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Title: The Moral Instruction of Children

Author: Felix Adler

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Language: English

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INTERNATIONAL EDUCATION SERIES

THE
MORAL INSTRUCTION
OF CHILDREN

BY FELIX ADLER

NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1892

Copyright, 1892,
By D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.

Electrotyped and Printed
at the Appleton Press, U.S.A.

EDITOR'S PREFACE.

Moral education is everywhere acknowledged to be the most important part of all education; but there has not been the same agreement in regard to the best means of securing it in the school. This has been due in part to a want of insight into the twofold nature of this sort of education; for instruction in morals includes two things: the formation of right ideas and the formation of right habits. Right ideas are necessary to guide the will, but right habits are the product of the will itself.

It is possible to have right ideas to some extent without the corresponding moral habits. On this account the formation of correct habits has been esteemed by some to be the chief thing. But unconscious habits—mere use and wont—do not seem to deserve the title of moral in its highest sense. The moral act should be a considerate one, and rest on the adoption of principles to guide one's actions.

To those who lay stress on the practical side and demand the formation of correct habits, the school as it is seems to be a great ethical instrumentality. To those who see in theoretical instruction the only true basis of moral character, the existing school methods seem sadly deficient.

The school as it is looks first after its discipline, and next after its instruction. Discipline concerns the behavior, and instruction concerns the intellectual progress of the pupil. That part of moral education which relates to habits of good behavior is much better provided for in the school than any part of intellectual education.

There is, however, a conflict here between old and new ideals. The old-fashioned school regarded obedience to authority the one essential; the new ideal regards insight into the reasonableness of moral commands the chief end. It is said, with truth, that a habit of unreasoning obedience does not fit one for the exigencies of modern life, with its partisan appeals to the individual and its perpetual display of grounds and reasons, specious and otherwise, in the newspapers. The unreasoning obedience to a moral guide in school may become in after life unreasoning obedience to a demagogue or to a leader in crime.

It is not obedience to external authority that we need so much as enlightened moral sense, and yet there remains and will remain much good in the old-fashioned habit of implicit obedience.

The new education aims at building up self-control and individual insight. It substitutes the internal authority of conscience for the external authority of the master. It claims by this to educate the citizen fitted for the exercise of suffrage in a free government. He will weigh political and social questions in his mind, and decide for himself. He will be apt to reject the scheme of the demagogue. While the old-fashioned school-master relied on the rod to sustain his external authority, he produced, it is said, a reaction against all authority in the minds of strong-willed pupils. The new education saves the strong-willed pupil from this tension against constituted authority, and makes him law-abiding from the beginning.

It will be admitted that the school under both its forms—old as well as new—secures in the main the formation of the cardinal moral habits. It is obliged to insist on regularity, punctuality, silence, and industry as indispensable for the performance of its school tasks. A private tutor may permit his charge to neglect all these things, and yet secure some progress in studies carried on by fits and starts, with noise and zeal to-day, followed by indolence to-morrow. But a school, on account of its numbers, must insist on the semi-mechanical virtues of regularity, punctuality, silence, and industry. Although these are semi-mechanical in their nature, for with much practice they become unconscious habits, yet they furnish the very ground-work of all combinations of man with his fellow-men. They are fundamental conditions of social life. The increase of city population, consequent on the growth of productive industry and the substitution of machines for hand labor, renders necessary the universal prevalence of these cardinal virtues of the school.

Even the management of machines requires that sort of alertness which comes from regularity and punctuality. The travel on the railroad, the management of steam-engines, the necessities of concerted action, require punctuality and rhythmic action.

The school habit of silence means considerate regard for the rights of fellow-workmen. They must not be interfered with; their attention must not be distracted from their several tasks. A rational self-restraint grows out of this school habit—rational, because it rests on considerateness for the work of others. This is a great lesson in co-operation. Morals in their essence deal with the relation of man to his fellow-men, and rest on a considerateness for the rights of others. "Do unto others," etc., sums up the moral code.

Industry, likewise, takes a high rank as a citizen's virtue. By it man learns to re-enforce the moments by the hours, and the days by the years. He learns how the puny individual can conquer great obstacles. The school demands of the youth a difficult kind of industry. He must think and remember, giving close and unremitting attention to subjects strange and far off from his daily life. He must do this in order to discover eventually that these strange and far-off matters are connected in a close manner to his own history and destiny.

There is another phase of the pupil's industry that has an important bearing on morals. All his intellectual work in the class has to do with critical accuracy, and respect for the truth. Loose statements and careless logical inference meet with severe reproof.

Finally, there is an enforced politeness and courtesy toward teachers and fellow-pupils—at least to the extent of preventing quarrels. This is directly tributary to the highest of virtues, namely, kindness and generosity.

All these moral phases mentioned have to do with the side of school discipline rather than instruction, and they do not necessarily have any bearing on the theory of morals or on ethical philosophy, except in the fact that they make a very strong impression on the mind of the youth, and cause him to feel that he is a member of a moral order. He learns that moral demands are far more stern than the demands of the body for food or drink or repose. The school thus does much to change the pupil from a natural being to a spiritual being. Physical nature becomes subordinated to the interests of human nature.

