives.

Is notoneof the reasons that children reject Fairy Tales because such verypoormaterial is offered them? There is a dreary flatness about all except the very best which revolts the child of literary appreciation and would fail to strike a spark in the more prosaic.

Question IV.Do I recommend learning a story by heart, or telling it in one's own words?

This would largely depend on the kind of story. If the style is classic or if the interest of the story is closely connected with the style, as in Andersen, Kipling or Stevenson, then it is better to commit it absolutely to memory. But if this process should take too long (I mean for those who cannot afford the time to specialise), or if it produces a stilted effect, then it is wiser to read the story many times over, let it soak in, taking notes of certain passages which would add to the dramatic interest of the story, and not trouble about the word accuracy of the whole.

For instance, for very young children the story of Pandora, as told in the Wonder-Book, could be shortened so as to leave principally the dramatic dialogue between the two children, which would be easily committed to memory by the narrator and would appeal most directly to the children. Again, for older children: in taking a beautiful mediæval story such as “Our Lady's Tumbler,” the original text could hardly be presented so as to hold an audience; but whilst giving up a great deal of the elaborate material, we should try to present many of the characteristic passages which seem to sum up the situation. For instance, before his performance, the Tumbler cries: “What am I doing? For there is none here so caitiff but who vies with all the rest in serving God after his trade.” And after his act of devotion: “Lady, this is a choice performance. I do it for no other but for you; so aid me God, I do not—for you and for your Son. And this I dare avouch and boast, that for me it is no play-work. But I am serving you, and that pays me.”

On the other hand, there are some very giftednarrators who can only tell the story in their own words. I consider that both methods are necessary to the all-round story-teller.

Question V.How do I set about preparing a story?

Here again the preparation depends a great deal on the kind of story: whether it has to be committed to memory or re-arranged to suit a certain age of child, or told entirely in one's own words. But there is one kind of preparation which is the same for any story, that is, living with it for a long time, until you have really obtained the right atmosphere, and then bringing the characters actually to life in this atmosphere, most especially in the case of inanimate objects. This is where Hans C. Andersen reigns supreme. Horace Scudder says of him: “By some transmigration, souls have passed into tin soldiers, balls, tops, money-pigs, coins, shoes and even such attenuated things as darning-needles, and when, in forming these apparent dead and stupid bodies, they begin to make manifestations, it is always in perfect consistency with the ordinary conditions of the bodies they occupy, though the several objects become, by the endowment of souls, suddenly expanded in their capacity.”[49]

Now, my test of being ready with such stories is whether I have ceased to look upon such objectsasinanimate. Let us take some of those quoted from Andersen. First, the Tin Soldier. To me, since I have lived in the story, he is a real live hero, holding his own with some of the bravest fighting heroes in history or fiction. As for his being merely of tin, I entirely forget it, except when I realise against what odds he fights, or when I stop to admire the wonderful way Andersen carries out his simile of the old tinspoon—the stiffness of the musket, and the tears of tin.

Take the Top and the Ball, and, except for the delightful way they discuss the respective merits ofcorkandmahoganyin their ancestors, you would completely forget that they are not real human beings with the live passions and frailties common to youth.

As for the Beetle—who ever thinks of him as a mere entomological specimen? Is he not the symbol of the self-satisfied traveller who learns nothingen routebut the importance of his own personality? And the Darning-Needle? It is impossible to divorce human interest from the ambition of this little piece of steel.

And this same method applied to the preparation of any story shows that you can sometimes rise from the rôle of mere interpreter to that of creator—that is to say, the objects live afresh for you in response to the appeal you make in recognising their possibilities of vitality.

As a mere practical suggestion, I would advise that, as soon as you have overcome the difficulties of the text (if actually learning by heart, there is nothing but the drudgery of constant repetition), and as you begin to work the story into true dramatic form, always say the words aloud, and many times aloud, before you try them even on one person. More suggestions come to one in the way of effects from hearing the sounds of the words, and more complete mental pictures, in this way than any other ... it is a sort of testing period, the results of which may or may not have to be modified when produced in public.... In case of committing to memory, I advise word perfection first, not trying dramatic effects before this is reached; but, on the other hand, if you areusing your own words, you can think out the effects as you go along—I mean, during the preparation. Gestures, pauses, facial expression often help to fix the choice of words you decide to use, though here again the public performance will often modify the result. I should strongly advise that all gestures should be studied before the glass, because this most faithfully-recording friend, whose sincerity we dare not question, will prevent glaring errors, and also help by the correction of these to more satisfactory results along positive lines. If your gesture does not satisfy (and practice willmakeyou more and more critical), it is generally because you have not made sufficient allowance for the power of imagination in your audience. Emphasis in gesture is just as inartistic—and therefore ineffective—as emphasis in tone or language.

