THE GIRL’S OWN PAPER

Vol. XX.—No. 1023.]

[Price One Penny.

AUGUST 5, 1899.

[Transcriber’s Note: This Table of Contents was not present in the original.]

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS. THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH. SUNSHINE: A SUMMER SERMON. GRILLING AND DEVILLING. VARIETIES. HOW WE MANAGED WITHOUT SERVANTS. THE FIRE OF LOVE. OLD ENGLISH COTTAGE HOMES; OR, VILLAGE ARCHITECTURE OF BYGONE TIMES. SHEILA’S COUSIN EFFIE. ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

SELF-CULTURE FOR GIRLS.

By LILY WATSON.

OPEN-AIR SKETCHING.

All rights reserved.]

PART VII.

After all the serious advice we have given to our readers as to the literature that is to make them wise, it is pleasant to write of self-culture through the study of the best poetry.

It is, however, not by deliberately taking poetry as a vehicle of education, hunting up every allusion, parsing difficult sentences, and picking the whole thing to pieces, that readers will fall under its sway and know the power of its magic spell. We have often mourned in secret at the prevailing fashion of “getting up” this, that, and the other poem for examinations, and have wondered what such an introduction to English literature is worth. Of this method of handling the work of poets one may use Wordsworth’s phrase:

Is it desirable, then, to pass by allusions without comprehending them? Have we not praised the aspiring student who wants to know, for instance, who was the

or who it was

We can only say that, whereas anxiety to understand whatever one reads intelligently is to be commended, no individual knowledge about a masterpiece of poetic genius is to be put in place of the masterpiece itself. And we unhesitatingly condemn the practice of using poems as vehicles for lessons in grammar, Grimm’s Law, or any other technical matter whatsoever. For instance, if{706} Wordsworth’s “Excursion” has any meaning for your heart and mind, do not read it with notes which stop you four times in the first three lines, with the derivation of “landscape,” the explanation of “downs” and other kindred matters, which are undoubtedly useful, but should not be learnt by the medium of an immortal poem. If you need lessons in this elementary sort of thing, we should advise you to find them elsewhere.

If you have to read one of Shakespeare’s plays edited by such admirable commentators as Mr. Aldis Wright or Mr. Verity, do not adopt the method of the girl who covered up the text, lest it should divert her attention from the notes! But the notes are the most important matter to the minds of thousands of middle-class girls and boys, because it is on the notes they are going to be examined.

A suggestive and amusing essay on this subject for elder readers is to be found in Reviews and Essays in English Literature, by the Rev. D. C. Tovey, M.A., Clark Lecturer at Trinity College, Cambridge.

The well-known couplet:

is true of the poet. And does the utilising of Shakespeare as a class-book make him beloved by the young? We are afraid it does not. Yet do not throw notes aside—only remember—do remember!—they touch nothing but the form; the spirit of poetry eludes them altogether.

We may imagine two students of a poem brought into comparison. The one regards it as a task alone; she has conscientiously learnt by heart the notes of an erudite commentator, has looked up every allusion, can expatiate on “Grimm’s Law,” and give instances of its working. The other can do none of these things; she has found the volume in some library, has pored over the poem till it has become part of her inner life; its music rings in her ears; she loves it passionately, and it haunts her inner consciousness like sweet, strange music. If both girls are suddenly examined for the “Cambridge Local,” the latter will fail and the former will pass. Yet the latter is the one for whom the poem has really done its true work. We are not denying that she would be the better for the technical knowledge possessed by the other; but if one has to choose between them, she it is who really understands her poet.

Love and knowledge should go hand in hand, as Browning has taught us by his legend of Paracelsus and Aprile; but the modern tendency in much-examined young people is to dwell so largely on the knowledge that the love flies away.

Read and love poetry as much as you can. It will open and enlarge your mind; feed and enlighten your imagination; make life beautiful to you, and teach you of the greater things that lie beyond life.