Notwithstanding the fact that the school is so efficient as a means of training in moral habits, it is as yet only a small influence in the realm of moral theory. Even our colleges and universities, it must be confessed, do little in this respect, although there has been of late an effort to increase in the programmes the amount of time devoted to ethical study. The cause of this is the divorce of moral theory from theology. All was easy so long as ethics was directly associated with the prevailing religious confession. The separation of Church and State, slowly progressing everywhere since the middle ages, has at length touched the question of education.

The attempt to find an independent basis for ethics in the science of sociology has developed conflicting systems. The college student is rarely strengthened in his faith in moral theories by his theoretic study. Too often his faith is sapped. Those who master a spiritual philosophy are strengthened; the many who drift toward a so-called "scientific" basis are led to weaken their moral convictions to the standpoint of fashion, or custom, or utility.

Meanwhile the demand of the age to separate Church from State becomes more and more exacting. Religious instruction has almost entirely ceased in the public schools, and it is rapidly disappearing from the programmes of colleges and preparatory schools, and few academies are now scenes of religious revival, as once was common.

The publishers of this series are glad, therefore, to offer a book so timely and full of helpful suggestions as this of Mr. Adler. It is hoped that it may open for many teachers a new road to theoretic instruction in morality, and at the same time re-enforce the study of literature in our schools.

W. T. Harris.

Washington, D.C., July, 1892.

PREFATORY NOTE.

The following lectures were delivered in the School of Applied Ethics during its first session in 1891, at Plymouth, Mass. A few of the lectures have been condensed, in order to bring more clearly into view the logical scheme which underlies the plan of instruction here outlined. The others are published substantially as delivered.

I am deeply conscious of the difficulties of the problem which I have ventured to approach, and realize that any contribution toward its solution, at the present time, must be most imperfect. I should, for my part, have preferred to wait longer before submitting my thought to teachers and parents. But I have been persuaded that even in its present shape it may be of some use. I earnestly hope that, at all events, it may serve to help on the rising tide of interest in moral education, and may stimulate to further inquiry.

Felix Adler.

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY LECTURES.
| PAGE
I. |   The Problem of Unsectarian Moral Instruction | 3
II. |   The Efficient Motives of Good Conduct | 17
III. |   Opportunities for Moral Training in the Daily School | 27
IV. |   The Classification of Duties | 37
V. |   The Moral Outfit of Children on entering School | 47
PRIMARY COURSE.
VI. |   The Use of Fairy Tales | 64
VII. |   The Use of Fables | 80
VIII. |   Supplementary Remarks on Fables | 96
IX. |   Selected Stories from the Bible | 106
X. |   The Odyssey and the Iliad | 146
GRAMMAR COURSE.
Lessons on Duty.
XI. |   The Duty of acquiring Knowledge | 169
XII. |   Duties which relate to the Physical Life and the Feelings | 185
XIII. |   Duties which relate to Others (Filial and Fraternal Duties) | 202
XIV. |   Duties toward all Men (Justice and Charity) | 218
XV. |   The Elements of Civic Duty | 236
XVI. |   The Use of Proverbs and Speeches | 245
XVII. |   Individualization of Moral Teaching | 249
APPENDIX.
The Influence of Manual Training on Character | 257

INTRODUCTORY LECTURES.

I. THE PROBLEM OF UNSECTARIAN MORAL INSTRUCTION.

It will be the aim of the present course of lectures to give in outline the subject-matter of moral instruction for children from six to fourteen or fifteen years of age, and to discuss the methods according to which this kind of instruction should be imparted. At the outset, however, we are confronted by what certainly is a grave difficulty, and to many may appear an insuperable one. The opinion is widely held that morality depends on religious sanctions, and that right conduct can not be taught—especially not to children—except it be under the authority of some sort of religious belief. To those who think in this way the very phrase, unsectarian moral teaching, is suspicious, as savoring of infidelity. And the attempt to mark off a neutral moral zone, outside the domains of the churches, is apt to be regarded as masking a covert design on religion itself.

The principle of unsectarian moral instruction, however, is neither irreligious nor anti-religious. In fact—as will appear later on—it rests on purely educational grounds, with which the religious bias of the educator has nothing whatever to do. But there are also grounds of expediency which, at least in the United States, compel us, whether we care to do so or not, to face this problem of unsectarian moral education, and to these let us first give our attention. Even if we were to admit, for argument's sake, the correctness of the proposition that moral truths can only be taught as corollaries of some form of religious belief, the question would at once present itself to the educator, To which form of religious belief shall he give the preference? I am speaking now of the public schools of the United States.

These schools are supported out of the general fund of taxation to which all citizens are compelled to contribute. Clearly it would be an act of gross injustice to force a citizen belonging to one denomination to pay for instilling the doctrines of some other into the minds of the young—in other words, to compel him to support and assist in spreading religious ideas in which he does not believe. This would be an outrage on the freedom of conscience. But the act of injustice would become simply monstrous if parents were to be compelled to help indoctrinate their own children with such religious opinions as are repugnant to them.

