Imagination was bestowed upon us by the Great Giver of all things, and unquestionably was intended to be cultivated in a fair proportion to the other powers of the mind. Excess of imagination has, I know, done incalculable mischief; but that is no argument against a moderate cultivation of it; the excess of all good things is mischievous.
A strong reason why we should indulge children in reading some of the best fairy-stories and fables, and young people in reading some of the best novels, is, that we cannot possibly help their getting hold of some books of this description; and it is never wise to forbid what we cannot prevent: besides, how much better it is that their choice should be guided by a parent, than left to chance.
The extreme fondness for fairy legends indicates an origin deeply laid in some law of our being. Probably, it is merely a grotesque form of the universal consciousness that the earthly and the visible are constantly and intimately connected with the spiritual and the unseen. Whatever may be the cause, such a book as The Arabian Nights charms all sorts of youthful readers, all the world over. Its extravagant fancies are probably as harmless as are pictures of trees changing into men, or rocks making up faces like monkeys. They are understood to be extravagances, and are enjoyed as such.
The love of fiction is likewise founded in an universal instinct; and all universal instincts of human nature should be wisely employed, rather than forcibly repressed. They are like powerful waters, which, if dammed up in one place, will surely overleap their barriers in another. Our eager desire to obtain insight into another’s being, makes autobiography intensely interesting to all classes of readers; and novels derive their charm from the same source. That which biography gives to us in outline, the novelist fills up, by the power of imagination, guided by experience. We see ourselves reflected in the characters that most interest us. Thus have we hoped and loved, sinned and suffered. A mirror for the face has a bewitching attraction for all nations; what wonder then that a mirror for the soul is so generally fascinating? It is the business of a judicious parent to guide this instinct aright, and thus make it productive of genuine culture, as well as of amusement. The profligate and strongly-exciting works, with which our circulating libraries are overrun, operate on the mind as alcohol does on the body; but this intellectual intoxication produces effects more difficult to cure, than its type in the physical system. For this reason, the works of Byron, Bulwer, Eugene Sue, &c., ought never to be read, till the principles and taste are thoroughly formed on wiser and better models. Yet a peremptory prohibition of such works seems to me injudicious and hazardous. In one of my last conversations with the lamented Dr. Channing, he told me that he never deemed it wise to forbid his children anything they were very eager to see or hear. He said he would not put in their way books, the tendency of which he disapproved; and if they came in their way, he would endeavor to set them aside, if it could be done without stimulating curiosity. But if he found his child eager on the subject, he would say, ‘My son, I do not like this book; but since you desire to read it, let us read it together, and see whether it makes a similar impression on your mind.’ In the course of the reading, this wise father would take frequent opportunities for incidental commentaries, and free discussion. He would remark upon what he considered immoral, irrational, unnatural, or untrue. If the lad did not accept these observations as just, his father would listen kindly and respectfully to all the reasons he had to offer, and answer them with perfect candor. Thus were dangerous books disarmed of their power to injure, while the bond between parent and child was strengthened.
The wisest way to create a distaste for sickly works of fiction, is early to form a taste for those which are pure and healthy. Highest in this class stand the admirable writings of Frederika Bremer. She brings before us human life, with all its simple enjoyments, its practical difficulties, its unsatisfied aspirations, its every-day temptations; and she leads us into it all, with the love and insight of an angel. The coloring of all her sweet domestic pictures, is revealed in the rich sunlight of a deep spirituality. The moral is not appended or inlaid, but fused with the whole mass. In the daily actions of her heroes and heroines, self-sacrifice and religious trust shine forth with such unpretending beauty, that they win their way deeper into the soul, than the utterance of the wisest oracles. It has been justly said that ‘her powers of observation are most acute and rapid; she detects at a glance the follies and oddities of the great world, and gives them to us with good-humored and graceful satire; but her home is in the soul—there, in the still chamber, to watch and describe the struggle of purity against temptation, energy against indolence, aspiration against despondency.’ The great charm of this popular writer is, that she is deeply religious, without being theological.
Mary Howitt’s writings have similar attractions, arising from their simplicity and naturalness, their child-like love of all things in woods and fields, and their affectionate sympathy with the common wants and woes of humanity; but though the religious sentiment is everywhere present, there is not such deep spirituality, such close communion with the interior of the soul, as in Frederika Bremer.
Miss Edgeworth’s books, so long and so universally known, can never be otherwise than established favorites. They are admirably constructed as stories, and are full of practical good sense, philosophic discrimination, felicitous illustration, and pure morality; but the sentiment of worship is absent. There is nothing in opposition to religion; it simply is not there. It was once beautifully said, ‘Her system of education has helped the deaf to hear, and the lame to walk. If she had only said, “Arise in the name of Jesus,” the miracle would have been complete.’
Catharine M. Sedgwick is another writer, whose name alone is a sufficient guarantee that the book is safe for young people. Her pages offer no sickly sentimentality, no unhealthy excitement, but quiet, pleasant pictures of life, drawn by a wise and kind observer. The moral teachings are excellent; everywhere pervaded by the genial spirit of that true democracy, which rests on the Christian religion as its basis.
Walter Scott’s works are valuable to be read in connection with history, presenting, as they do, a lively picture gallery of the manners, costumes, and superstitions of the past. They aim at no high spirituality, and should be accepted for what they are; fresh and beautiful paintings of man’s outward life, in times of stirring and romantic incident. The author’s social position induced a spirit of conservatism, obvious on every page. When he would dignify any of the commonality, he is prone to represent their virtues as the growth of loyal adherence to their masters, rather than of fidelity to their own souls. The attention of the youthful reader should be drawn to this, simply as illustrative of the influences operating on the author’s mind. Indeed, there never was a book printed, in the perusal of which the young might not be greatly benefitted by the companionship of a judicious parent, or some older friend, free as possible from sectarian and political prejudices, and desirous to present the truth candidly.
There is one mistake in books, almost universal, against which the young should be guarded by the experienced; and that is, the tendency to represent goodness as generally rewarded by praise and success in this world. It stimulates selfishness, and the experience of life is sure to prove it a delusion. To this false expectation, and consequent disappointment, may be traced the early weariness and discouragement of many in benevolent efforts. The reward for disinterestedness must be found in spiritual growth and inward peace, not in outward prosperity, or lavish gratitude. ‘My kingdom,’ says Christ, ‘is not of this world.’ The lure held out by books, under the name of ‘poetical justice,’ may help to attract the youthful mind to some extra exertion and self-sacrifice; but the reaction produced by experience deadens the generous sympathies, which might have been kept alive by the presentation of a purer motive. Never were truer words than the Spanish proverb, ‘All lies, like chickens, come home to roost.’