Beforedeciding, however, either on the facial expression or gesture, we must consider the chief characters in the story, and study how we can best—notpresent them, but allow them to present themselves, which is a very different thing. The greatest tribute which can be paid to a story-teller, as to an actor, is that his own personality is temporarily forgotten, because he has so completely identified himself with his rôle.

When we have decided what the chief characters really mean to do, we can let ourselves go in the impersonation....

I shall now take a story as a concrete example—namely, the Buddhist legend of the Lion and the Hare,[50]which I give in the final story list.

We have here the Lion and the Hare as types—the other animals are less individual and therefore displayless salient qualities. The little hare's chief characteristics are nervousness, fussiness and misdirected imagination. We must bear this all in mind when she appears on the stage—fortunately these characteristics lend themselves easily to dramatic representation. The lion is not only large-hearted but broad-minded. It is good to have an opportunity of presenting to the children a lion who has other qualities than physical beauty or extraordinary strength. (Here again there will lurk the danger of alarming the Nature students!) He is even more interesting than the magnanimous lion whom we have sometimes been privileged to meet in fiction.

Of course we grown-up people know that the lion is the Buddha in disguise. Children will not be able to realise this, nor is it the least necessary that they should do so; but they will grasp the idea that he is a very unusual lion, not to be met with in Paul du Chaillu's adventures, still less in the quasi-domestic atmosphere of the Zoological Gardens. If our presentation is life-like and sincere, we shall convey all we intend to the child. This is part of what I call the atmosphere of the story, which, as in a photograph, can only be obtained by long exposure, that is to say, in case of the preparation we must bestow much reflection and sympathy.

Because these two animals are the chief characters, they must stand out in sharp outline: the other animals must be painted in fainter colours—they should be suggested rather than presented in detail. It might be as well to give a definite gesture to the Elephant—say, a characteristic movement with his trunk—a scowl to the Tiger, a supercilious and enigmatic smile to the Camel (suggested by Kipling's wonderful creation). But if a gesture were given toeach of the animals, the effect would become monotonous, and the minor characters would crowd the foreground of the picture, impeding the action and leaving little to the imagination of the audience.... I personally have found it effective to repeat the gestures of these animals as they are leaving the stage, less markedly, as it is only a form of reminder.

Now, what is the impression we wish to leave on the mind of the child, apart from the dramatic joy and interest we have endeavoured to provide? Surely it is that he may realise the danger of a panic. One method of doing this (alas! a favourite one still) is to say at the end of the story: “Now, children, what do we learn from this?” Of this method Lord Morley has said: “It is a commonplace to the wise, and an everlasting puzzle to the foolish, that direct inculcation of morals should invariably prove so powerless an instrument—so futile a method.”

If this direct method were really effective, we might as well put the little drama aside, and say plainly: “It is foolish to be nervous; it is dangerous to make loose statements. Large-minded people understand things better than those who are narrow-minded.”

Now, all these abstract statements would be as true and as tiresome as the multiplication-table. The child might or might not fix them in his mind, but he would not act upon them.

But, put all the artistic warmth of which you are capable into the presentation of the story, and, without one word of comment from you, the children will feel the dramatic intensity of that vast concourse of animals brought together by the feeble utterance of one irresponsible little hare. Let them feel the dignity and calm of the Lion, which accounts for his authority; his tender but firm treatment of the foolish little Hare;and listen to the glorious finale when all the animals retire convinced of their folly; and you will find that you have adopted the same method as the Lion (who must have been an unconscious follower of Froebel), and that there is nothing to add to the picture.

Question VI.Is it wise to talk over a story with children and to encourage them in the habit of asking questions about it?

At the time, no! The effect produced is to be by dramatic means, and this would be destroyed by any attempts at analysis by means of questions.

The medium that has been used in the telling of the story is (or ought to be) a purely artistic one which will reach the child through the medium of the emotions: the appeal to the intellect or the reason is a different method, which must be used at a different time. When you are enjoying the fragrance of a flower or the beauty of its colour, it is not the moment to be reminded of its botanical classification. Just as in the botany lesson it would be somewhat irrelevant to talk of the part that flowers play in the happiness of life.