One sometimes hears a girl remark in a self-satisfied voice, “Oh, I don’t care for poetry!” Dear young friend, are you aware that Goethe said:

(He who has no ear for the voice of poetry is a barbarian, be he who he may.) And there is considerable truth in the statement. No one would be proud of physical partial deafness and blindness; they constitute nothing to be elated about in the mental sphere. If you “do not care for poetry,” you had better at least give yourself a chance of caring for it by reading some poem on a subject which seems likely to appeal to you. In this way you may find out that you have an unsuspected capacity of being touched by this music. If you do not appreciate Milton, you may enjoy a simple poem by Coleridge; if Tennyson does not please you, Rudyard Kipling’s stirring words may cause your heart to throb and your eyes to melt; if Browning is too obscure, Tennyson’s melody may charm you; if Keats and Shelley are too mystical, Scott’s “Marmion,” or “Lady of the Lake,” may prove fascinating. In any case, give yourself every chance of entering into your immortal and divine heritage of “truth and pure delight.”

The greatest literature of all ages has a tendency to become poetry, as you will see if you consider the Hebrew Psalms, Homer, Æschylus, Sophocles, Virgil “lo buon maestro,” and Dante his pupil, Shakespeare, Goethe. Poetry is the language in which highest aspirations, loftiest truths, naturally clothe themselves. Coleridge’s definition in Table Talk is worth remembering.

“I wish,” he says, “our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry: that is, prose—words in their best order; poetry—the best words in their best order.”

We must not, however, be led away into a disquisition on the extremely difficult question of the true nature and scope of poetry, but must give a few hints to the reader. Here much depends, and must always depend, on individual taste and habit of mind.

Dante, the great poet of the Middle Ages, should be read and studied by all who have the necessary time and capacity, but unfortunately no translation can render the poetry of the original. It is worth while to learn Italian in order to read the “Divine Comedy,” but if that is impossible, it is also worth while to read it in Dean Plumptre’s, Cary’s, or Longfellow’s translation. Longfellow’s is absolutely literal, but truth compels us to state it is often very unmusical. For “self-culture” the intelligent study of this great poet is a mighty instrument. To enter into Dante’s thought is to enter into the view of human life and human civilisation as it appeared to the greatest man of the time, and anyone who can understand the historical allusions of the “Divine Comedy” need not blush for her knowledge of history.

Do not take Shakespeare “as read.” That is even worse than concerning yourself principally with the notes on his plays! There are small editions of separate plays, such as Cassell’s sixpenny edition, too numerous to mention, which are small enough to slip into the pocket, and may form a companion on a wearisome journey. The Merchant of Venice, As You Like It, The Tempest, Richard II., may be quoted as good plays to begin with if your knowledge of the poet of poets is scanty. But you may study Shakespeare all your life without exhausting the wealth contained in his pages. Every succeeding generation sees more and more meaning in what he says, because he is true to the inner life of the human heart. The life is there. The lessons that can be drawn from the life are practically endless.

The constant issue of fresh cheap editions of the plays is a good sign. Perhaps Milton is not so much read nowadays; and yet you cannot afford to neglect him. If you are alarmed at the length of “Paradise Lost,” begin with some of his shorter poems and sonnets; and if you do not read right through Spenser’s “Faerie Queen,” you will find many beautiful scenes and thoughts here and there.

We have spoken of the great Florentine poet and the study of Italian; it will not perhaps be quite out of place to hint to students of German that a rich reward lies before them if they can master the language sufficiently to enjoy the lyric poems of Goethe, the higher flights of Schiller, and many others. The “Erl-König” (Erl King) by Goethe and the “Farewell of Joan of Arc to the Mountains” from Schiller’s play, The Maid of Orleans, were great favourites of the writer in her girlhood. German poetry is true music, whatever may be said to the contrary by those who only half know the language.

Space fails us to write in full of modern English poetry. Wordsworth, Scott, Longfellow, Tennyson, Browning, Mrs. Browning, Keats, Shelley, Matthew Arnold, Arthur Hugh Clough, William Morris, are names of varying fame, but each name brings unspeakable associations to those who know and love the poet through his work. Surely one of these may become to you a teacher who will help and inspire.

Wordsworth will transport you into the world of nature. How much those are to be pitied who live in the “stony-hearted” street, far from the sweet influences of wood and meadow, moor and mountain, lake and waterfall! These exiles from the true home of man may find solace in the poet of nature.

Thus Matthew Arnold apostrophises the little river that washes the Grasmere churchyard. The epitaph to Wordsworth in the Grasmere church so aptly describes his work that we cannot refrain from quoting it here.