There is no state religion in the United States. In the eyes of the state all shades of belief and disbelief are on a par. There are in this country Catholics, Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Methodists, Baptists, Jews, etc. They are alike citizens. They contribute alike toward the maintenance of the public schools. With what show of fairness, then, could the belief of any one of these sects be adopted by the state as a basis for the inculcation of moral truths? The case seems, on the face of it, a hopeless one. But the following devices have been suggested to remove, or rather to circumvent, the difficulty.

First Device.—Let representatives of the various theistic churches, including Catholics, Protestants, and Jews, meet in council. Let them eliminate all those points in respect to which they differ, and formulate a common creed containing only those articles on which they can agree. Such a creed would include, for instance, the belief in the existence of Deity, in the immortality of the soul, and in future reward and punishment. Upon this as a foundation let the edifice of moral instruction be erected. There are, however, two obvious objections to this plan. In the first place, this "Dreibund" of Catholicism, Protestantism, and Judaism would leave out of account the party of the agnostics, whose views may indeed be erroneous, or even detestable, but whose rights as citizens ought not the less on that account to be respected. "Neminem læde," hurt no one, is a cardinal rule of justice, and should be observed by the friends of religion in their dealings with their opponents as well as with one another. The agnostic party has grown to quite considerable dimensions in the United States. But, if it had not, if there were only a single person who held such opinions, and he a citizen, any attempt on the part of the majority to trample upon the rights of this one person would still be inexcusable. In the sphere of political action the majority rules, and must rule; in matters that touch the conscience the smallest minority possesses rights on which even an overwhelming majority arrayed on the opposite side can not afford to trespass. It is one of the most notable achievements of the American commonwealths that they have so distinctly separated between the domain of religion and of politics, adopting in the one case the maxim of coercion by majority rule, in the other allowing the full measure of individual liberty. From this standpoint there should be no departure.

But the second objection is even more cogent. It is proposed to eliminate the differences which separate the various sects, and to formulate their points of agreement into a common creed. But does it not occur to those who propose this plan that the very life of a religion is to be found precisely in those points in which it differs from its neighbors, and that an abstract scheme of belief, such as has been sketched, would, in truth, satisfy no one? Thus, out of respect for the sentiments of the Jews, it is proposed to omit the doctrines of the divinity of Christ and of the atonement. But would any earnest Christian give his assent, even provisionally, to a creed from which those quintessential doctrines of Christianity have been left out? When the Christian maintains that morality must be based on religion, does he not mean, above all, on the belief in Christ? Is it not indispensable, from his point of view, that the figure of the Saviour shall stand in the foreground of moral inculcation and exhortation? Again, when the Catholic affirms that the moral teaching of the young must be based on religion, is it to be supposed for an instant that he would accept as satisfying his conception of religion a skeleton creed like that above mentioned, denuded of all those peculiar dogmas which make religion in his eyes beautiful and dear? This first device, therefore, is to be rejected. It is unjust to the agnostics, and it will never content the really religious persons of any denomination. It could prove acceptable only to theists pure and simple, whose creed is practically limited to the three articles mentioned; namely, the belief in Deity, immortality, and future punishment and reward. But this class constitutes a small fraction of the community; and it would be absurd, under the specious plea of reconciling the various creeds, in effect to impose the rationalistic opinions of a few on the whole community.

The second device seems to promise better results. It provides that religious and moral instruction combined shall be given in the public schools under the auspices of the several denominations. According to this plan, the pupils are to be divided, for purposes of moral instruction, into separate classes, according to their sectarian affiliations, and are to be taught separately by their own clergymen or by teachers acting under instructions from the latter. The high authority of Germany is invoked in support of this plan. If I am correctly informed, the president of one of our leading universities has recently spoken in favor of it, and it is likely that an attempt will be made to introduce it in the United States. Already in some of our reformatory schools and other public institutions separate religious services are held by the ministers of the various sects, and we may expect that an analogous arrangement will be proposed with respect to moral teaching in the common schools. It is necessary, therefore, to pay some attention to the German system, and to explain the reasons which have induced or compelled the Germans to adopt the compromise just described. The chief points to be noted are these: In Germany, church and state are united. The King of Prussia, for instance, is the head of the Evangelical Church. This constitutes a vital difference between America and Germany. Secondly, in Germany the schools existed before the state took charge of them. The school system was founded by the Church, and the problem which confronted the Government was how to convert church schools into state schools. An attempt was made to do this by limiting the influence of the clergy, which formerly had been all-powerful and all-pervasive, to certain branches and certain hours of instruction, thereby securing the supremacy of the state in respect to all other branches and at all other hours. In America, on the other hand, the state founded the schools ab initio. In Germany the state has actually encroached upon the Church, has entered church schools and reconstructed them in its own interest. To adopt the German system in America would be to permit the Church to encroach upon the state, to enter state schools and subordinate them to sectarian purposes. The example of Germany can not, therefore, be quoted as a precedent in point. The system of compromise in Germany marks an advance in the direction of increasing state influence. Its adoption in this country would mark a retrograde movement in the direction of increasing church influence.

