The Art of the Story-Teller Part 5

When I study the evolution of the story from the crude recitals offered to our children within the last hundred years, I feel that, though our progress may be slow, it is real and sure. One has only to take some examples from the Chaps Books of the beginning of last century to realize the difference of appeal. Everything offered then was either an appeal to fear or to priggishness, and one wonders how it is that our grandparents and their parents every recovered from the effects of such stories as were offered to them. But there is the consoling thought that no lasting impression was made upon them, such as I believe _may_ be possible by the right kind of story.

I offer a few examples of the old type of story:

Here is an encouraging address offered to children by a certain Mr.

Janeway about the year 1828:

"Dare you do anything which your parents forbid you, and neglect to do what they command? Dare you to run up and down on the Lord's Day, or do you keep in to read your book, and learn what your good parents command?"

Such an address would have almost tempted children to envy the lot of orphans, except that the guardians and less close relations might have been equally, if not more, severe.

From "The Curious Girl," published about 1809:

"Oh! papa, I hope you will have no reason to be dissatisfied with me, for I love my studies very much, and I am never so happy at my play as when I have been a.s.siduous at my lessons all day."

"Adolphus: How strange it is, papa, you should believe it possible for me to act so like a child, now that I am twelve years old!"

Here is a specimen taken from a Chap Book about 1835:

Edward refuses hot bread at breakfast. His hostess asks whether he likes it.

"Yes, I am extremely fond of it."

"Why did you refuse it?"

"Because I know that my papa does not approve of my eating it. Am I to disobey a Father and Mother I love so well, and forget my duty, because they are a long way off? I would not touch the cake, were I sure n.o.body would see me. I myself should know it, and that would be sufficient.

"n.o.bly replied!" exclaimed Mrs. C. "Act always thus, and you must be happy, for although the whole world should refuse the praise that is due, you must enjoy the approbation of your conscience, which is beyond anything else."

Here is a quotation of the same kind from Mrs. Sherwood:

Tender-souled little creatures, desolated by a sense of sin, if they did but eat a spoonful of cupboard jam without Mamma's express permission. . . . Would a modern Lucy, jealous of her sister Emily's doll, break out thus easily into tearful apology for her guilt: 'I know it is wicked in me to be sorry that Emily is happy, but I feel that I cannot help it'? And would a modern mother retort with heartfelt joy: 'My dear child, I am glad you have confessed. Now I shall tell you why you feel this wicked sorrow'?--proceeding to an account of the depravity of human nature so unredeemed by comfort for a childish mind of common intelligence that one can scarcely imagine the interview ending in anything less tragic than a fit of juvenile hysteria.

Description of a good boy:

A good boy is dutiful to his Father and Mother, obedient to his master and loving to his playfellows. He is diligent in learning his book and takes a pleasure in improving himself in everything that is worthy of praise. He rises early in the morning, makes himself clean and decent, and says his prayers. He loves to hear good advice, is thankful to those who give it and always follows it. He never swears[17] or calls names or uses ill words to companions. He is never peevish and fretful, always cheerful and good-tempered.

7. _Stories of exaggerated and coa.r.s.e fun_. In the chapter on the positive side of this subject I shall speak more in detail of the educational value of robust and virile representation of fun and of sheer nonsense, but as a preparation to these statements, I should like to strike a note of warning against the element of exaggerated and coa.r.s.e fun being encouraged in our school stories, partly, because of the lack of humor in such presentations (a natural product of stifling imagination) and partly, because the strain of the abnormal has the same effect as the too frequent use of the melodramatic.

In an article in _Macmillans's Magazine_, December, 1869, Miss Yonge writes:

"A taste for buffoonery is much to be discouraged, an exclusive taste for extravagance most unwholesome and even perverting. It becomes destructive of reverence and soon degenerates into coa.r.s.eness. It permits nothing poetical or imaginative, nothing sweet or pathetic to exist, and there is a certain self-satisfaction and superiority in making game of what others regard with enthusiasm and sentiment which absolutely bars the way against a higher or softer tone."

Although these words were written nearly half a century ago, they are so specially applicable today that they seem quite "up-to-date."

Indeed, I think they will hold equally good fifty years hence.

