SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.
FICTION AND ROMANCE.
Self-cultureby the reading of stories! One can imagine some pedant of a generation or two ago shaking his head over such a suggestion. As well write of education by the playing of games! And yet it has come to be recognised that neither connection of ideas is, in itself, at all absurd or preposterous. The influence of fiction is a force to be reckoned with in the formation of character—a force, indeed, of no small magnitude; for there are an enormous number of girls whose reading begins and ends with the story.
This is, of course, a mistake. In an earlier chapter of this series we have sought to explain why fiction, even of the very best type, should not form the staple of reading for anybody. But it will probably always constitute a very large proportion of the mental food of young people, and it is better to look the fact in the face than to bewail it and preach!
The first form in which literature appeals, with any charm or interest, to the child is as the story; and children of larger growth love the story still. What would those do, whose lives are dull, sordid, or depressing, without the power to transport themselves into the lives of other people? It is an actual necessity to exchange their own experience, even for a brief time, for the experience of others. The novel, the imaginative work, appeals more perhaps to girls than to any other section of the community. If they are lonely, ill, unhappy from any cause, they find their solace, companion, anodyne, here. If they are happy, they seek the reflection of their own light-heartedness, and greater happiness yet to come, in the story pages.
The imagination is a factor too little understood in the training of character. It is of the utmost importance to give this faculty something good wherewith to nourish it, or it will prey upon itself. Silly, vapid, or morbid girls might perchance have been made different if they had been provided with books that were at once strong and artistically beautiful, instead of the sentimental novelette.
We hold a high opinion of the value of fairy-tales of the best kind for children, and are always stirred to wrath by the superior infant who says: “There are no such things as fairies.” Fortunately there are not many children who cannot, for instance, enjoy the charm and pathos of such a story asThe Little Sea MaidenorThe Snow Queen, by Hans Christian Andersen, with many others by that great author too numerous to mention. There are also the exquisite creations of the Countess d’Aulnoy and Perrault, not forgetting two French authors who were the delight of our own childhood—Madame la Comtesse de Ségur and Léon de Laujon. Those delicious volumes, the “Blue,” the “Green,” and the “Red” fairy-book, by Andrew Lang, are a real treasure-store of delight. And it must not be forgotten that some of the fairy-legends they contain are ofwonderful antiquity, being found, under different forms, in the early literature of many lands.
Girls, who are elder sisters, and possibly past the fairy-tale stage, be gracious in the telling of stories to the little ones who cannot read! It may be a trouble to hunt in your memory for these stories and put them into words, but it is really worth while to do it, and do it well, avoiding what is gruesome and fearful, but choosing all that is charming and attractive. Even in the way of “self-culture” the task will be good for you, and still better if you can succeed in telling a story “out of your own head.” The present writer began her work in this way when a child, writing fairy-tales, and recounting one by word of mouth, entitled,The Precipice Passage, which continued from day to day during many months, and was of the most thrilling description, as well as of superhuman length.
A most beautiful book, though not exactly a fairy-tale, for children isThe Story without an End, translated by Sarah Austin from the German of Carové (Sampson Low & Marston). The child who possesses this book, with the original coloured illustrations, to pore over, will have a foundation of graceful and tender fancies for the “culture” of riper years.
“But,” you may object, “this paper is for girls, not for children, and we have outgrown fairy-tales.”
There is one fairy-tale which you ought to read whatever your age, if it is not already familiar to you—Undine, by De la Motte Fouqué. If you can understand German, you should certainly read it in the original. If not, an English translation is to be obtained. It is, perhaps, the sweetest and most pathetic legend of all romance.
Romance! The charm of that word! One loves, even in middle age, to linger regretfully upon it, and dream over the poet’s vision of—
“Magic casements opening on the foamOf perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.”
“Magic casements opening on the foamOf perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.”
“Magic casements opening on the foamOf perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.”
“Magic casements opening on the foam
Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.”