Nor can the system, when considered on its own merits, be called a happy one. Prof. Gneist, in his valuable treatise, Die Konfessionelle Schule (which may be read by those who desire to inform themselves on the historical evolution of the Prussian system), maintains that scientific instruction must be unsectarian, while religious instruction must be sectarian. I agree to both his propositions. But to my mind it follows that, if religious instruction must be sectarian, it ought not to have a place in state schools, at least not in a country in which the separation of church and state is complete. Moreover, the limitation of religious teaching to a few hours a week can never satisfy the earnest sectarian. If he wants religion in the schools at all, then he will also want that specific kind of religious influence which he favors to permeate the whole school. He will insist that history shall be taught from his point of view, that the readers shall breathe the spirit of his faith, that the science teaching shall be made to harmonize with its doctrines, etc. What a paltry concession, indeed, to open the door to the clergyman twice or three times a week, and to permit him to teach the catechism to the pupils, while the rest of the teaching is withdrawn from his control, and is perhaps informed by a spirit alien to his! This kind of compromise can never heartily be indorsed; it may be accepted under pressure, but submission to it will always be under protest.[1]

The third arrangement that has been suggested is that each sect shall build its own schools, and draw upon the fund supplied by taxation proportionately to the number of children educated. But to this there are again two great objections: First, it is the duty of the state to see to it that a high educational standard shall be maintained in the schools, and that the money spent on them shall bear fruit in raising the general intelligence of the community. But the experience of the past proves conclusively that in sectarian schools, especially where there are no rival unsectarian institutions to force them into competition, the preponderance of zeal and interest is so markedly on the side of religious teaching that the secular branches unavoidably suffer.[2] If it is said that the state may prescribe rules and set up standards of its own, to which the sectarian schools shall be held to conform, we ask, Who is to secure such conformance? The various sects, once having gained possession of the public funds, would resent the interference of the State. The Inspectors who might be appointed would never be allowed to exercise any real control, and the rules which the State might prescribe would remain dead letter.

In the second place, under such an arrangement, the highest purpose for which the public schools exist would be defeated. Sectarian schools tend to separate the members of the various denominations from one another, and to hinder the growth of that spirit of national unity which it is, on the other hand, the prime duty of the public school to create and foster. The support of a system of public education out of the proceeds of taxation is justifiable in the last analysis as a measure dictated to the State by the law of self-preservation. The State maintains public schools in order to preserve itself—i. e., its unity. And this is especially true in a republic. In a monarchy the strong arm of the reigning dynasty, supported by a ruling class, may perhaps suppress discord, and hold the antagonistic elements among the people in subjection by sheer force. In a republic only the spirit of unity among the people themselves can keep them a people. And this spirit is fostered in public schools, where children of all classes and sects are brought into daily, friendly contact, and where together they are indoctrinated into the history, tradition, and aspirations of the nation to which they belong.

What then? We have seen that we can not encourage, that we can not permit, the establishment of sectarian schools at the public expense. We have also seen that we can not teach religion in the public schools. Must we, therefore, abandon altogether the hope of teaching the elements of morals? Is not moral education conceded to be one of the most important, if not the most important, of all branches of education? Must we forego the splendid opportunities afforded by the daily schools for this purpose? Is there not a way of imparting moral instruction without giving just offense to any religious belief or any religious believer, or doing violence to the rights of any sect or of any party whatsoever? The correct answer to this question would be the solution of the problem of unsectarian moral education. I can merely state my answer to-day, in the hope that the entire course before us may substantiate it. The answer, as I conceive it, is this: It is the business of the moral instructor in the school to deliver to his pupils the subject-matter of morality, but not to deal with the sanctions of it; to give his pupils a clearer understanding of what is right and what is wrong, but not to enter into the question why the right should be done and the wrong avoided. For example, let us suppose that the teacher is treating of veracity. He says to the pupil, Thou shalt not lie. He takes it for granted that the pupil feels the force of this commandment, and acknowledges that he ought to yield obedience to it. For my part, I should suspect of quibbling and dishonest intention any boy or girl who would ask me, Why ought I not to lie? I should hold up before such a child the Ought in all its awful majesty. The right to reason about these matters can not be conceded until after the mind has attained a certain maturity. And as a matter of fact every good child agrees with the teacher unhesitatingly when he says, It is wrong to lie. There is an answering echo in its heart which confirms the teacher's words. But what, then, is it my business as a moral teacher to do? In the first place, to deepen the impression of the wrongfulness of lying, and the sacredness of truth, by the spirit in which I approach the subject. My first business is to convey the spirit of moral reverence to my pupils. In the next place, I ought to quicken the pupil's perceptions of what is right and wrong, in the case supposed, of what is truth and what is falsehood. Accordingly, I should analyze the different species of lies, with a view of putting the pupils on their guard against the spirit of falsehood, however it may disguise itself. I should try to make my pupils see that, whenever they intentionally convey a false impression, they are guilty of falsehood. I should try to make their minds intelligent and their consciences sensitive in the matter of truth-telling, so that they may avoid those numerous ambiguities of which children are so fond, and which are practiced even by adults. I should endeavor to tonic their moral nature with respect to truthfulness. In the next place, I should point out to them the most frequent motives which lead to lying, so that, by being warned against the causes, they may the more readily escape the evil consequences. For example, cowardice is one cause of lying. By making the pupil ashamed of cowardice, we can often cure him of the tendency to falsehood. A redundant imagination is another cause of lying, envy is another cause, selfishness in all its forms is a principal cause, etc. I should say to the moral teacher: Direct the pupil's attention to the various dangerous tendencies in his nature, which tempt him into the ways of falsehood. Furthermore, explain to your pupils the consequences of falsehood: the loss of the confidence of our fellow-men, which is the immediate and palpable result of being detected in a lie; the injuries inflicted on others; the loosening of the bonds of mutual trust in society at large; the loss of self-respect on the part of the liar; the fatal necessity of multiplying lies, of inventing new falsehoods to make good the first, etc. A vast amount of good, I am persuaded, can be done in this way by stimulating the moral nature, by enabling the scholar to detect the finer shades of right and wrong, helping him to trace temptation to its source, and erecting in his mind barriers against evil-doing, founded on a realizing sense of its consequences.

