1. A stronger interest is developed by the study, for several weeks, of a longer complete masterpiece. The interest grows as we move into such a story or poem as "Sohrab and Rustum." A longer and closer acquaintance with the characters represented produces a stronger personal sympathy, as in the case of Cordelia in "King Lear," or of Silas Marner. The time usually spent in school upon some classic fragment or selection is barely sufficient to start up an interest. It does not bring us past the threshold of a work of art. We drop it just at the point where the momentum of interest begins to show itself. Think of the full story of Aladdin or Crusoe or Ulysses. Take an extract from "Lady of the Lake," "Rip Van Winkle," "Evangeline." The usual three or four pages given in the reader, even if taken from the first part, would scarcely suffice to bring the children into the movement of the story; but oftentimes the fragment is extracted from the body of the play without preliminary or sequence. In reading a novel, story, or poem, we do not begin to feel strongly this interest till two or three chapters are passed. Then it begins to deepen, the plot thickens, and a desire springs up to follow out the fortune of the characters. We become interested in the persons, and our thoughts are busy with them in the midst of other employments or in leisure moments. The personality of the hero takes hold of us as that of an intimate friend. Such an interest, gradually awakened and deepened as we move into the comprehension of a work of art, is the open sesame to all the riches of an author's storehouse of thought.
This kind of interest presupposes in the children the ability to appreciate and enjoy the thought, and even the style, of the author. Interest in this sense is a fundamental test of the suitableness of the story or poem to lay hold of the inner life of the children. In many cases there will be difficulties at the outset in awakening this genuine form of interest, but if the selection is appropriate, the preparation and skill of the teacher will be equal to its accomplishment.
As we get deeper into the study of masterpieces, we shall discover that there are stronger and deepening sources of a genuine interest. Even the difficulties and problems which are supposed to dampen interest will be found, with proper study, to be the source of a stronger appreciation and enthusiasm. The refining and strengthening of these interests in literature leads on steadily to the final goal of study, a cultivated taste and habit of using the best books.
2. A complete work of a master writer is a unit of thought. It is almost as complete a whole as a living organism. Its parts, like the branches of a tree, have no vitality except in communication with the living trunk. In the "Vision of Sir Launfal," there is a single thought, like a golden thread, running through the poem, which gives unity and perfection to it. The separate parts of the poem have very great intrinsic beauty and charm, but their deeper and more vital relation is to this central thought. The story of "The Great Stone Face" is the grouping of a series of interesting episodes along the path of a single developing motive in the life of Ernest. A great writer would scarcely waste his time in trying to produce a work of art without a controlling motive, collecting his thought, as it were, around a vacuum. This hub-thought must become the centre of all intelligent study. The effort to unravel the motive of the author is the deeper stimulus of thoughtful work by both teacher and pupils.
In other studies, like geography, history, and natural science, we are gradually picking out the important units of study, the centres of thought and interest, the types. This effort to escape from the wilderness of jumbled and fractional details into the sunlit region of controlling ideas, is a substantial sign of progress in the teacher's work. In literature these units have been already wrought out into perfect wholes by first-class thinkers.
In the greatest of all studies, the works of the literary masters, we have the surest models of inspiring thought, organized and focussed upon essential topics. Teachers, in some cases, are so little accustomed to lift their heads above the tall grass and weeds around them, that they are overtaken by surprise and bewilderment when called upon to take broad and liberal surveys of the topography of school studies.
It is fortunate that we have, within the fenced boundaries of the commonly recognized school course, these shining specimens of organized, and, what we might call, intelligent thought.
We can set the children at work digging for the root-thoughts of those who are the masters of strong thinking. This digging process is not wholly out of place with children. Their abundant energy can be turned to digging if there is anything worth digging for. Ruskin, in "Sesame and Lilies," says:—
"And it is just the same with men's best wisdom. When you come to a good book, you must ask yourself: 'Am I inclined to work as an Australian miner would? Are my pickaxes and shovels in good order, and am I in good trim myself, my sleeves well up to the elbow, and my breath good, and my temper?' And, keeping the figure a little longer, even at cost of tiresomeness, for it is a thoroughly useful one, the metal you are in search of, being the author's mind or meaning, his words are as the rock which you have to crush and smelt in order to get at it. And your pickaxes are your own care, wit and learning; your smelting furnace is your own thoughtful soul. Do not hope to get at any good author's meaning without those tools and that fire; often you will need sharpest, finest chiselling, and patientest fusing, before you can gather one grain of the metal."
It is not the dreamy, hammock-soothing, vacation idling with pleasant stories that we are now considering. This happy lotus-land has also its fitting season, in the sultry heats of summer, when tired people put their minds out to grass. Any study will grow dull and sleepy that lacks energy.