A Tangle of Tales

Storytime for rabbits?

by Anne White

In her early book Parents and Children, Charlotte Mason takes a side path from talk about nature study and object lessons, to point out the existence of “a storehouse of thought wherein we may find all the great ideas that have moved the world,” and says that to access that storehouse, “We read [a child] his Tanglewood Tales, and when he is a little older his Plutarch, not trying to break up or water down, but leaving the child's mind to deal with the matter as it can” (pp. 231-232).

From that brief statement, we can draw a couple of important points. First, I think we can take it that Mason was not singling out Tanglewood Tales from its predecessor, A Wonder Book. We might wonder if perhaps Mason preferred the second book, without its framing stories about the children of Tanglewood; but as she didn’t seem to object to such devices in other books, it seems more likely that she was just reaching for a familiar title. That confusion is eliminated, though, when we discover that the book Mason was probably thinking of was the Blackwood edition (described below), which combines stories from both books under the title Tanglewood Tales.

So, we might assume that, with that much weight given to Hawthorne’s book, that it would have played an important and long-lasting part in the later PNEU curriculum. Strangely enough, it didn’t. In the Programme for Term 43, Form IB ( in the era when Mason wrote School Education), we do have this under the subject heading of Tales: “Tanglewood Tales by Nathaniel Hawthorne (Blackwood, 1/-), pages 1-40.” (Two stories, “The Gorgon’s Head” and “The Golden Touch.”) As a point of interest, this particular British edition contains three stories from the first book and three from the second, with a publisher’s note explaining that the framing stories have been omitted because they were “full of allusions to American scenery and American customs.”

But by the time of the more readily available PNEU Programmes, around 1921, Hawthorne had been supplanted by Andrew Lang’s Tales of Troy and Greece or (as a second option) Lamb’s Adventures of Ulysses. As Lamb’s book was published decades before Hawthorne’s, this is clearly not just a case of wanting to use a newer book. Troy and Greece might have been chosen because it covers a wider variety of material than Hawthorne’s stories, so it would have been easier to keep on plugging it in from term to term. However, there may be one extra reason that Mason recommends Tanglewood Tales so ardently early on, but then does not keep it in the curriculum, and that is simply that she may not have cared that much about which good storyteller was read, be it Hawthorne, Kingsley, Lamb, or Lang. The real point was to open the storehouse, to offer a child’s mind that vital matter, not broken into “little bits of everything” (p. 231), but leaving him/her “receptive and respectful,” wanting to engage with the story, as humans have done through the centuries. She speaks of concrete things a child observes in the outside world which offer “real seed to [his] mind,” and compares them to the world of ideas, given through books, which (to change similes) must be offered in as large and meaty a portion as possible, not pre-cut or pureed.

And how does that line up with Hawthorne’s choice, for example, to cast Pandora and Epimetheus as children rather than adults? Are we contradicting ourselves by offering a “chicken-nuggets” version of an adult tale? Eustace Bright, the fictional narrator of the stories, is criticized for this by the older scholar Mr. Pringle, so perhaps we should let Eustace defend himself:

"I described the giant as he appeared to me," replied the student, rather piqued. "And, sir, if you would only bring your mind into such a relation with these fables as is necessary in order to remodel them, you would see at once that an old Greek had no more exclusive right to them than a modern Yankee has. They are the common property of the world, and of all time."

And this is exactly Mason’s point about the “keys to the storehouse.” These stories, even “remodeled” to allow young children access, are accepted by them as the real goods, the OG of tales, if you like. They contain themes that we begin to recognize in childhood (getting your wish can go terribly wrong; curiosity blew up the box; a simple life of love and hospitality brings its own rewards); and others that can make us tearful long afterwards.

All their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of Primrose. In her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough to feel. Child’s story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe through it the ardor, the generous hope, and the imaginative enterprise of youth. (Epilogue to "The Chimera")

All That Glitters

by Anne White 

He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of experiment, touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook-trout into a gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor. No; but it was really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal. A very pretty piece of work, as you may suppose; only King Midas, just at that moment, would much rather have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable imitation of one. (Nathaniel Hawthorne, "The Golden Touch" in A Wonder Book)

We have heard a great deal lately on the topic of imitation (via AI) vs. real. AI may create something cunning, delicate, even frothy, with marks of the fork in it; but it's still not fish.