In a similar if not exactly the same way, all the other principal topics of practical morality can be handled. The conscience can be enlightened, strengthened, guided, and all this can be done without once raising the question why it is wrong to do what is forbidden. That it is wrong should rather, as I have said, be assumed. The ultimate grounds of moral obligation need never be discussed in school. It is the business of religion and philosophy to propose theories, or to formulate articles of belief with respect to the ultimate sources and sanctions of duty. Religion says we ought to do right because it is the will of God, or for the love of Christ. Philosophy says we should do right for utilitarian or transcendental reasons, or in obedience to the law of evolution, etc. The moral teacher, fortunately, is not called upon to choose between these various metaphysical and theological asseverations. As an individual he may subscribe to any one of them, but as a teacher he is bound to remain within the safe limits of his own province. He is not to explain why we should do the right, but to make the young people who are intrusted to his charge see more clearly what is right, and to instill into them his own love of and respect for the right. There is a body of moral truth upon which all good men, of whatever sect or opinion, are agreed: it is the business of the public schools to deliver to their pupils this common fund of moral truth. But I must hasten to add, to deliver it not in the style of the preacher, but according to the methods of the pedagogue—i. e., in a systematic way, the moral lessons being graded to suit the varying ages and capacities of the pupils, and the illustrative material being sorted and arranged in like manner. Conceive the modern educational methods to have been applied to that stock of moral truths which all good men accept, and you will have the material for the moral lessons which are needed in a public school.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] Since the above was written, the draft of the Volksschulgesetz submitted to the Prussian Legislature, and the excited debates to which it gave rise, have supplied a striking confirmation of the views expressed in the text. Nothing could be more mistaken than to propose for imitation elsewhere the German "solution" of the problem of moral teaching in schools, especially at a time when the Germans themselves are taking great pains to make it clear that they are as far as possible from having found a solution.

[2] During the reactionary period which followed the Revolution of 1848, the school regulations of Kur-Hessen provided that twenty hours a week be devoted in the Volkschulen to religious teaching.

II. THE EFFICIENT MOTIVES OF GOOD CONDUCT.

There are persons in whom moral principle seems to have completely triumphed; whose conduct, so far as one can judge, is determined solely by moral rules; but whom, nevertheless, we do not wholly admire. We feel instinctively that there is in their virtue a certain flaw—the absence of a saving grace. They are too rigorous, too much the slaves of duty. They lack geniality.

Like religion, morality has its fanatics. Thus, there is in the temperance movement a class of fanatics who look at every public question from the point of view of temperance reform, and from that only. There are also woman's-rights fanatics, social purity fanatics, etc. The moral fanatic in every case is a person whose attention is wholly engrossed by some one moral interest, and who sees this out of its relation to other moral interests. The end he has in view may be in itself highly laudable, but the exaggerated emphasis put upon it, the one-sided pursuit of it, is a mischievous error.

Observe, further, that there are degrees of moral fanaticism. The fanatic of the first degree, to whom Emerson addresses the words, "What right have you, sir, to your one virtue?" has just been described. He is a person who exalts some one moral rule at the expense of the others. A fanatic of a higher order is he who exalts the whole body of moral rules at the expense of human instincts and desires. He is a person who always acts according to rule; who introduces moral considerations into every detail of life; who rides the moral hobby; in whose eyes the infinite complexity of human affairs has only one aspect, namely, the moral; who is never satisfied unless at every step he feels the strain of the bridle of conscience; who is incapable of spontaneous action and of naïve enjoyment. It is believed that there are not a few persons of this description in the United States, and especially in the New England States—fanatics on the moral side, examples of a one-sided development in the direction of moral formalism. We must be very careful, when insisting on the authority of moral ideas, lest we encourage in the young a tendency of this sort. The hearts of children are very pliable; it is easily possible to produce on them too deep an impression: to give them at the outset a fatal twist, all the more since at a certain age many young people are prone to exaggerated introspection and self-questioning. But it may be asked: Are not moral principles really clothed with supreme authority? Ought we not, indeed, to keep the standard of righteousness constantly before our eyes; in brief, is it possible to be too moral? Evidently we have reached a point where a distinction requires to be drawn.

Ethics is a science of relations. The things related are human interests, human ends. The ideal which ethics proposes to itself is the unity of ends, just as the ideal of science is the unity of causes. The ends of the natural man are the subject-matter with which ethics deals. The ends of the natural man are not to be crushed or wiped out, but to be brought into right relations with one another. The ends of the natural man are to be respected from an ethical point of view, so long as they remain within their proper limits. The moral laws are formulas expressing relations of equality or subordination, or superordination. The moral virtue of our acts consists in the respect which we pay to the system of relationships thus prescribed, in the willingness with which we co-ordinate our interests with those of others, or subordinate them to those of others, as the exigencies of the moral situation may require.

But the point on which it is now necessary to fix our attention is that when morality has once sanctioned any of the ends of life, the natural man may be left to pursue them without interference on the part of the moralist. When morality has marked out the boundaries within which the given end shall be pursued, its work so far is done; except, indeed, that we are always to keep an eye upon those boundaries, and that the sense of their existence should pervade the whole atmosphere of our lives.[3] A few illustrations will make my meaning clear. There is a moral rule which says that we should eat to live; not, conversely, live to eat. This means that we should regulate our food in such a way that the body may become a fit instrument for the higher purposes of existence, and that the time and attention bestowed upon the matter of eating shall not be so great as to divert us from other and more necessary objects. But, these limits being established, it does not follow that it is wrong or unspiritual to enjoy a meal. The senses, even the lowest of them, are permitted to have free play within the bounds prescribed. Nor, again, should we try rigidly to determine the choice of food according to moral considerations. It would be ridiculous to attempt to do so. The choice of food within a wide range depends entirely on taste, and has nothing to do with moral considerations (whether, for instance, we should have squash or beans for dinner). Those who are deeply impressed with the importance of moral rules are often betrayed into applying them to the veriest minutiæ of conduct. Did they remember that ethics is a science of relations, or, what amounts to the same thing, a science of limits, they would be saved such pedantry. Undoubtedly there are moral adiaphora. The fact that such exist has been a stumbling-block in the way of those who believe that morality ought to cover the whole of conduct. The definition of ethics as a science of relations or limits removes this stumbling-block. Ethics stands at the frontier. With what goes on in the interior it does not interfere, except in so far as the limitations it prescribes are an interference. Take another illustration. Ethics condemns vanity and whatever ministers to vanity—as, e. g., undue attention to dress and adornment of the person—on the ground that this implies an immoral subordination of the inner to the outer, of the higher to the lesser ends. But, to lay down a cast-iron rule as to how much one has a right to expend on dress, can not be the office of ethics, on account of the infinite variety of conditions and occupations which subsists among men. And the attempt to prescribe a single fashion of dress, by sumptuary laws or otherwise, would impair that freedom of taste which it is the business of the moralist to respect. Again, every one knows with what bitterness the moral rigorists of all ages have condemned the impulse which attracts the sexes toward one another, and how often they have tried, though vainly, to crush it. But here, again, the true attitude is indicated by the definition of ethics as a science of limits. The moral law prescribes bounds within which this emotional force shall be free to operate, and claims for it the holy name of love, so long as it remains within the bounds prescribed, and, being within, remains conscious of them. That is what is meant when we speak of spiritualizing the feelings. The feelings are spiritualized when they move within certain limits, and when the sense of the existence of these limits penetrates them, and thereby imparts to them a new and nobler quality. And, because such limitation is felt to be satisfying and elevating, the system of correlations which we call ethical, and which, abstractly stated, would fail to interest, does by this means find an entrance into the human heart, and awakens in it the sense of the sublimity and the blessedness of the moral commands.

There are two defects of the moral fanatic which can now be signalized: First, he wrongly believes that whatever is not of morality is against it. He therefore is tempted to frown upon the natural pleasures; to banish them if he can, and, if not, to admit them only within the narrowest possible limits as a reluctant concession to the weakness of human nature. In consequence, the moral fanatic commits the enormity of introducing the taint of the sense of sin into the most innocent enjoyments, and thus perverts and distorts the conscience. Secondly, he is always inclined to seek a moral reason for that which has only a natural one; to forget that, like the great conquerors of antiquity, Morality respects the laws of the several realms which it unites into a single empire, and guarantees to each the unimpaired maintenance of its local customs. These remarks are intended to serve as a general caution. I find that young people, when they have become awakened on ethical subjects, often betray a tendency toward moral asceticism. I find that teachers, in the earnest desire to impress the laws of the moral empire, are sometimes betrayed into disregarding the provincial laws of the senses, the intellect, and the feelings; are apt to go too far in applying moral prescriptions to the minutiæ of conduct; are apt to leave the impression that pleasant things, just because they are pleasant, are therefore sinful.