“To the memory of William Wordsworth, a True Philosopher and Poet: who, by the special gift and calling of Almighty God, whether he discoursed of Man or Nature, failed not to lift up the heart to Holy Things: tired not of maintaining the cause of the Poor and Simple; and so in Perilous Times was raised up to be a Chief Minister, not only of noblest Poesy, but of high and sacred Truth.”

Robert Browning, unlike Wordsworth, is a dramatic poet at heart. We do not mean that his plays are his best work, but that he has unerring skill in reading the human heart and translating into poetry its loves, hates, fears, and ambitions. If you will try to understand him, do not be discouraged by obscurity, but begin by some of the shorter, simpler, and yet characteristic poems in the volume of Selections.

As for Tennyson, who sings alike of man and of nature, you will probably be more readily lured to his pages than to those of Wordsworth or Browning. If you are in sorrow, In Memoriam may prove a faithful comforter.

It is impossible, of course, to expatiate on all the poets named and many others who are not named; a volume would not be sufficient. All one can say is—read for yourself, and if you are ambitious for self-culture, remember that the reading of the best poetry will do more for you than can possibly be expressed by any words here.

There are two minor poets whose works you will probably much enjoy—Jean Ingelow and Coventry Patmore. The “Angel in the House” by the latter is greatly esteemed by Mr. Ruskin.

“Teach your children poetry,” says Lord Macaulay; “it opens the mind, lends grace to wisdom, and makes the heroic virtues hereditary.” And the rugged old philosopher, Carlyle, speaks thus of the influence of poetry on any living human creature—

“Tones of sphere-music and tidings from loftier worlds will flit round him if he can but listen, and visit him with holy influences, even in the thickest press of trivialities or the din of busiest life.”

(To be concluded.)

{707}

THE HOUSE WITH THE VERANDAH.

By ISABELLA FYVIE MAYO, Author of “Other People’s Stairs,” “Her Object in Life,” etc.

CHAPTER XIX.

CHRISTMAS AGAIN.

he missive in Lucy’s hand was no simple workman’s clumsy bill. It was a sheet of blank paper.

“What can this mean?” said Lucy, turning it about, while Miss Latimer and Tom watched her.

“You may be sure it ought to be the bricklayer’s bill, but that he has put in the wrong piece of paper,” observed Miss Latimer.

“Or it may have come from that stupid fellow we found in the area,” said Tom. “Perhaps his next tipsy fit has taken this form, and he is under the delusion that he has written a letter to Jane Smith.”

“That is not unlikely,” Lucy admitted, still turning the paper about. “The letter has been posted at this district office, and there is no maker’s name on the envelope. Anyhow, there it goes,” and she tore it in two and dropped it into the waste-paper basket.

“I wonder if Clementina would notice the strange-looking letter,” said Miss Latimer. “I’m always afraid of something stirring her superstitions and making her take flight to her Highland hills on the score that ‘Babylon’ is too terrible a place to stay in.”

That was all. It was but a nine minutes’ wonder. Yet they remembered it afterwards.

Early in December there came a letter from Mrs. Grant in Peterhead. Lucy and the captain’s wife had kept up a slight correspondence during their husbands’ absence on the Slains Castle. Each had always written to apprise the other of any news she had received. Once or twice, indeed, when unexpected opportunities for ship’s letters had arisen, the busy captain had contented himself with sending a message to his wife viâ his passenger’s home epistle. Mrs. Grant had always promptly and cordially acknowledged these curtesies on Lucy’s part. But she was not naturally a letter-writing woman. Her missives were always of the briefest, and never until now had she taken the initiative.

Mrs. Grant’s letter seemed, on the face of it, both as cheerful and as brief as usual. She “supposed Lucy had heard nothing lately, as she knew she would have let her know if she had.” “Sailing vessels are often out of their reckoning for weeks and weeks,” she added. She dropped a word of congratulation that Lucy’s own welcoming day was assuredly near at hand now, and of half-comic self-condolence that hers was so much farther off. “In my case, too, one suspense is no sooner over than another begins,” she wrote. “But that’s the lot of the sailor’s wife, and I know it was all in my bargain when I took the captain.”