However, for educators, the story of Midas can hold even deeper meaning. Charlotte Mason did not write about serving children metallic fish, but she did mention feasts of "smoke and lukewarm water," or, more literally, "stale commonplaces" (V.6, p. 44). We might even say that when administrators and curriculum developers touch the king's breakfast with their well-intentioned fingers, they almost invariably turn the food into something glittering but inedible. At the very least, they affect the trout; at the worst (as in the story of Midas and his daughter), they transform the children themselves.

It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky!

What shall we do to repair this damage, to restore life to these warm and tender hearts? Midas was told to sprinkle river water over the affected objects (and people) in his palace. Mason has a few similar suggestions, which, perhaps not coincidentally, includes the early reading of Hawthorne's stories.

Nature-Knowledge––Thus our first thought with regard to Nature-knowledge is that the child should have a living personal acquaintance with the things he sees. 

Object-Lessons––...we should rather leave him receptive and respectful for one of those opportunities for asking questions and engaging in talk with his parents about the lock in the river, the mowing machine, the ploughed field, which offer real seed to the mind of a child, and do not make him a priggish little person able to tell all about it. 

We trust much to Good Books––...We are determined that the children shall love books, therefore we do not interpose ourselves between the book and the child. We read him his Tanglewood Tales, and when he is a little older his Plutarch... 

We do not recognise [an artificial] 'Child-Nature.'––We endeavour that all our teaching and treatment of children shall be on the lines of nature, their nature and ours...  [we]  leave time and scope for the workings of Nature and of a higher Power than Nature herself. (V.2, pp. 231-232)

The healing of King Midas began with the recognition that a real trout could be even more beautiful than one made of gold. The restoration of education also requires that we recognize the value of the "lines of nature," that we allow Nature and the Holy Spirit their proper "time and scope."

And that can be...an epiphany.

Hark the "Harald" Angels Sing

A little Christmas gift for our AO citizenry: expanded study notes for Year Two's The Little Duke, and brand-new study notes for Year One's eleven-chapter trek into Viking Tales. (Hence the Harald.) Both sets of notes also contain lightly-edited text.

If you're curious, the study notes are also available in book format (combined in one volume); but we invite you to check out the free versions first.

Press Pause

by Anne White

One of Frederick Buechner’s last published books was titled The Remarkable Ordinary: How to Stop, Look, and Listen to Life. Near the beginning, he wrote:

…art is saying Stop. It helps us to stop by putting a frame around something and makes us see it in a way we would never have seen it under the normal circumstances of living, as so many of us do, on sort of automatic pilot, going through the world without really seeing much of anything.

This passage is about the purposes of literature, but I think it also applies to the way the world suddenly seems to stop for Christmas.

Kermit: Yeah, life would just pass in a blur if it weren't for times like this. (A Muppet Family Christmas)

There's a rightness in that. 

For the little child is the true St Christopher: in him is the light and life of Christ; and every birth is a message of salvation, and a reminder that we, too, must humble ourselves and become as little children. This is, perhaps, the real secret of the world's progress––that every babe comes into the world with an evangel, which witnesses of necessity to his parents' hearts. That we, too, are children, the children of God, that He would have us be as children, is the message that the newborn child never fails to bear, however little we heed, or however soon we forget. (Charlotte Mason, Parents and Children, pp. 281-282)

 Let's all make time to stop and see.

