Teachers who shrink back with anxiety lest works such as Irving's "Sketch Book," "Evangeline," "Merchant of Venice," and "Marmion," are too hard for children in sixth, seventh, and eighth grades, should consider for a moment what classical preparatory schools for centuries have required of boys from ten to twelve years of age, the study of "Cæsar," "Eutropius," and "Virgil," of "Herodotus" and "Xenophon," in unknown languages extremely difficult to master. Yet it has been claimed for ages, by the best scholars, that this was the true strength-producing discipline for boys. It would hardly be extravagant to say that the masterpieces of literature now used, in our intermediate and grammar grades, are not a quarter so difficult and four times as appropriate and interesting as the Latin and Greek authors just cited. It seems obvious that we are summoned to a more energetic study and treatment of our masterpieces.
This struggle to get at the deeper undercurrent of thought in an author is the true stimulus and discipline of such studies.
A great author approaches his deeper thought step by step. He has many side-lights, variety of episode and preliminary. He provides for the proper scenery and setting for his thought. He does not bring us at once, point blank, upon his hero or upon the hero's fate. There is great variety of inference and suggestion in the preparation and grouping of the artist's work. As in climbing some mountain peak, we wind through cañon, along rugged hillsides and spurs, only now and then catching a glimpse of the towering object of our climb, reaching, after many a devious and toilsome march, the rugged backbone of the giant; so the poet carries us along many a winding road, through byways and thickets, over hill and plain, before he brings us into full view of the main object of search. But after awhile we do stand face to face with a real character, and are conscious of the framework upon which it is built. King Saul has run his course and is about to reap the reward of his doings, to lie down in the bed which he has prepared. We see the author's deeper plan, and realize that his characters act along the line of the silent but invincible laws of social life and conduct. These deep significant truths of human experience do not lie upon the surface. If we are really to get a deep insight into human character, as portrayed by the masters, we must not be in haste. We should be willing to follow our guide patiently and await results.
A complete masterpiece, studied as a whole, reveals the author's power. It gives some adequate perception of his style and compass. A play, a poem, a novel, a biography, is a unit. No single part can give a satisfactory idea of the whole. A single scene from "Crusoe" or from the "Merchant of Venice" does not give us the author's meaning. An extract from one of Burke's speeches supplies no adequate notion of his statesmanlike grasp of thought. To get some impression of what Daniel Webster was we must read a whole speech. A literary product is like a masterpiece of architecture. The whole must stand out in the due proportion of its parts to reveal the master's thought.
"Walk about Zion, and go round about her:
Tell the towers thereof.
Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces;
That ye may tell it to the generations following."
To have read through with care and thoughtful appreciation a single literary masterpiece and to have felt the full measure of a master's power, is a rare and lasting stroke of culture. As children move up through the grades they may receive the strong and abiding impress of the masters of style. Let it come to them in its undiminished strength. To feel the powerful tonic effect of the best stories and poems suited to their age will give them such an appreciation of what is genuine and good in literature, that frivolous and trashy reading is measured at its true value.
The fragments and extracts with which our higher readers are filled are not without power and influence upon culture. They have given many children their first taste of the beauty and strength of literature. But it is a great mistake to tear these gems of thought from their setting in literature and life, and to jam them into the close and crowded quarters of a text-book. Why satisfy ourselves with crumbs and fragments when a full rich feast may be had for the asking?
In some cases it is said that the reading of fragments of large poems or plays has excited curiosity and led to the reading of the larger wholes. This is doubtless true, but in the greater number of cases we are inclined to think the habit of being satisfied with fragments has checked the formation of any appreciation of literary wholes. This tendency to be satisfied with piecemeal performances illustrates painfully the shallowness and incoherency of much of our educational work. If teachers cannot think beyond a broken page of Shakespeare, why should children burden themselves with the labor of thought? Charles Kingsley, in his essay on English literature, says:—
"But I must plead for whole works. 'Extracts' and 'Select Beauties' are about as practical as the worthy in the old story, who, wishing to sell his house, brought one of the bricks to market as a specimen. It is equally unfair on the author and on the pupil; for it is impossible to show the merits or demerits of a work of art, even to explain the truth or falsehood of any particular passage, except by viewing the book as an organic whole."
What would the authors themselves say upon seeing their work thus mutilated? There is even a touch of the farcical in the effort to read naturally and forcibly and discuss intelligently a fragment like Antony's speech over Cæsar.