There certainly seemed nothing in that letter to alarm Lucy, and she marvelled at a strange uneasiness which she felt stirring within her. Was she intuitively aware of some anxiety on the part of Mrs. Grant, which she had studiously kept out of her words? Lucy wrote a prompt reply, saying that she had heard nothing yet, but was daily looking for tidings. She tried to make her letter cheerful, and wondered whether Mrs. Grant, in her turn, would read anything between the lines.

Lucy scarcely liked to think of the approaching Christmas Day. If Charlie had returned, it would be a day of supreme joy; if timely sea news came in, it would be one of gladdest thanksgiving. But if——! There Lucy paused, and turned aside as from a great mist advancing to enfold her. Yet she must make her little plans to be fit for the fulfilment of her hope. Not to do so, would seem like creating an omen of prolonged separation and anxiety. So she and Miss Latimer sent out a Christmas bidding to Mr. Somerset, Lucy saying with pathetic playfulness that under the circumstances she scarcely knew whether she ought to issue her invitations in her own name only or with Charlie’s joined thereto. “For he may be among us on that day yet,” she added. Writing down her hope seemed to make it more tangible.

Mr. Somerset called in reply to Lucy’s invitation. He told her that in accepting it, he was accepting a real kindness. Without it, this Christmas might have been very lonely and desolate for him. His old landlord lay at the point of death, and consequently the whole household was saddened and absorbed.

“How much sadness there is in the world!” sighed Lucy. “And how terrible it is that there is a sort of consolation in realising that one is not the only burdened and anxious soul. It seems a selfish and cruel feeling to find comfort in that thought!”

Mr. Somerset looked up brightly.

“Yes, it seems so,” he said. “I used to think so, and probably it is so in the spirit in which the idea may sometimes be suggested and received. Yet I have learned to understand that it does not have a selfish and cruel origin. I think I have discovered what the idea springs from, and how it is that such a thought may really soothe and strengthen. After all, what is the very depth of woe—its unendurable sting?”

Lucy mused.

“I think it is the failure of our faith,” she said gently. “The chilly feeling that God has let go of us and that there are none to help.”

“Exactly so,” answered Mr. Somerset, “and I daresay all of us have known that feeling more than once. It calls our very humility and littleness to its aid, so that we ask, ‘Who am I that God should remember me?’ But can any sane mind look upon another, the lowest, the worst and the most abject, and deliberately say, ‘Who is he that God should remember him?’ I think not. We can feel that would be the vilest blasphemy against God. It would at once strip God of all that makes Him good, ay, or great either, with that wonderful greatness, before which earth’s highest and lowest and best and worst are all the same. No, Mrs. Challoner, in realising the fellowship of others in suffering, we at once realise that God must know all about it, and that there must be some wise purpose in it, and if so for that other, then for ourselves too.”

“Did not some philosopher say that death, being universal, could be no evil?” asked Lucy.

“I think it was the poet Schiller said so,” returned Mr. Somerset, “and I believe it is the consciousness of this, however little realised, which keeps life brave and bright and sane in the perpetual presence of death. The ‘solidarity of humanity,’ though the phrase is one which they may scarcely understand, is the secret treasure of the humble. It never occurs to them to be surprised and shocked when those evils befall them which they always knew befell others. In their eyes ‘it is the Lord, let Him do what seemeth to Him good,’ always ‘good,’ you may observe. ‘It is all in the day’s work,’ they tell one, when their lot is hardest.”

Lucy thought of Mrs. May, and of the strength and comfort she had gathered, more than a year ago, from that good woman’s calm outlook on events, and her fixed conviction that there is inward strength at command sufficient to lift us elastic after any outward blow. It seemed to Lucy that she too might rise equal to the sublime suspenses and sorrows of life if only her strength and spirits were spared the perpetual corrosion of petty cares and worries which fretted them away as moths consume a garment. Then the wiser reflection came—that neither were such petty cares and worries special to her; they too entered into every lot; one could not doubt that brave cheery Mrs. May had her full share. The same inward strength must be as ready and able to bear the perpetual little trials as the occasional great ones, if only we invoke it and know how to use it. The great ocean of Divine love and strength is always waiting to flow into our smallest trials, if we would but hold them ready.