PART V.

Since beginning this series of articles it has occurred to us that it may be well to prevent a possible misconception of the scope of the title. “Self-culture” is a very large subject, and includes a great deal more than the culture of the mind. For instance, there is moral self-culture—physical self-culture—æsthetic self-culture—which, with other kinds of self-culture, should be zealously sought. But these subjects are exhaustively dealt with from time to time by writers in The Girl’s Own Paper, so that our special work lies in the treatment of “culture” in its more usual acceptation—the cultivation of the intellect. And if our title seems rather like a vast floating garment, too voluminous for the slight form it enfolds, it must be remembered that culture is generally understood in the sense we have indicated.

Indeed one can hardly separate the different parts of self-culture after all. It is by reading the best books that the moral nature is strengthened and cultivated, and that the æsthetic sense is cultivated also. The eye is opened to perceive the beauty of life and of art, for example, by such a writer as Ruskin. Then pictures cannot be properly comprehended by one who never reads. Take, as an illustration of this, a few of the pictures which have been from year to year, since 1890, lent to that splendid Guildhall exhibition, where, absolutely without payment, one can go to delight in modern and ancient art.

Here is “A Martyr in the reign of Diocletian,” by Paul Delaroche. This is the picture of world-wide fame, known probably to our readers by photographs if they have not seen the original. A young Roman girl, who has refused to sacrifice to the false gods, has been thrown into the Tiber. Two Christians, on the further bank, look with mingled feelings on the young martyr as her body floats past. Your spectator, ignorant of history, would wonder who was Diocletian, and what it was all about. Soon afterwards we come to “Ophelia,” by G. F. Watts, R.A., and if you have not read Hamlet, you cannot appreciate the beauty of this; nor, if you know nothing of Dante, can you understand “Paolo and Francesca da Rimini,” by the same artist, where the hero and heroine of the immortal story are sweeping through the mist of the Inferno. In another year’s exhibition we have “The City of Dis,” by Albert Goodwin, also requiring a knowledge of Dante; “Orpheus and Eurydice,” by T. Graham, which could not appeal to anyone ignorant of Greek mythology; “Antigone,” by Lord Leighton, fully appreciated only by those to whom Antigone is more than a name.

Consider even the two frontispieces to The Girl’s Own Paper for February and March last. The first, “An Antique Fête,” takes for granted some knowledge of ancient history. The reproduction of Miss Margaret Dicksee’s charming picture “A Sacrifice of Vanities,” will be fully understood only by those who have enjoyed The Vicar of Wakefield. It is unnecessary to go further, and if any reader, on her next visit to a picture exhibition, will note the remarks heard around her, she will have a practical commentary on the truth that Art cannot be fully comprehended and appreciated without some literary education. While standing, for instance, before such a picture as “Pandora” by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, one may overhear remarks like the following—

“Pandora? Who’s she?”

“What’s she got in her hand?”

“Nescitur ignescitur is written on it! What’s the meaning of that? Why couldn’t he put plain English?”

“Oh, well, I don’t think she’s an English person. She doesn’t look English, anyhow.”

“Oh, a heathen goddess, I suppose, carrying fire about like that! A goddess with red hair in a red dress? Anyhow, I don’t think much of her. Come along!”

The literary preparation for the enjoyment of Art is, of course, different from the technical preparation for it; but, for preparation of either kind, reading is necessary.

The kind of self-culture which at first sight seems furthest apart from the culture of which we write, is the physical kind. Sometimes, indeed, mental and physical self-culture may appear incompatible, especially when time is limited.

“Don’t sit poring over that book; come out into the fresh air!” is a familiar type of address.

In the newly-published Letters of Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, we read that the doctor of the poetess carried away her inkstand one day as a remedial measure!

Discretion is needed, and the preservation of health is a duty that comes to the front. Exercise and other essentials to health must not be neglected; and if health fails, the power of mental self-culture will probably fail too. But it is increasingly recognised that cultivation of the brain in reason is excellent for physical health, and that the woman with the best chance of enjoying life is the woman whose mental education has gone side by side with physical culture.

So we come back to the point from which we started, and observe that the different provinces of self-culture are in reality closely connected and interdependent, though we deal in these articles with one province only.

In our last paper we touched on some books that are almost, if not quite, indispensable to any scheme of culture: books of the olden world, that treat with the dawn of history as we know it, and go on to the period of the most brilliant of civilisations—that of Athens. No attempt was made to give an exhaustive list of the books dealing with the period before the Christian era that should be read; it would be impossible. But a few read and enjoyed will point the way to others. These papers do not constitute a full map of the country to be explored; they simply act as a sign-post, and readers must follow on to explore for themselves.

The “guide-post” method is the only way to advise readers, for much will always depend on individual taste and inclination, and to read without pleasure is a hopeless task. Dr. Johnson said very wisely that, for general improvement, a man should read whatever his immediate inclination prompted him to. He continued—

“If we read without inclination, half the mind is employed in fixing the attention, so that there is but one-half to be employed on what we read.”