In spite of a strong taste on the part of children for what is ugly and brutal, I am sure that we ought to eliminate this element as far as possible from the school stories, especially among poor children.

Not because I think children should be protected from all knowledge of evil, but because so much of this knowledge comes into their life outside school that we can well afford to ignore it during school hours. At the same time, however, as I shall show by example when I come to the positive side, it would be well to show children by story ill.u.s.tration the difference between brutal ugliness without anything to redeem it and surface ugliness, which may be only a veil over the beauty that lies underneath. It might be possible, for instance, to show children the difference between the real ugliness in the priest's face of the "Laoc.o.o.n" group, because of the motive of courage and endurance behind the suffering. Many stories in everyday life could be found to ill.u.s.trate this.

8. _Stories of infant piety and death-bed scenes_. The stories for children forty years ago contained much of this element, and the following examples will ill.u.s.trate this point:

Notes from poems written by a child between six and eight years of age, by name Philip Freeman, afterwards Archdeacon of Exeter:

Poor Robin, thou canst fly no more, Thy joys and sorrows all are o'er.

Through Life's tempestuous storms thou'st trod, But now art sunk beneath the sod.

Here lost and gone poor Robin lies, He trembles, lingers, falls and dies.

He's gone, he's gone, forever lost, No more of him they now can boast.

Poor Robin's dangers all are past, He struggled to the very last.

Perhaps he spent a happy Life, Without much struggle and much strife.[18]

The prolonged gloom of the main theme is somewhat lightened by the speculative optimism of the last verse.

Life, transient Life, is but a dream, Like Sleep which short doth lengthened seem Till dawn of day, when the bird's lay Doth charm the soul's first peeping gleam.

Then farewell to the parting year, Another's come to Nature dear.

In every place, thy brightening face Does welcome winter's snowy drear.

Alas! our time is much mis-spent.

Then we must haste and now repent.

We have a book in which to look, For we on Wisdom should be bent.

Should G.o.d, the Almighty, King of all, Before His judgment-seat now call Us to that place of Joy and Grace Prepared for us since Adam's fall.

I think there is no doubt that we have made considerable progress in this matter. Not only do we refrain from telling these highly moral (_sic_) stories but we have reached the point of parodying them, in sign of ridicule, as, for instance, in such writing as Belloc's "Cautionary Tales." These would be a trifle too grim for a timid child, but excellent fun for adults.

It should be our study today to prove to children that the immediate importance to them is not to think of dying and going to Heaven, but of living and--shall we say?--of going to college, which is a far better preparation for the life to come than the morbid dwelling upon the possibility of an early death.

In an article signed "Muriel Harris," I think, from a copy of the _Tribune_, appeared a delightful article on Sunday books, from which I quote the following:

"All very good little children died young in the storybooks, so that unusual goodness must have been the source of considerable anxiety to affectionate parents. I came across a little old book the other day called 'Examples for Youth.' On the yellow fly-leaf was written, in childish, carefully-sloping hand: 'Presented to Mary Palmer Junior, by her sister, to be read on Sundays,' and was dated 1828. The accounts are taken from a work on "Piety Promoted," and all of them begin with unusual piety in early youth and end with the death-bed of the little paragon, and his or her dying words."

9. _Stories containing a mixture of fairy tale and science_. By this combination one loses what is essential to each, namely, the fantastic on the one side, and accuracy on the other. The true fairy tale should be unhampered by any compromise of probability even; the scientific representation should be sufficiently marvelous along its own lines to need no supernatural aid. Both appeal to the imagination in different ways.

As an exception to this kind of mixture, I should quote "The Honey Bee, and Other Stories," translated from the Danish of Evald by C. G.

Moore Smith. There is a certain robustness in these stories dealing with the inexorable laws of Nature. Some of them will appear hard to the child but they will be of interest to all teachers.

Perhaps the worst element in the choice of stories is that which insists upon the moral detaching itself and explaining the story. In "Alice in Wonderland" the d.u.c.h.ess says, "'And the moral of _that_ is: Take care of the sense and the sounds will take care of themselves.' "How fond she is of finding morals in things," thought Alice to herself." (This gives the point of view of the child.)

The following is a case in point, found in a rare old print in the British Museum: