child, and needs wise and generous training, because in it the higher aspirations are rooted; moreover, imagination is a powerful force in developing will power. Much of the selfishness and inhumanity which exist in the world is due to deficient imagination, rather than to badness of heart; and rightly directed imagination tends to bring out the nobler side of human nature, and give a charm to existence, the like of which nothing else can give; for imagination is a heavenly, if somewhat dangerous, gift, bestowed chiefly on women and children and some men whom we call poets. It is the old fairy tales which appeal more strongly than anything else to childhood's imagination; then let us take them as the true mental food of infancy, and be thankful.

These stories, again, awaken sympathy in the child, and extend his knowledge of humanity. He enters

into the feelings of the despised Cinderella sitting among her ashes, he thrills with joy when she marries the handsome prince, and he trembles with apprehension when the clock strikes twelve and her rags return to her. He goes forth courageously with Jack to kill his giants, and he glories when the good and the true triumph, as they are bound to do in all wholesome and honest fairy tales. He learns, in short, to enter into the joy, the woes and the difficulties of others, which is a worthy lesson, for, as Wordsworth says of fairy tales:

The child whose love is here at least

doth reap

One precious gain-that he forgets himself.1

Then, fairy tales arouse aspiration in the child and give him ideals. Crude and material enough are these childish ideals, it is true, as in the desire

1 "The Prelude," Book V.

of a certain class of little ones to be good, and go, like Goldmary, through the golden gate and receive the shower of gold and roses, for the gold remained on her hair forever, and the roses never faded from her cheeks; besides, she was always rich. "Did you ever go through the golden gate?" one infant asked me as I pictured these glories; and when I sorrowfully replied "No," the babe remarked sententiously, "you should have been good then, like Goldmary." But the little one who can "take the wishes out of its heart and project them on a screen of fancy" gains faith and an idealizing tendency which remain after it has outgrown the fairy tales; for, as Colonel Parker says," "Fairy stories are to the child like the parables of the Master: they contain the seeds of truth, that will germinate and fructify in the child's mind far better than truth grown to its full stature and embodied in maxims and precepts."

Unconsciously, too, for the most part, the power of example is brought to bear upon the child in these old tales; for the command of the Master, "Go thou and do likewise," need not be spoken to children. As Charles Dickens says in speaking of fairy tales, Forbearance, courtesy, consideration of the poor and aged, abhorrence of tyranny and brute force-many such good things have been nourished in the child's heart by this powerful aid."

The true power of example does not lie in holding up trivial actions to be slavishly copied, for we all know that "imitation is suicide," in small things as in great. This is one reason why the realistic children's stories of the goody-goody type so often fail in their purpose, and only succeed in making children pose, if indeed they succeed in reaching them at all, like the little

"Talks on Teaching."

girl of seven who prayed that her mother might become a drunkard in order that she might reclaim her, as did the pious little Jenny of the story. The same little girl used to try to go to sleep on the sofa, with her finger on her favorite text in her Bible when she heard people coming, because Jenny had a trick of going to sleep in this attitude, and her little world used always to come in and admire her. Generations of the good little Georges and Jennies have given up their artless little ghosts, and ceased mending their own clothes and prattling piously about it for the edification of other little boys and girls, and, alas! they are all forgotten; but Red Riding Hood, Jack the Giant Killer, and the Sleeping Beauty will never die. They belong to an imperishable golden age, and they go on forever, spurring on wondering babes to worthy effort.

The babes cannot, it is true, hope to imitate the doings of the immortal Jack, any more than we may hope to imitate the doings of Brutus or Portia, for times and circumstances have altered; but though the actions of our heroes cannot be repeated, yet they awaken within us that vigor of feeling upon which the actions are based. Fairy tales, too, prepare the child for poetry. They form the beginnings of literature-indeed they are literature, being "part of the current coin of the world's intercourse." We cannot all hope to be classical scholars, but all may be steeped in folk-lore and heroic romance in childhood, when the imagination is fresh and keen, and so acquire a share of the old-world culture.

The old fairy tales too are full of the poetry of forest life and of unseen nature, and this satisfies the child's sense of mystery, wonder and awe. With his wonder book he penetrates into the heart of the mountain, where, in caves ribbed with bars of gold, the

dwarfs and the gnomes are gathering the treasures of the earth; and he dives into the depths of the sea, where the mermaids have reared their palaces. Then there are valleys of diamonds, enchanted gardens, where the apples are rubies and the plums topazes, kingdoms in the air where one sails on chariots through pink and pearly clouds, and beautiful meadows at the bottom of wells where the apple-trees speak to Goldmary and the flowers smile at her.

But, it is urged, fairy tales are improbable as indeed they are they teach the child nothing, that is, no solid facts.

If only a genius could arise, and make England believe that the schoolroom is a place for training the child's heart and mind rather than stuffing his head, we should probably hear less about the value of facts. Human development cannot take place on right lines without depth and cordiality of feeling; and to be effective, early education must get at, and cultivate, right, active, vital feeling. Education which is mainly formal and intellectual is positively harmful, and narrowness of sympathy and hardness of disposition result from the mind being stored only with facts.

We

To come back to our fairy tale. shall find, if we look into it, at the heart of the real old fairy tale a great universal truth, and it is this truth which gives the fairy tale its grip on the generations.

Fairy tales are histories of human nature, which does not change, as much as would be expected, in a few thousand years. We are all persecuted princesses, stupid ogres, wicked dwarfs and handsome princes, if only we were able to get to the bottom of each others' disguises; and it is because fairy tales are so true that they go on satisfying the heart of childhood through the centuries.

What kind of fairy tales are to be used in the schoolroom? is often asked.

And the answer is, only those worthy of the name of literature. And these are: firstly, the fairy tale proper, or nursery tale, which is the German Märchen; secondly, those stories which powerful pens threw off in happy moments of fancy; and thirdly, Sagas. Children readily appreciate what is great, and in their hearts they despise the feeble little stories which are constantly written down to them under the name of Kindergarten literature and the like. It is a tolerably safe rule to refuse to admit into the schoolroom any fairy tales that might not be considered classic.

The fairy tales proper come to us from a time when the world was young, direct from the period to which the child belongs. These folk tales are the literature of simple people, to whom everything is a symbol; and every incident in the old round of joy, pain, birth, love and death has gathered meaning for centuries. There is a beautiful simplicity and directness of motive about these old tales which the child loves. Thus we find the queen in her parlor eating bread and honey, and the king with his golden crown on his head counting his bags of gold, and the maid of honor fetching a pail of water. These stories, too, all end happily, and this satisfies that craving for poetical justice so strong in little children.

The child's keen insight readily detects the ring of true gold, and those stories which endure in this world, apart from the folk stories, are those which originated in powerful brains.

Perrault, the mathematician, wrote Blue Beard; Southey, the Three Bears; Goldsmith, probably, wrote Goody TwoShoes; indeed, nobody else could have written it, so why should we qualify the statement? Then there was Bunyan, with his Pilgrim's Progress; De

foe, with his Robinson Crusoe; Swift, with his Gulliver's Travels; Thackeray, with his Rose and the Ring; and never, never must we forget Hans Andersen, that curious Danish genius, with the soul of a woman and the heart of a child. He, more than any other, has caught the spirit of the old world tales, and his whimsical simplicity appeals to all children and all whose hearts refuse to grow old. He understands the child's sympathy with the entire universe; for trees, insects, plants, nay, even the stars and the moon, are the child's comrades, and talk his language and listen to his confidences. The limited mind of the mature reader can hardly retain its sanity among Andersen's crowds of storks, slugs, apple-trees, cats, hens, swallows, green-peas, peg-tops, tin soldiers, and gingerbread cakes, all of which converse with an astonishing lucidity and an amazing individuality; and they all think the child's thoughts, talk his language, and see the world as he sees it. Andersen, too, never outrages the ethics of the fairy-world, as does the modern fairy tale, with its complex motives and fantastic imaginings. He is always quaint, graceful, and true to the canons of poetical justice, as laid down in all good fairy tales. So let it be granted that all fairy stories written in strong, beautiful, and suitable language, by great writers may be safely put before children, and among these Andersen's stories are preeminent.

Then there are the Sagas. These are stories of definite beings, usually having a definite locality assigned to them, who once really lived; for the Saga treads earthly ways more than the fairy tale, and often mingles real historic fact with its romances. Dick Whittington, Lady Godiva, Robin Hood, and King Arthur are stories of this class as well as the stories of Ulysses and Siegfried. Sagas form the connect

ing link between the fairy tale and true history; but the educational value of Sagas is another theme, and merits a special consideration of its own.

The choice of the fairy tale is important. They should be true to the principles of good literature, simple, naïve, rich in incidents and relationships, and neither vulgar, foolish, nor sentimental. All stories which frighten children, as well as those which glorify cunning and trickery, should be avoided. The folk and fairy lore of the district should supply teachers with some material.

Professor Rein of Jena, who has worked out the material suitable for the eight classes of the primary schools, very happily chooses his fairy tales from Grimm; and for the children of Thuringia this is appropriate, for the brothers Grimm gathered many of their stories directly from the lips of the Thuringian peasants, who had received them as oral traditions from remote ancestors. For instance, Dornburg, a castle on a hill near Jena, full of memories of Goethe, is built on the very spot where the palace of the Sleeping Beauty stood; and as one climbs through the bushes to the summit, one is thrilled again and again by the thought that the prince cut his way through the briar roses on this very spot, in those dear, dim, old days which will never come again except in the dreams of children and the visions of poets.

The teacher must tell the story to the children, for the voice is more effective than the printed book. All superfluities of language must be avoided; these only bore a child. He wants the story simply and directly, without unnecessary moralizing. Skilful detail delights him. The language must be true, simple, and strong, without any striving after mere decorative effect. The true story-teller for little children needs to be something of an The National Review.

artist, as well as something of a poet and a dramatist-and true story-tellers are nearly always women. She should also possess a good deal of literary feeling, as well as a knowledge of fairy tales. If she happens to believe in fairies so much the better, but, at any rate. she must once have believed in them, and she must remember all about her beliefs. In telling her story to her class, she must be simple, concrete, and sufficiently passionate. Simplicity is perhaps the greatest difficulty. It means selecting the essentials and presenting them clearly as well as picturesquely. To be concrete she must be able to draw rapidly on the blackboard, and use colored chalks. "The king and queen lived in a beautiful palace." "See, here it is, here are the towers, the windows, the gardens; and here was a stream where waterlilies grew." "The queen often sat on a marble seat by the stream." "Look! here is the seat." "One day a frog hopped out of the water." Then the frog is drawn, with his intelligent eye fixed on the queen. All this fascinates the children as the magic story grows under the teacher's hands. "It is like being in fairyland to hear that teacher tell us tales," said an eager child of six one day after a fairy tale lesson; and indeed it was, for we all listened spellbound, the critical spectators as well as the children.

The passionate teacher, who feels the beauty of her theme and believes in it, can easily impart her appreciation to all her pupils, and make them aware of the human spirit working within them.

Stolid, frigid, and superior people should never teach little children, and never be allowed to tell fairy tales.

But the teacher of literature, especially if she has to deal with little children, must, like the poet, be born, for she certainly can never be made. Catherine I. Dodd.

The lamentable death of M. Zola removes from sight one who, though in. no sense the foremost man of letters in the world, was perhaps the most widely known and most keenly discussed of literary men. Whatever our personal feelings may be with respect to his work and his workmanship, few persons competent to express an opinion will deny that his was a great literary personality. It is felt that a great man is dead, and that France, at any rate, could ill spare him. Had M. Zola died, let us say, ten years ago, the feeling would have been different; indeed, it is no exaggeration to declare that the disappearance of the French novelist from the field of literature would then have been a source of unfeigned relief to many of the most thoughtful watchers of the age. Born on April 2nd, 1840, it was not until 1877 that he joined issue, by the publication of "L'Assommoir," with those conventions of society which endeavor to place certain limits upon the subject-matter and structure of artistic work. Long before that date he had made his mark in literature. His father, a retired French officer and a civil engineer of some note, died when the future novelist was a child, leaving his young Italian widow and son in narrow circumstances. The boy was educated in Paris at the Lycée St. Louis, and is said to have supplemented his school-work by voluminous reading at book-stalls. He eventually found a place in the firm of Hachette. the great printers and publishers, and at the same time contributed both articles and stories to various newspapers. Many of these stories were republished under the title "Contes à Ninon" in 1864. Other novels (such as "Thérèse Raquin" in 1867) followed, and in 1871 the "Rougon-Macquart"

series began with "La Fortune des Rougons." This series, still unfinished after more than thirty years of scarcely interrupted labor, deals with the destiny of one family, which is made the vehicle by which the sociologist details the influence of the age upon the race. In order to do this effectively M. Zola joined the modern French "Naturalist" school, the methods of which, on the literary side at any rate, were evolved by M. Gustave Flaubert and the brothers Jules and Edmond de Goncourt. M. Zola saw in "naturalism" a possibility that was not open to Flaubert with his pure literary genius. M. Zola determined to make "naturalism" the scourge of the age, the literary weapon that should compel men and women to see with their eyes and hear with their ears the facts of the life around them,-not of life as it was assumed to exist, but of life as it was. Therefore M. Zola, with infinite pains, painted, in the most voluminous, graphic, and often enough ghastly and revolting detail, French life as he saw it and as he gathered it from evidence (often, perhaps, insufficient for generalization and misleading) which satisfied his intellect. It was a deliberate challenge to conventional art, and it was a deliberate assault on the existing structure of social life. He told the world:-"These are facts that I am laying before you. I believe them to be absolutely true. They mean social and spiritual death. Whatever you think of me or of my works matters nothing. What does matter is that it is no longer open to you to say that you know nothing of these things. If in doing what I am doing I break the canons of art and shock the sense of decency in men and women, so much the worse for art and the sense of decency. Art can afford