From a practical point of view, it is not wise to encourage questions on the part of the children, because they are apt to disturb the atmosphere by bringing in entirely irrelevant matter, so that in looking back on the telling of the story, the child often remembers the irrelevant conversation to the exclusion of the dramatic interest of the story itself.[51]

I remember once making what I considered at the time a most effective appeal to some children who had been listening to the story of the Little Tin Soldier, and, unable to refrain from the cheap method ofquestioning, of which I have now recognised the futility, I asked: “Don't you think it was nice of the little dancer to rush down into the fire to join the brave little soldier?” “Well,” said a prosaic little lad of six: “I thought the draught carried her down.”

Question VII.Is it wise to call upon children to repeat the story as soon as it has been told?

My answer here is decidedly in the negative.

Whilst fully appreciating the modern idea of children expressing themselves, I very much deprecate this so-called self-expression taking the form of mere reproduction. I have dealt with this matter in detail in another portion of my book. This is one of the occasions when children should be taking in, not giving out. (Even the most fanatic of moderns must agree that there are such moments.)

When, after much careful preparation, an expert has told a story to the best of his ability, to encourage the children to reproduce this story with their imperfect vocabulary and with no special gift of speech (I am always alluding to the normal group of children) is as futile as if, after the performance of a musical piece by a great artist, some individual member of the audience were to be called upon to give his rendering of the original rendering. The result would be that the musical joy of the audience would be completely destroyed and the performer himself would share in the loss.[52]

I have always maintained that five minutes of complete silence after the story would do more to fix the impression on the mind of the child than any amount of attempts at reproducing it. The generalstatement made in Dr. Montessori's wonderful chapter on Silence would seem to me of special application to the moments following on the telling of a story.

Question VIII.Should children be encouraged to illustrate the stories which they have heard?

As a dramatic interest to the teachers and the children, I think it is a very praiseworthy experiment, if used somewhat sparingly. But I seriously doubt whether these illustrations in any way indicate the impression made on the mind of the child. It is the same question that arises when that child is called upon (or expresses a wish) to reproduce the story in his own words: the unfamiliar medium in both instances makes it almost impossible for the child to convey his meaning, unless he be an artist in the one case or have real literary power of expression in the other.

My own impression, which has been confirmed by many teachers who have made the experiment, is that a certain amount of disappointment is mixed up with the daring joy in the attempt, simply because the children can get nowhere near the ideal which has presented itself to the “inner eye.”

I remember a Kindergarten mistress saying that on one occasion, when she had told to the class a thrilling story of a knight, one of the children immediately asked for permission to draw a picture of him on the blackboard. So spontaneous a request could not, of course, be refused, and, full of assurance, the would-be artist began to give his impression of the knight's appearance. When the picture was finished, the child stood back for a moment to judge for himself of the result. He put down the chalk and said sadly:“And Ithoughthe was so handsome.”

Nevertheless, except for the drawback of the other children seeing a picture which might be inferior to their own mental vision, I should quite approve of such experiments as long as they are not taken as literal data of what the children have really received. It would, however, be better not to have the picture drawn on a blackboard but at the child's private desk, to be seen by the teacher and not, unless the picture were exceptionally good, to be shown to the other children.

One of the best effects of such an experiment would be to show a child how difficult it is to give the impression he wishes to record, and which would enable him later on to appreciate the beauty of such work in the hands of a finished artist.

I can anticipate the jeers with which such remarks would be received by the Futurist School, but, according to their own theory, I ought to be allowed to express the matteras I see it, however faulty the vision may appear to them.[53]

Question IX.In what way can the dramatic method of story-telling be used in ordinary class teaching?

This is too large a question to answer fully in so general a survey as this work, but I should like to give one or two concrete examples as to how the element of story-telling could be introduced.

I have always thought that the only way in which we could make either a history or literature lessonlive, so that it should take a real hold on the mind of the pupil at any age, would be that, instead of offering lists of events, crowded into the fictitious area of one reign, one should take a single event, say in one lesson out of five, and give it in the most splendid language and in the most dramatic (not to be confused with “melodramatic”) manner.

To come to a concrete example: Supposing that you are talking to the class of Greece, either in connection with its history, its geography or its literature, could any mere accumulation of facts give a clearer idea of the life of the people than a dramatically told story from Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles or Euripides?

What in the history of Iceland could give a more graphic idea of the whole character of the life and customs of the inhabitants than one of the famous sagas, such as “The Burning of Njal” or “The Death of Gunnar”?

In teaching the history of Spain, what could make the pupils understand better the spirit of knight-errantry, its faults and its qualities, than a recital from “Don Quixote” or from the tale of “The Cid”?

In a word, the stories must appeal so vividly to the imagination that they will light up the whole period of history which we wish them to illustrate, and keep it in the memory for all time.