Turkey Soup

by Anne White

My husband was watching a video by Rick Beato, called "How AI will slowly destroy the music business." Beato did a little experiment with his teenage son, who said that he could pick out AI-created songs, because they just "sounded different." He put together a playlist of five AI songs, and five non-AI, and played them for his son and some friends. Beato's son was able to pick out the artificially-created songs, but the other teenagers could not. Beato's wife also said to him (on another occasion) that a song being played was "obviously" AI-created--she said there was a "weird sound" to it. Beato has quite a bit more to say in the video about the threat of our being flooded with AI content, but one of the most interesting, and ominous things is something else that his son said to him: that "in six months I probably won't be able to tell the difference." He meant that the technology will keep improving to the point where even a pair of good ears can't pick out the true, the original, and the soulful (I am using that word deliberately). The human from the mishmash-of-human that AI draws from, or, possibly in the future, the mishmash-of-AI-and-more-AI. Kind of like roast turkey that becomes a leftover dish and then another leftover dish until there's hardly any real meat left in it.

One of the commenters on Beato's video referred to this quote from George Orwell's 1984: 

The tune had been haunting London for weeks past. It was one of countless similar songs published for the benefit of the proles by a sub-section of the Music Department. The words of these songs were composed without any human intervention whatever on an instrument known as a versificator. But the woman sang so tunefully as to turn the dreadful rubbish into an almost pleasant sound.

What does Charlotte Mason have to do with any of this? I'm guessing that most of you reading this can already pick out several things. Here's one thought: if we are born Persons, our education needs to celebrate that Personhood which is not so much about our nature as individuals as it is about our status as human beings, and our relationship with the One who made us in His image. The books, the music, and the art that touch our human spirits must come from other whole human spirits, not from something run through the blender until it is unidentifiable.

For the matter for this intelligent teaching of history, eschew, in the first place, nearly all history books written expressly for children; and in the next place, all compendiums, outlines, abstracts whatsoever. For the abstracts, considering what part the study of history is fitted to play in the education of the child, there is not a word to be said in their favour... (V.1, p. 281)

No one knoweth the things of a man but the spirit of a man which is in him; therefore, there is no education but self-education, and as soon as a young child begins his education he does so as a student. Our business is to give him mind-stuff, and both quality and quantity are essential. Naturally, each of us possesses this mind-stuff only in limited measure, but we know where to procure it; for the best thought the world possesses is stored in books; we must open books to children, the best books; our own concern is abundant provision and orderly serving. (V.6, p. 26)

Like Rick Beato, we may worry that, first, our own senses may become dulled to the point where we can't tell what is real; and, second, that the blenderized versions of things might get so perfect that even the keenest eyes and ears can't tell the difference. And what then?

First, we learn to sing. With our voices. 

Second, I think, we learn to laugh. There is a deeply human (or deeply God-reflecting, if you prefer) understanding of humour that cannot be created by digital means. Why else would C. S. Lewis have titled a chapter in The Magician's Nephew "The First Joke and Other Matters?" Uncle Andrew and his magic rings don't understand the kind of laughter that fills newborn Narnia, that causes Aslan to say, "Laugh and fear not, creatures. Now that you are no longer dumb and witless, you need not always be grave. For jokes as well a justice come in with speech."

Third, we learn to cook. With real food. Because that sense of connection with the Real can carry over into a lot of other things we do. There's a difference between good turkey soup and a frozen turkey T.V. dinner.

And, finally, we try (at least we can try) to turn off the full-powered faucet of all that's coming at us, and spend our time listening, maybe, to fewer (but better) tunes; reading fewer (but better) books--you know what I mean. When "almost pleasant sounds" make up most of what we hear, maybe it's just time to turn them off. Maybe less is going to have to be more. 

May your holidays be seasoned with all these good things.

A Tune We Have Not Yet Heard

Music in art: poster found at a flea market

by Anne White

In his address The Weight of Glory, C. S. Lewis said:

“The books or the music in which we thought the beauty was located will betray us if we trust to them; it was not in them, it only came through them, and what came through them was longing. These things—the beauty, the memory of our own past—are good images of what we really desire; but if they are mistaken for the thing itself they turn into dumb idols, breaking the hearts of their worshipers. For they are not the thing itself; they are only the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, news from a country we have never yet visited.” (emphasis his)

Yes, the pile of books can betray us.  A book can disappoint. It can have a terrible ending. It can make us angry. It can bore us. It can leave us in tears or give us nightmares.  The whole pile could (literally or metaphorically) fall on our heads and kill us.

