New stories for my good little friends.

Under this title there has just appeared, at the Dentu bookshop, a work which, at first sight, does not seem to connect directly with our studies. But one will easily understand the interest that this collection of children’s stories may have for us, upon becoming acquainted with this note from the publisher: – The volume one is about to read is textually the work of a little girl, who composed it from the age of eight and a half to ten and a half years. The first sentiment that arises in the reader’s mind is certainly that of doubt. On opening the first pages, a smile of incredulity is stamped upon his lips; one wonders who could have become blind to the point of publishing the incoherent lucubrations of an infantile brain. But the critical spirit fades away, and attention and curiosity are aroused upon discovering interest in these little stories, plausible situations, a logical conclusion, well-developed characters, a moral. Miss Sophie Gras is, moreover, not a beginner; a couple of years ago she published her first work, under the title of: Tales for my little friends. It is, like this latest one, entirely the work of a little girl of eight and a half who, at an age when one thinks almost only of playing and frolicking, gives course to the compositions born of her ardent imagination.

Without doubt one finds reminiscences of readings in these infantile works, but, besides this, one feels the personal ideas, the observation, allied to a remarkably developed instruction. Miss Sophie Gras certainly knows all the great facts of the History of her country; the difficulties of grammar, of arithmetic, and of geometry are a plaything for her. She must have studied botany and geology to good profit, for the fauna and flora of the various countries she describes are perfectly known to her. Some quotations taken at random will prove, better than all we could say, the attraction of this book. On every page one finds scenes like this:

“With a panting breath, the old grandmother revived the nearly extinguished coals that slept beneath the ash. She made a little fire with the remains of vine-shoots, which were the only provisions of the winter, and placed a few coals in the clay braziers. She hung the iron lamp from a reed, rewarmed the little bed of her granddaughters, and set to singing an old Gaelic ballad to lull them to sleep, while she spun at the wheel to make them a dress. “The cabin was adorned with old images of saints nailed to the cob walls. A few kitchen utensils, as well as a thick oak table, formed the whole furniture, and a simple wooden cross hung from a nail.”

Or again the descriptions:

“In its decline the Sun scatters no more than a few rays of gold, which die out in the midst of the rosy clouds. It penetrates feebly through the transparent foliage, where it leaves a soft green color; it disperses the rest of its brightness over the leaves of the oleanders, whose hues it softens, while the star of night slowly leaves its prolonged sleep.”

Page 18: “The next day, at the break of dawn, Delphine rose, took her little bundle under her arm and a basket with provisions. – She closed her house and set out playing. Farewell, rocks, brooks, woods, and springs, which so many times distracted me with your soft murmur; farewell, clear waters that I drank…

“…Just having appeared, the Sun marched majestically and made the flowers of every color shine. These, moistened by a gentle dew, exhaled the sweetest perfumes. The winter was drawing near, but the morning was radiant and drops of water hung from the trees, which raised their branches, bent under the weight of their fruits.”

Page 36: “Mrs. de Rozan, who had remained in a foul dungeon, where the rays of a pale and lusterless day hardly penetrated, was dazzled by the brightness of the Sun… She heard, bubbling at her side, foaming brooks, whose murmurs she listened to with rapture. She gazed upon the white lily of the waters, where a drop of dew trembled, and its twisted buds, about to open. – “Your dwelling, O Delphine,” she said, “is more enchanting than my palace was.” Pages 55-56: “No sound was heard, save the crackling of the flames, whose sparks appeared like sinister torches in the midst of the night. Soon the violence of the fire redoubled. Whirlwinds of flames intermingled with black and red smoke rose into the air. – The old banana trees and the centuries-old yews fell with horrible cracking sounds. – The plaintive cooing of the doves, moaning in the groves of the savanna, rang out in the distance like the sound of bells that lament.” Page 77: “The banks of the torrent were enameled with fragrant flowers, which formed a medley of every color upon the green carpet of the grasses. The daughter of spring, the lovely violet, emblem of simplicity, grew abundant in that place where the hand of man had never gathered it.”

