Now, such a ballad as this, which, being pure narrative, could easily be introduced into the story-hour, would do as much to foster “L'entente cordiale” as any processions or civic demonstrations, or lavish international exchange of hospitality. It has also a great practical application now that we are encouraging visits between English and foreign children. Let us hope the entente cordiale will not stop at France. There must be many such instances of magnanimity and generosity displayed to us by other nations, and it might be well to collect them and include them among stories for the school curriculum.
But in all our stories, in order to produce desired effects we must refrain from holding, as Burroughs says, “a brief for either side,” and we must leave the decision of the children free in this matter.[45]
In a review of Ladd's Psychology in the “Academy,” we find a passage which refers as much to the story as to the novel:
“The psychological novelist girds up his loins and sets himself to write little essays on each of his characters. If he have the gift of the thing he may analyse motives with a subtlety which is more than their desert, and exhibit simple folk passing through the most dazzling rotations. If he be a novice, he is reduced to mere crude invention—the result in both cases is quite beyond the true purpose of Art. Art—when all is said and done—is a suggestion, and it refuses to be explained. Make it obvious, unfold it in detail, and you reduce it to a dead letter.”
Again there is a sentence by Schopenhauer applied to novels which would apply equally well to stories:
“Skill consists in setting the inner life in motion with the smallest possible array of circumstances, for it is this inner life that excites our interest.”
Now, in order to produce an encouraging and lasting effect by means of our stories, we should be careful to introduce a certain number from fiction where virtue is rewarded and vice punished, because to appreciate the fact that “virtue is its own reward” calls for a developed and philosophic mind, or a born saint, of whom there will not, I think, be many among normal children: a comforting fact, on the whole, as the normal teacher is apt to confuse them with prigs.
A grande dame visiting an elementary school listened to the telling of an exciting story from fiction, and was impressed by the thrill of delight which passed through the children. But when the story was finished, she said: “But oh! what a pity the story was not taken from actual history!”
Now, not only was this comment quite beside the mark, but the lady in question did not realise that pure fiction has one quality which history cannot have. The historian, bound by fact and accuracy, must often let his hero come to grief. The poet (or, in this case, we may call him, in the Greek sense, the “maker” of stories) strives to show ideal justice.