The music we love can suddenly become insufficient. A few among us may remember the ratings-busting finale of M*A*S*H* (in 1983, further back now than the actual Korean War was when we were watching it).  Near the beginning of the episode, Dr. Charles Winchester discovers that five captured Chinese soldiers are musicians, and he begins teaching them to play a Mozart clarinet quintet, using their own instruments. Later, the prisoners are taken away as part of a prisoner exchange (playing Mozart as they go). But just as a ceasefire is being announced, they are killed in a last round of enemy attacks.  When Winchester hears this, he goes to his tent and tries to listen to the Mozart record, but ends up smashing it to pieces. It is not only the music that betrayed him, but everything else in which he put his trust and which it represented.

Charlotte Mason also warned us about seeking beauty too much for its own sake:

The Beauty Sense adds so much to the joy of life that it is not easy to see what danger attends it...[We may think that] that the joys of Beauty are so full and satisfying that nothing else is necessary to complete the happiness of life...The person who is given up to the intoxication of Beauty conceives that Beauty and Goodness are one and the same thing, and that Duty is no more than seeking one's own pleasure in the ways one best likes. People, too, become excluded. (Ourselves Book I, p. 54)

We are fully allowed to value poetry, visual art, music, plays, and the natural world (including its tastes and textures). But we can love the scent of the flower, the echo of the tune, the rhythm of the sonnet (as Mason says) without becoming intoxicated by them. When they show themselves (as the Greek philosophers said) as only shadows of the true and wonderful things yet to come, we can understand and not grieve for what they are not, knowing that it is what comes "through them" that really matters.

And as our friend Lynn used to say, that enables us to enjoy every sandwich.

Blood-sucking Monkeys from West Mifflin, Pennsylvania (how not to be one)

 

Illustration of pygmy marmoset and giant toad from Sarah Saw a Blue Macaw, by Jo Ellen Bogart, illustrations by Sylvie Daigneault

by Anne White

Charlotte Mason drew a line between people (famous, infamous, and not-so-famous) who lived with Will, and those who did not. This was not about their moral behaviour, but about whether they lived their lives, first of all, with an object outside of themselves; and, second, with an ability to choose and act, rather than merely to react. The philosopher Alasdair MacIntyre wrote that the difficult part of ethics is deciding not between the good and the bad, but between the good and the good; and this is where we touch on the idea of our vocation being a “bit of the world’s work,” requiring that we say “no” to opportunities and ideas that would sidetrack our chosen path.  Christians would say it’s the path to which God has called us, but we still need to continually choose to stay on it. (Look at what happened to Christian in Pilgrim’s Progress when he tried to take a shortcut.)

A third hallmark of Charlotte’s “Will” people was that they understood self-denial, at least when their personal comfort or desires stood between them and the larger goal. Charlotte warned us not to be “That Person,” in whatever life situations we might be getting into, as much as we can help it. That rude customer, or passenger. That tiring person whose five-minute request always stretches to half an hour. That driver who endangers others by their recklessness or carelessness; or just someone who makes others have a worse day.

Now, if Charlotte was trying to illustrate those same principles today, she might start at a different point. I can imagine her drawing a line between people who bring oxygen into a room, and those who suck it out. Or, if you want to get a bit messier, those who act like “blood-sucking monkeys from West Mifflin, Pennsylvania.” (Credit to Joe Flaherty as Count Floyd on SCTV.) Even the Bible contains images of things that take life rather than giving it back: ““The leech has two daughters. ‘Give! Give!’ they cry” (Proverbs 30:15 NIV).

What does that have to do with Will? This: when we come into a situation, we view it with strength and determination (we want to get something done), but not with self-regard. We don’t use up the oxygen in the room; we try to replenish it. In a certain sense, each objective choice we make shoots the meter a bit more into the positive zone. You know that Christmas movie where all the people singing together create enough force to get Santa’s sleigh off the ground? Yeah, like that.

Which is a pretty long stretch from blood-sucking monkeys, but there we are. Let's aim for liftoff.