FRAUDS IN FAIRYLAND.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 20929, 20 January 1930, Page 10

FRAUDS IN FAIRYLAND.

MODERNISING OLD TALES. "Written for the Otago Daily Times. By R. J. " Small tenderness hast thou, 0 Time, or ruth. That these should perish." In this extremely practical age of outp it should not be unreasonable to assume that he is not singlar who still entertains a great tenderness for the fairy stones and literature of his childhood. \v hat enchanted most of ns in our earliest years, and should be captivating thousands of young fancies now. charmed, at the same blessed time of life, vast hosts of men and women who have done their long day’s work and laid their grey heads - down to eternal rest. It would bo impossible to estimate or measure the gentleness.and mercy and truth that have found their way among ns through these slight sources. Forbearance, courtesy, consideration for the poor and the aged, kind treatment of animals, the love of nature, the abhorrence of tyranny, injustice and oppression—many such good things have been first awakened and nourished in the child’s mind through these particular 'channels. They have greatly helped to keep many of us, in some sense, young by preserving through our worldly ways one tiny track of makebelieve not overgrown with the weeds cf common sense and reason, where we may still walk with children and fharc their delights. In such an age as this, which we arc pleased' to call utilitarian, it is a matter . l ffrave importance that fairv tales should bo respected and protected as pillars of our language and literature, which perform* a meritorious service in helping to support the fabric of tradition that bulks so large in the national edifice. Our British red tape is too magnificently red ever to be employed in the tying up of such trifles, but everyone wlio •’.a® considered the subject must know . that the nation that has no fancy, no jk romance, and is without some faithful- * ness to fairy story and legend, never did, ' r nerei can and never will hold a great place under the sun. An Irish poet, whose work lias the beautv and delicacy of a legendary tale, in extolling the iolK lore - of hx country rebuked our nations! worldly theorising when he said that if England still believed in fairy talcs there would have been no Irish trouble, and probably no war. If England herself has not been as Irmtiul as a nursery of fancy as other Celtic branches of the national family—the Irish in particular—translators have been kind to her, and the spreading of her far-flung dominion has brought her generous abuudaiice—as witness the cortributions the Maori race has made. As English folk we have a precious wealth ot tradition and story of the fanciful kind, but withal there is not one whit too much The theatre having done its worst to. destroy these admirable fictions. a [’ & , having in a most exemplary manner p .“’if destroyed itself in that perversion ?, l ts ,, U V.> it becomes doubly important that the little books themselves 'should be preserved, and brought once more to their Pjaee of honour in the nursery—a place Mhich has been more or less usurped by mechanical toys and modern devices. Arid to retain them in their usefulness thev must be preserved as much in their simplicity, their purity, and their- innocent extravagance as if they were actual fact Whosoever alters them to suit his owiopimons or ends is surely guilty of an ect ot unpardonable presumption, and appropriates to himself , something that does not belong to him. He rolls countless children of a heritage of pretenet- ■ legend which they cannot afford*»> The Christmas season lately closed wilt !m, V i t 1°, .light in most homes, nc- . h«fAn th - . on "bich fairyland has fallen. Other things have taken its P‘ a . ce , to a great extent, and Queen Mah and her hordes have fallen into neglect. a VOnd i el j 3 1ST many Playrooms have nf € Lilf Spol - e< j tb i s - }' ear by the intrusion of ugly revised editions of the kind that was shown me by a tot of three this week. Its unforgivable emendations and foreign - opinions and ideas that had been interpolated were an affront to all that is loveliest in the fairy flower garden. The je\ lathan of modernity- had been allowed to flounder and root among the blooms, and utility. and propaganda had made their unlovely presence felt in a fashion that must awaken the indigation of - all whose childhood was brightened by happy sojourns in this garden of enchantment. in the same way as some divines ached to see the Scripture? revised and rewntten in modern phraseology, and its grand old language exchanged for colo- J quialism, publishers in America—and it I would in England also," al- ' though he conceals his identity—have , taken the talcs of our childhood and have ' edited them, some to point modern morals and express modern ideas, others to tell vfl? modern tales. The atmosphere the httle broks create is as foreign to Goody Two Shoes, Hop O’ My Thumb. Cinderella and all the ogres and sprites and brownies ot fairyland as colloquial English would be to the translators of the Scriptures. Who could help being confounded by such couni non 1 , ~T V .° * um c ? .that were distressingly 1030 bulging with reason and barren of the beauty of make-believe? There were/ two of them. The editing had the stories, and. where the iutroductiJlT ot new topics had been perpetrated, altered the text. Did Bluebeard know anythin'of motor cars? Was Jack of the'BeaustaJK anything but a dreamer? And’ wav not Cinderella s shoe made of glass and found by a prince? We know the answer to all those-queries, but our children are to know differently. American “ got-gcttcv-ness has thrown fancy into the discard, and has found in some of these harmless little stories a means of propagating fear.modern doctrines such as prohibition and m others ah opportunity to interpo-iate-mawky sentiments of nationality which no doubt pass for “boost” iff that remarkable country. Now it makes not the least difference to this objection whether one can agree or disagree with the opinions introduced into these old tales. good or bad, they are, in that relation, only to be described in tern's of the famous definition of weeds— I things growing up in a wrong place.” ihey are as abhorrent as the strange garb ' in which “Modern Tales for Modern \ Dittle i* oik . appears, a volume which 5 bears the -imprint “ Made in England,” apparently from a firm going under the almost anonymous name of the Excel!:Printing Company. Everything is told in a modern >vay in the most modern lan|«age. and beauty and simplicity have

Those who have perpetrated this fraud', on the fames have no more moral justi-A ncatioii for their enterprise than thev* g would have for interfering with the works ' of the greatest writers. If such a precedent were followed—and.it is a question whether a precedent has not already been set m tins matter by the moving picture industry—we must soon be disgusted with the old stories into which modern persons and ideas obtrude themselves, and the tales themselves would soon be lost Imagine, for instance, a Prohibition ■version of "Treasure Island” with the rum left out: a peace edition of Kin.Arthur s knights with the swords, lances and chargers omitted, a vegetarian versmn of Jack and the Beanstalk” with no fee-fo-fi-fum ” Englishman-eating ogre, or a Ivindness to Animals ”nu n—/'L her of “ Red Riding Hood ” with no I mention of the awful doom of the wolf. 1 It all sounds absurd, but, frauds on the fairies, once permitted, there is little reason why things should not come to tins and great reason why they mav. Why must everything be practical and useful and logical? The vicar of Wakefield was wisest when he was tired of lieing always wise. The world is too much with us, early and late, and there arc already 100 few means of getting away irom it. Tins' precious old escape might therefore, be left alone. In the gtvv tumult of our after years, when the silence of age begins to fall, blotting out the incessant wrangle of life, and the less-than-echoes of remembered joys hush at last the tiring confusion of the ir.imK • when we have done our best and worst we will need it. One of the tragedies of 7 life is that ,we never can know just on what sari day our childhood left us. Perhaps softly in the night while \vc slept perhaps in the heat of the dav—whitlows? This only we know, that inever said farewell Yet wheu the vearr hnve fallen behind us wc mav. alwavs busy our hearts with the soothing ouietude of merhory, thinking of a thousand things, lovely and durable, tasting thorn slowly—the dear, dead hopes and fears. * illusions and ideals which our fairv m stones brought to us. Jr SUII may Time hold some golden spaj £ where I’ll unpack that scented Ot song and flower and sky and far/ And count and touch and turd thcdi oer, s "* -Musing upon them