At the same time, this is only a partial truth. To throw aside everything that does not allure at the outset is not wise. Many books that will charm and instruct are hard to “get into,” and a little self-control and perseverance will reap their reward in study as in everything else. The truth lies midway between two extremes. Do not get out of a library some book because you are told to read it, and at the close of a day’s work force yourself to pore over the pages until you fall asleep. On the other hand, do not confine your reading exclusively to story-books and the lighter magazines because they attract you and require no effort of attention. Girls are by far too prone to do this, forgetting that a taste for deeper books may be cultivated like every other taste.

It is true that many of the novels of the present day deal with the graver problems of life, and occasionally require an education to understand them. Still, however philosophical and thoughtful they may be, they should not constitute the sole intellectual food of any mind.

“Why?” you may say. “If I can learn all about early civilisation in a book like Georg Ebers’ Egyptian Princess, about mediæval and Scottish history in Scott’s novels, about the Stuart period in John Inglesant, about music in a story like Charles Anchester, about modern problems of every kind in George Eliot’s, Sir Walter Besant’s, and Mrs. Humphry Ward’s pages—not to go further—why not confine my reading to this interesting and attractive form?”

There is an essay by the late Professor T. H. Green of Oxford, which should be very widely studied.[1] He answers the question “Why not?” in a most forcible and masterly way, and the gist of his reply is this. The novel must perforce reproduce the circumstantial view of life; we are called to look again upon the incidents which day by day distract our attention overmuch from the “unseen and eternal” realities, and are apt to be enthralled afresh by the view that “to marry and live happily ever after” is man’s and woman’s chief end. In other words, the aspect of things the novelist shows us is “merely the outward and natural as applied to the inner or ideal.” He cannot give a complete representation of life; for instance, reproduce its slowness, its discipline by long years of silent waiting and patient labour. Much must be omitted of necessity, by reason of conditions of the craft; much also, by reason of artistic effect, must be so arranged and rounded off as to give the impression of a happiness impossible in life. The lesson of life, then, in its completeness, cannot be taught even by the best novel.

The reading of fiction is valuable in its place, but it is not enough for the mind and heart to feed upon.

We have not, however, as yet to consider the reading of fiction pure and simple. There is much besides to occupy attention, and perhaps this is the place to insist upon the reading of history. To connect the remote regions of classic lore with the present day, history is needed; but it is rather overwhelming to look at the best books of history and see how long and how numerous they are! The primers of history are, however, within the compass of all.

We have already mentioned Sir W. Smith’s smaller histories of Greece and Rome. Plutarch’s Lives of Greeks and Romans—made easier in Plutarch for Boys and Girls, translated extracts by Professor J. S. White—will offer an interesting biographical way of learning history. Macmillan’s History Primers published at one shilling each are most useful. You might begin by C. A. Fyffe’s Greece, or Mahaffy’s Old Greek Life in this series, and work gradually downwards. The “Story of the Nations” Series, published at five shillings by T. Fisher Unwin, consists of a number of volumes, each about a different nation. Your wisest course, indeed, if you cannot command time for the reading of long histories (such as Grote’s Greece, which, in ten volumes, is invaluable to the student), is to obtain from any bookseller a full list of Macmillan’s “History Primers,” or Unwin’s “Story of the Nations” Series, and select what you like, always remembering that to get some connected idea of the history of the world is essential to the enjoyment of the literature of the world.

For advanced students a most interesting volume is Walter Bagehot’s Physics and Politics, treating of the causes that influence progress. Mahaffy’s Twelve Lectures on Primitive Civilisations, and Froude’s Short Studies on Great Subjects, or Carlyle’s posthumous volume of Historical Sketches will be found valuable. With regard to English history you should read The Making of England, by J. R. Green, and his Short History of the English People; also Freeman’s History of the Norman Conquest. A series called Epochs of English History, written by eminent authors, can be highly recommended. Each part costs only ninepence. In fact, helps to the study of history are so abundant and cheap that it is superfluous in these days of booksellers’ catalogues to enumerate them further. Only, if you can read nothing else, read primers, so as to obtain some distinct notion of where you stand in the “long result of Time.”

Although you should not rely for your facts on plays and novels only, it is very desirable, if possible, to read Shakespeare’s plays, or some good historical novel, side by side with the history of the period of which they treat. Thus the dry bones of fact are clothed, as it were, with flesh and blood, and become living.

We must not be understood as saying that everything in the historical novels mentioned below is suitable for girls of every age. Children should not read them; but these articles are not intended for children. Adults who are in the habit of choosing what they shall read must discriminate among them, always remembering that they should be taken side by side with more “solid reading.”

Lily Watson.

(To be continued.)