But apart from the dramatic presentation of history, there are great possibilities for introducing the short story into the portrait of some great personage: a story which, though it may be insignificant in itself, throws a sudden sidelight on his character, and reveals the mind behind the actual deeds; this is what I mean by using the dramatic method.

To take a concrete example: Supposing, in givingan account of the life of Napoleon, after enlarging on his campaigns, his European policy, his indomitable will, you were suddenly to give an idea of his many-sidedness by relating how he actually found time to compile a catechism which was used for some years in the elementary schools in France!

What sidelights might be thrown in this way on such characters as Nero, Cæsar, Henry VIII, Luther, Goethe!

To take one example from these: Instead of making the whole career of Henry VIII centre round the fact that he was a much-married man, could we not present his artistic side and speak of his charming contributions to music?....

So much for the history lessons. But could not the dramatic form and interest be introduced into our geography lessons? Think of the romance of the Panama Canal, the position of Constantinople as affecting the history of Europe, the shape of Greece, England as an Island, the position of Tibet, the interior of Africa—to what wonderful story-telling would these themes lend themselves!

Question X.Which should predominate in the story—the dramatic or the poetic element?

This is a much debated point. From experience, I have come to the conclusion that, though both should be found in the whole range of stories, the dramatic element should prevail from the very nature of the presentation, and also because it reaches the larger number of children (at least of normal children). Almost every child is dramatic, in the sense that he loves action (not necessarily an action in which he has to bear a part). It is the exceptional child who is reached by the poetic side, and just as on the stagethe action must be quicker and more concentrated than in a poem—even than a dramatic poem—so it must be with the story. Children act out in their imagination the dramatic or actable part of the story—the poetical side, which must be painted in more delicate colours or presented in less obvious form, often escapes them. Of course the very reason why we must include the poetical element is that it is an unexpressed need of most children. Their need of the dramatic is more loudly proclaimed and more easily satisfied.

Question XI.What is the educational value of Humour in the stories told to our children?

My answer to this is that Humour means much more than is usually understood by this term. So many people seem to think that to have a sense of humour is merely to be tickled by a funny element in a story. It surely means something much more subtle than this. It is Thackeray who says: “If Humour only meant Laughter ... but the Humourist professes to awaken and direct your love, your pity, your kindness, your scorn for untruth and pretention, your tenderness for the weak, the poor, the oppressed, the unhappy.” So that, in our stories, the introduction of humour should not merely depend on the doubtful amusement that follows on a sense of incongruity. It should inculcate a sense of proportion brought about by an effort of imagination: it shows a child its real position in the Universe, and prevents an exaggerated idea of his own importance. It develops the logical faculty, and prevents hasty conclusions. It shortens the period of joy in horseplay and practical jokes. It brings about a clearer perception of all situations, enabling the child to getthe point of view of another person. It is the first instilling of philosophy into the mind of a child, and prevents much suffering later on when the blows of life fall upon him; for a sense of humour teaches us at an early age not to expect too much; and this philosophy can be developed without cynicism or pessimism, without even destroying thejoie de vivre....

One cannot, however, sufficiently emphasize the fact that these far-reaching results can only be brought about by humour quite distinct from the broader fun and hilarity which have also their use in an educational scheme.

From my own experience, I have learned that development of Humour is with most children extremely slow. It is quite natural and quite right that at first pure fun, obvious situations and elementary jokes should please them, but we can very gradually appeal to something more subtle, and if I were asked what story would educate our children most thoroughly in appreciation of Humour, I should say that “Alice in Wonderland” was the most effective.

What better object-lesson could be given in humorous form of taking somebody else's point of view than that given to Alice by the Mock Turtle in speaking of the Whiting?:

“‘You know what they're like?’

‘I believe so,’ said Alice. ‘They have their tails in their mouths—and they're all over crumbs.’

‘You're wrong about the crumbs,’ said the Mock Turtle. 'Crumbs would all wash off in the sea.'”

Or when Alice is speaking to the Mouse of her Cat, and says: “She is such a dear quiet thing—and a capital one for catching mice——” and then suddenlyrealises the point of view of the Mouse, who was “trembling down to the end of its tail.”

Then, as an instance of how a lack of humour leads to illogical conclusions (a condition common to most children), we have the conversation between Alice and the Pigeon:

Alice: “But little girls eat quite as much as serpents do, you know.”

Pigeon: “I don't believe it. But if they do, why then they're a kind of serpent, that's all I can say.”

Then, as an instance of how a sense of humour would prevent too much self-importance:

“‘I have a right to think,’ said Alice sharply.

‘Just about as much right,’ said the Duchess, 'as pigs have to fly.'”

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