We do not envy the youth or maiden whose pulse is not thrilled by those immortal lines; yet who can give a reason for their charm and spell?
The present generation, it is to be feared, do not read the prose works of Longfellow as they should.HyperionandKavanaghare tender mystical romances, full of charm.
It is, however, an impossible task to stand at the door of this vast library of the world’s fiction, and point you to the volumes you may take down from the shelves. One general observation may be made, seeing that our title is “Self-Culture.”
The best novels will aid you indirectly in “self-culture.” The worst will not leave you where they found you, but will do you actual harm. You will be just one little bit farther removed from “self-culture”—will be nearer that which is vulgar and paltry, and poor and mean, to go no farther—for the reading of a “trashy” novel.
It is, therefore, not the indifferent matter you may think it, to take up the silly sentimental story for the sake of an hour’s amusement. Find your amusement where there is no need of repentance.
How ashamed one feels, even if quite alone, while reading a really foolish book! and the feeling of shame is a right and healthy one.
Perhaps the type of story which does most harm to girls of the middle and lower classes, is that in which a titled lover of fabulous wealth appears suddenly like a “god out of a machine” to wed the heroine, who is remarkable only for her beauty. He has a great deal to answer for, that young aristocrat, whom we have not met outside the pages of such literature.
No girl would deliberately reflect: “I am going to read such and such a novel to improve my mind.” If she did, she would show she had not much mind to improve. But she may bear in mind one or two general principles and suggestions.
It is very desirable to read the best historical novels. For example,The Last Days of Pompeii, by Bulwer Lytton, andHypatia, by Charles Kingsley, will help you to realise the early centuries of the Christian era.Hereward the Wake, by Kingsley, andThe Last of the Barons, by Bulwer Lytton, may be read in connection with Freeman’sHistory of the Norman Conquest.The Cloister and the Hearth, a magnificent historical novel by Charles Reade, throws light upon the fifteenth century, andRomola, by George Eliot, does the same so far as Italy is concerned.Westward Ho!by Charles Kingsley, is a stirring tale of the sixteenth century.John Inglesant, by Shorthouse, will do more to explain the Stuart period than any number of dry “Outlines,” while Thackeray’sEsmond and The Virginiansmay follow on. TheTale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens, will help you to realise the terror of the French Revolution, andThe Shadow of the Sword, by Robert Buchanan, gives a forcible picture of the days of Napoleon.
There are many other good historical novels; but, as Scott is always regarded asfacile princepsin such work, it may be useful to arrange his novels in chronological order.
Before the end of the fourteenth century comeIvanhoe,Count Robert of Paris,The Betrothed,The Talisman, andThe Fair Maid of Perth. After 1400—Quentin Durward, andAnne of Geierstein: 1500,Kenilworth,The Abbot,The Monastery,Marmion(poem): 1600,Fortunes of Nigel,Legend of Montrose,Woodstock,Old Mortality,The Bride of Lammermoor,Peveril of the Peak: 1700,The Antiquary,Guy Mannering,Waverley,Rob Roy, andHeart of Midlothian.
That history should be made real is a matter of no small importance. After all, it is the story of men and women like ourselves, and Professor Seeley’s remark inThe Expansion of England(a valuable book) is worth remembering—
“When I meet a person who does not find history interesting, it does not occur to me to alter history—I try to alterhim!”
There has, during the last few years, been a decided increase in the writing of romances and tales of adventure, pure and simple, removed from everyday experience, and one need only suggest the names of Robert Louis Stevenson, Anthony Hope, Max Pemberton, to illustrate the class of story which much delights the author, and probably also her young friends.