But we have now to take a further step, which will bring us close to our special subject for to-day, viz., the efficient motives of good conduct. The non-moral faculties are not only not anti-moral, as has been shown, but, when appealed to in the right way, they lend to Morality a friendly, an almost indispensable support. The æsthetic, the intellectual, and the emotional faculty have not in themselves a moral quality, but when used as auxiliaries they pave the way for moral considerations pure and simple, and have in this sense an immense propædeutic value. Without entering in this place into the philosophy of æsthetics, it is enough to say that the beautiful, like the good, results from and depends on the observance of certain limits and certain relations. And it will not seem far-fetched to suggest that pupils who have been trained to appreciate moderation, restraint and harmony of relations in external objects, will be predisposed to apply analogous measures to matters of conduct, and that a standard of valuation will thus be created in their minds which must prove favorable to right action. Æsthetics may become a pedagogue unto ethics. The same pedagogical function may be claimed for the intellect. The intellect traces the connection between causes and effects. Applied to conduct, it shows the connection between acts and their consequences. It is the faculty which counsels prudence. One does not need to accept the egoistic theory of morals to concede that self-interest is an ally of morality, that Prudence and Virtue travel hand in hand a certain distance on the same road. Not, indeed, until the ideal state shall have been reached will the dictates of the two ever coincide entirely; but to a certain extent the coincidence already exists, and the moral teacher is justified in availing himself of it as far as it goes.

To take a very simple case—a child handles a knife which it has been told not to touch, and cuts his fingers. Morally speaking, his fault is disobedience. He would have been equally guilty if he had escaped injury. But he would hardly be so ready to obey another time, if he had been less sharply reminded of the usefulness of obedience. It is wrong to lie—wrong on purely moral grounds, with which self-interest has nothing to do. But for all that we can not dispense with the lesson contained in the well-known fable of the boy who cried, "Wolf!" It is wrong to steal on purely moral grounds. But even a child can be made to understand that the thief, as Emerson puts it, "steals from himself," and that, besides being a rogue, he is deficient in enlightened self-interest. The maxim that honesty is the best policy is true enough so far as the facts are concerned, which come under the observation of children, though one may question whether it be true absolutely.

Lastly, when we come to consider the emotional faculty, we find that the intimate connection between it and the moral is so generally conceded as to make it quite superfluous to expatiate on it. On the contrary, it seems necessary to expostulate with those who claim too much credit for the feelings, who ascribe to them a moral value which they by no means possess. Thus, gentleness is not necessarily a virtue; it may be a mere matter of temperament. Sympathetic impulses, per se, are not praiseworthy. Sympathy quite as often leads us astray as aright; sympathy, indeed, unless tutored and regulated by moral principles, is a danger against which we ought to be on our guard almost as much as against selfishness. Yet, no one will deny that the feelings, when rightly trained, are of inestimable service as auxiliaries in the task of moral education.

To sum up, let me say that the wise teacher will appeal to the taste, the intelligence, and the feelings of his pupils; that he will touch these various springs of conduct all the time, and get from them all the help he can. Thus, when speaking of cleanliness, he will appeal to the æsthetic instinct of the children, awakening in them a feeling of disgust at untidiness. He will appeal to the prudential motive, by showing that want of cleanliness breeds disease. "You do not wish to be sick? You do not wish to suffer? Therefore, it is to your interest to be clean." But, finally, he will touch a higher motive than any of these. "If you are unclean, you cease to respect yourself." And the term self-respect expresses in a condensed form the moral motive proper. It implies the idea of moral personality, which it is not necessary, nor possible, at this stage to analyze, but which the pupil will somehow understand, for his conscience will respond. In many cases the appeal will be made chiefly to the sympathetic feelings; for through these feelings we become aware of the pains and joys of others, and thus of the consequences of the benefits we confer or the evil we inflict. The sympathetic feelings supply the information upon which the will can act. They tell us that others suffer or are glad. And yet the strength to labor persistently for the relief of others' suffering and the enhancement of others' joy—that we can derive from the moral impulse alone.

The moral motive is the highest, it is really the only sufficient motive. Pray, understand me well at this point. I should say to the child: It is wrong to lie. That is sufficient. It is wrong, it is forbidden; you must yourself acknowledge the truth of my words, because you despise yourself when you have told a lie. But, in order to strengthen your weak resolution, to confirm you in well-doing, let me show you that it is also contrary to self-interest to lie, and likewise that it is disgusting to be unclean, and that a wrong done to another causes pain. Thus the æsthetic, intellectual, and emotional faculties are called in as witnesses to bear testimony to the moral truths; they are invited to stand up in chorus and say Amen! to the moral commands.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] It must be remembered also that our knowledge of the right ethical relations is still extremely imperfect, and that the duty of extending the knowledge and promoting the recognition of them is perhaps the highest of all—to which, on occasion, every lesser end must be sacrificed.