Page 101: “Not far from there was a meadow full of darnel, of campions, of violets, and of amaranths; a few nearly dead linden trees, with yellow leaves, appeared here and there, arranged without symmetry. Thousands of birds fluttered over the flowering branches, singing their most harmonious airs; the trees were laden with fruits and their mossy branches, breaking under the weight at the least storm, made dull cracking sounds be heard. In that garden, image of the earthly paradise, surrounded by a black forest, one felt neither unhappiness, nor the remorse of the soul; all there was enchanting and peaceful; there one was pure… What was lacking to that place, which Divine Providence took such pains to adorn with all the beauties of Nature?” Page 286: “Margaret had chosen two of her friends, among whose number was Ethereda, to march behind her and bear her crown. These two little girls, who served her as attendants, were as charming as goddesses; you would have taken each of them for a child Venus, but adding that her face had the sweetness and the goodness of the Christian virgins. They were two rosebuds before opening.”

We would like to quote everything and demonstrate to satiety the ingenuous poetry, the real knowledge of the sentiments that affirm themselves, on every page, amid infantile reflections, like the flashes of a genius that still does not know itself, but which shines through despite the obstacles opposed to it by an incompletely developed cerebral instrument.

Supposing that memory plays a certain role here, the fact is no less admirable and important, by its psychological consequences. It necessarily draws attention to analogous facts of intellectual precocity and innate knowledge. Involuntarily one seeks to explain them, and with the ideas of plurality of existences, which day after day acquires more authority, one comes to find no rational solution for it except in the principle of reincarnation. This child acquired in a previous existence, and her organism, extremely malleable, allows her to pour forth into literary works her varied knowledge and to assimilate the present forms. The examples of this kind are not rare, such as Mozart was as a child, as a composer; such as Jean-Baptiste Rey, who died as grand-master of the imperial chapel. At barely nine years old, he sang, with his feet in the dew and his head in the sun, precisely near the town of Lauzerte, in the valley of Quercy, where our heroine was born and resides. He was a soul in exile, who remembered the melodies of the absent homeland and became its echo. The expression and the accuracy of his singing struck a stranger, whom chance had brought to that place. He took him with him to Toulouse, had him enter the school of music of Saint-Sernin, from which the boy, become a man, went forth to direct, in the orchestra of the opera, the masterpieces of Gluck, Grétry, Sacchini, Salieri, and Paesiello. Such was, too, Mrs. Clélie Duplantier, one of our most remarkable instructing Spirits, who, from the age of eight and a half, fluently translated Hebrew and taught Latin and Greek to her brothers and cousins, older than she herself. Must one conclude that the children who learn only by dint of persevering studies were ignorant or without means in their preceding existence? No, certainly; the faculty of remembering is inherent to the more or less easy detachment of the soul and which, in some individualities, is carried to the most extreme limits. There exists in some a kind of retrospective sight, which recalls to them the past, whereas for others, who do not possess it, the past leaves no apparent trace. The past is like a dream, which one remembers more or less exactly, or which sometimes we forget completely. Several newspapers give an account of the works of Miss Sophie Gras; besides this, the Salut public, of Lyon, while paying the merited praises to the precocious intelligence of the author, adds the following:

“I am tempted to dedicate the beginning of my conversation to the lovers of phenomena, moral and intellectual phenomena, be it well understood, for, in the physical order, nothing is painful to see, in my opinion, like those living derogations of the laws of Nature…

…”The family of Miss Sophie Gras, who enjoys a great fortune and high consideration in Quercy, did not premeditate this system of education; it did not intervene, but is that not still much? This prodigious little girl knew nothing of the infantile joys and deflowers, in a premature haste, those of adolescence, etc., etc.…”

We share completely the opinion of the editor of the Salut public, as concerns the physical monstrosities. One is painfully affected at the sight of certain exhibitions of this kind; but are they really derogations of the laws of Nature? On the contrary, would it not be more logical to see, as Spiritism teaches, an application of universal laws still imperfectly known and a demonstration of the opposite nature, but as conclusive as the first, of the plurality of existences? As for the danger of leaving Miss Sophie Gras given over to her inspirations, we are of the opinion that such does not exist. The danger would be to restrain that need for expansion that dominates her. It would be as imprudent to force the concentration of the intelligences that thus affirm themselves, as to accumulate in the mind of certain little prodigies knowledge that reveals itself by a gesture, bad musicians who please at a first hearing, but who quickly cause fatigue; perhaps remarkable intelligences, but which wither and degenerate in a hothouse temperature, for which they were not born. The natural vocations, consequences of previous acquisitions, are irresistible; to combat them is to wish to break the individualities that possess them. Let us, then, allow to be governed by inspiration the Spirits who, like Miss Gras, have arrived passing through the common rank of successive incarnations.

[1] Paris, 1869, 1 vol. in-18 – Price 3 fr. 30 postage free.