A Lament for History

THIS, they say, is the age of science, of reason, of intellect. The unforgivable sin to-day is to be unscholarly. Therefore our ‘young barbarians’ are brought up in intellectual schools and taught by scholarly methods until no doubt they are all being moulded into little Gibbons, Spencers, and — I had almost said Macaulays. Never! They are not even allowed to read him; he is far too inaccurate. We can thank a merciful Providence that most of us will have vanished from our easy chairs, our fireside corners, and that our Scott, Dickens, and Macaulay will be closed to us forever, before this scholarly generation will have mastered the earth. Now, however, we watch them from the ingle-nook as with perfect concentration they learn their morning’s lessons, and the sentiment that stirs us is not envy, it is pity. How much they miss!

Do you remember the school histories? And have you seen a recent one? The contrast is enough to make the warmest blood run cold. The romance of history has all been investigated, the searchlight of science has been turned upon it, it is all ‘wede away.’

There was a little Irish girl once, who was learning about the Battle of the Boyne. She was asked if the Irish had been completely subdued. Her dark eyes flashing, she sprang from her seat and cried, —

‘The brave Hamilton, when brought before the King and asked if the Irish would fight again, replied, —

‘“Upon my honor, I believe they will!”’

That was fifty years ago, and the teacher of that time controlled her mirth with difficulty. The teacher of to-day would not be moved to mirth; she would just quietly faint at the shock of such enthusiasm. But the children of to-day have never heard of the brave Hamilton and his spirited reply; it is doubtful if they even meet the Battle of the Boyne; their minds are certainly not burdened with the famous ‘Change leaders, and we’ll fight the battle over again.’

Many of my generation were introduced to United States history by a little canary-colored book that fairly bristled with romance. Who that studied it can ever forget the Pilgrim Fathers and their landing on a ‘stern and rock-bound coast’? Or Pocahontas flinging herself upon John Smith? Or the storming of Quebec, with Wolfe floating up the river quoting, —

and saying he would rather have written that than won all his victories? The next day he was dead on the plains of Abraham. Or the blood-curdling tale of Hannah Dustin? Or the terrors of King Philip? And with the Revolution came the ‘wonderful ride of Paul Revere,’ the bell that broke its heart proclaiming Independence, the thrilling tale of Lydia Darrach. A little later the pirates of Tripoli were described in all their awfulness, to be followed by Francis Key watching the ‘star-spangled banner’ by the light of ‘bombs bursting in air’ of the attack on Baltimore. Then came Barbara Frietchie of the ‘old gray head’ and dauntless valor, the ‘Yankee cheese-box on a raft,’ ‘Sheridan twenty miles away,’ while the description of Lee at Appomattox left us all with wet eyes, only to be dried by the rage inspired in us by Booth’s ‘Sic semper tyrannis.’ To be sure, even the incurable romanticist of this canary-colored volume could not do much with the politics and labor troubles that follow. The Ku-KluxKlan was omitted as being probably too spooky for our childish imaginations, but the station at Washington was thoroughly blood-stained by Garfield’s wounds; the theory being no doubt that, blood being natural, we could assimilate it with only a healthful amount of horror.

Where are they all, that stirring band? You will look in vain for them in the pages of the ‘latest and best history of the United States for young people.’ Pocahontas, Hannah Dustin, Barbara Frietchie, Lydia Darrach, even in this day of Feminists, are with the ‘snows of yester-year’; the Pilgrim Fathers are there, of course, together with Wolfe, Paul Revere, the Monitor, Sheridan, Lee, Booth, and Garfield, but ‘Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated.’ The Pilgrims say never a word of the ‘rockbound shore,’ Wolfe is a ‘young English general’ intent on strategy and quite above poetry, Paul Revere is a ‘Boston Patriot,’ the Monitor is described from the point of view of naval architecture without any Kipling touch, Sheridan is barely mentioned, Lee surrenders without a qualm, Booth shoots Lincoln without the help of oratory, and Garfield is shot without the addition of a single gory detail. Worst of all, we are told with care how the bell was cracked ringing for the death of a half-forgotten Chief Justice.

‘O tempora! O mores!’ These modern children explain to you the development of a nation; they can point out to you the reasons for democracy, the influence of the French Revolution on modern thought, the merits of Labor vs. Capital; but their eyes never flash, their voices never change; it is science they relate to you, not history.

A teacher, who recently found a pupil of hers in tears over the bombarding of Fort Sumter as described by the latest historian, was divided in her mind as to whether she was dealing with overwrought nerves (yes, they have them even in school nowadays), or an imagination that suggested Carlyle or Poe, which in the last analysis comes to the same thing.

Once, in my wanderings through the recesses of the College Library, I came upon a stout volume labeled Cinderella, from the annals of the Philological Society. It seemed an odd society to be dealing with fairy tales, but as the book looked fat and promising and as I have an incurable love for fairies under any guise, I opened it. What greeted my horrified eyes? There, in little paragraphs, with every interesting detail left out, was the story of Cinderella, first as the Finns tell it, then as the Swedes tell it, then as the Norwegians, the Danes, and so on through all the people of Europe. There was never a word about her golden hair, or the radiancy of the Fairy Godmother, or the sparkle of the glass slipper, or the unspeakable characters of the haughty sisters, or the marvels of the ball, or the beauty of the Prince. It was the bare bones of the fairy tale picked clean, and a woman had done it. I think of this terrible book when I see the children learning history. The eagle glance, the ringing voice, the essenced hair, the curled plume, the doublet and hose, all are gone; only the ghastly skeleton remains.