For the general run of fiction, here are a few names: Scott, Thackeray, Dickens, Charles Kingsley and his brother, George Eliot, Mrs. Gaskell, R. D. Blackmore (be sure you readLorna Doone), George Macdonald, Sir Walter Besant, Mrs. Oliphant, Charlotte Brontë—that wonderful, fiery, lonely genius—you will read herShirleyandVillette, whether we advise you to do so or not. And, indeed, the list of writers of good fiction is so enormous that it is absurd to attempt to give it. As soon as a few names are written down, others press for mention. Therefore, we will renounce the task; first, perhaps, reminding you not to omit Mrs. Oliphant’sLittle Pilgrim in the Unseen. All the stories of this writer which have a tinge of the atmosphere of the spiritual borderland, are deeply suggestive.
Do not read a novel only because it has a startling title and “everybody” is talking about it. In these days that is no proof of excellence. A story shoots up like a rocket, and its swift trail of brilliance dies down as suddenly.
Do not read books which leave the impression that life is after all rather a hopeless struggle, not worth the trouble. There are a great many such stories in the present day, whose motto is Despair. Let them alone. They may be works of art, beautiful and pathetic in their tragedy; but you have to live, and make the best of your life; therefore it is unwise to let yourself be paralysed by discouragement near the outset. Some books have a way of arranging a perfectly impossible combination of circumstances, and then calling upon the universe at large to bewail the result. This is hardly fair. Choose rather what makes you better able to live and to act, and inspires you with a feeling that to do and to be your best, even in a world of sorrow, is very much worth while indeed.
There are, broadly speaking, two ways of viewing art and literature: one from the point of the “Realist,” and one from the point of the “Idealist.” In our day the Realists have come much into prominence, especially in France; but they are known in England too.
The Realist school in fiction cries out for “Life,” by which we understand the visible, the material, that which can be seen, heard, touched, handled. A realistic novel, for instance, may be made a mass of information upon obscure and out-of-the-way subjects. Nothing comes amiss—“Life, life above everything” its exponents cry. “You Idealists have long enough been teaching men to dream with their heads in the clouds. We lead them along a plain path and show them the world as it really is. In our way lies safety.”
The Idealist school, on the contrary, has an absolute standard of excellence to which it refers; it loves the hero or heroine in fiction, the beautiful in art, and it sets itself to find out the “reality” which underlies appearances.
To give a simple example. A “realistic” novel of poor life would depict the bareness and misery of the cottage, the unlovely faces and clothing of its inmates, the toil for daily bread; not one depressing item would be spared, and one would rise from the story feeling as if one had indeed looked for a moment into the poor household and shared in its meagreness.
A novel written from the idealist standpoint, while not inventing untrue and therefore inartistic details, would look below the surface and bring out, besides the poverty, the beauty and the pathos that are sure to exist wherever the human affections are found.
As an illustration of our meaning we may quoteA Window in Thrums, by J. M. Barrie, which, while sacrificing no vestige of truth, is the work of an artist who is an idealist. Set in the humble interior of a Scotch cottage, a lame homely mother, a workingman the father, a daughter of whom we are not told she is startlingly lovely, or indeed startlingly anything—this is the simple little company that, for the main part, act out a drama of such pathos, and beauty, and charm, that the heart is full of “thoughts too deep for tears” after reading some of the inimitable chapters.
This is Life, and life seen in the true way—the idealist’s way—by the artist who has imagination.
For imagination is the faculty, not of inventing falsehoods, but of revealing a deeper truth than that which lies upon the surface of things.
Are we straying into reflections that are too obscure? It is better to suggest some means by which really artistic work shall be detected than to string together a list of books which might not appeal to many of our readers at all, and which might prove unsuitable for others.
Whatever is lovely, noble, and pure in fiction—whether it be the telling of heroic deeds, or the discerning of significance in the “commonplace,” the homely and trivial—choose and delight in it. Avoid what makes you listless and dissatisfied with your daily life; choose what helps you to live and to work, and to do and be the very best that is in you; not forgetting that what is beautiful and exalted will purify your taste, charm your mind, and remain with you as an abiding power for good.
Lily Watson.