“But,” you may object, “this paper is for girls, not for children, and we have outgrown fairy-tales.”
There is one fairy-tale which you ought to read whatever your age, if it is not already familiar to you—Undine, by De la Motte Fouqué. If you can understand German, you should certainly read it in the original. If not, an English translation is to be obtained. It is, perhaps, the sweetest and most pathetic legend of all romance.
Romance! The charm of that word! One loves, even in middle age, to linger regretfully upon it, and dream over the poet’s vision of—
“Magic casements opening on the foam
Of perilous seas in fairy lands forlorn.”
We do not envy the youth or maiden whose pulse is not thrilled by those immortal lines; yet who can give a reason for their charm and spell?
The present generation, it is to be feared, do not read the prose works of Longfellow as they should. Hyperion and Kavanagh are tender mystical romances, full of charm.
It is, however, an impossible task to stand at the door of this vast library of the world’s fiction, and point you to the volumes you may take down from the shelves. One general observation may be made, seeing that our title is “Self-Culture.”
The best novels will aid you indirectly in “self-culture.” The worst will not leave you where they found you, but will do you actual harm. You will be just one little bit farther removed from “self-culture”—will be nearer that which is vulgar and paltry, and poor and mean, to go no farther—for the reading of a “trashy” novel.
It is, therefore, not the indifferent matter you may think it, to take up the silly sentimental story for the sake of an hour’s amusement. Find your amusement where there is no need of repentance.