III. OPPORTUNITIES FOR MORAL TRAINING IN THE DAILY SCHOOL.

The school should be to the pupil not an intellectual drill-ground, but a second home; a place dear at the time, and to be gratefully remembered ever after; a place in which his whole nature, and especially what is best in him, may expand and grow. The educational aim should be, not merely to pave the pupil's way to future success, not merely to make of his mind a perfect instrument of thought, a kind of intellectual loom, capable of turning out the most complicated intellectual patterns. The aim should be, above all; to build up manhood, to develop character. There is no school in which moral influence is wanting. The pity is, that in many schools it is incidental, not purposed. And yet there are manifold opportunities in every school for influencing the moral life. Let us consider a few of these.

1. The teaching of science lends itself to the cultivation of truthfulness. Truthfulness may be defined as the correspondence between thought and word and fact. When the thought in the mind fits the fact, and the word on the tongue fits the thought, then the circuit of truth is complete. Now, with respect to the inculcating of truthfulness, science teaching has this advantage above other branches, that the palpable nature of the facts dealt with makes it possible to note and check the least deviation from the truth. The fact is present, right before the pupil, to rebuke him if he strays from it in thought or speech. And this circumstance may be utilized even in the humble beginnings of science teaching, in the so-called object-lessons. For instance, a bird, or the picture of one, is placed before the child. The teacher says, "Observe closely and tell me exactly what you see—the length of the neck, the curve of the beak, the colors of the plumage," etc. The pupil replies. The teacher objects: "You have not observed accurately. The color is not what you describe it to be. Look again. The curve of the beak does not resemble what you have just drawn on the blackboard. You must tell me exactly what you see. Your words must tally with the facts." And the same sort of practice may be continued in the science-lessons of the upper classes.

Scientists are distinguished from other observers by their greater accuracy. Intellectual honesty is that moral quality which science is best calculated to foster. All the great scientists have been haunted by a high ideal of truth, and a gleam of that ideal, however faint, may be made to shed its light even into the school-room. It is obvious that this realistic tutoring into veracity will be of special use to children who are led into lying by a too vivid imagination.

Let me add the following remarks in regard to indirect means of promoting truthfulness: The teacher can do a great deal to cultivate respect for the truth among his pupils by frankly admitting an error whenever he has fallen into one. Some teachers try to save their dignity by glossing over their mistakes. But even young children are shrewd enough to estimate such trickery at its worth; while he who manfully confesses that he has been in the wrong, earns the respect of his class, and sets them an invaluable example.

It is well also to observe strict accuracy even in matters which of themselves are of no moment. For instance, in giving an account of a botanizing expedition, you begin, perhaps, by saying, "It was half-past ten when we arrived at our destination." Suddenly you stop and correct yourself. "No, I was mistaken; it could not have been later than ten o'clock." Does this strike you as pedantic? But if you fix the time at all, is it not worth while to fix it with approximate exactness? True, it makes no difference in regard to what you are about to relate, whether you arrived at half-past ten or at ten. But, precisely because it makes no difference, it shows the value which you set on accuracy even in trifles. And by such little turns of phrase, by such insubstantial influences, coming from the teacher, the pupil's character is molded.

2. The study of history, when properly conducted is of high moral value. History sets before the mind examples of heroism, of self-sacrifice, of love of country, of devotion to principles at the greatest cost. How can such examples fail to inspire, to ennoble, to awaken emulation? The great and good men of the past, the virtuous and the wise, serve as models to the young, and often arouse in them an enthusiastic admiration, a passionate discipleship. In the next place, the study of history may be used to exercise the moral judgment. The characters which history presents are not all good; the characters even of the good are by no means faultless. It is in the power of the teacher to train the moral judgment and to increase the moral insight of his pupils by leading them to enter into the motives, and to weigh the right and wrong of the actions which history reports. He will also find many an occasion to warn against being dazzled by brilliant success to such a degree as to condone the moral turpitude by which it is often bought. The study of history can thus be made the means of enlightening the conscience as well as of awakening generous aspirations—but, let me hasten to add, only in the hands of a teacher who is himself morally mature, and fully imbued with the responsibilities of his task. Lastly, the study of history among advanced pupils may be used to confirm the moral idea of the mission of mankind, and to set it in its true light. The human race, as, from the moral point of view, we are bound to assume, exists on earth in order to attempt the solution of a sublime problem—the problem of the perfect civilization, the just society, the "kingdom of God." But on every page of history there are facts that warn us that progress toward this high ideal is of necessity slow. Whether we review the evolution of religion, or of political institutions, or of industrial society, we are still forced to the same solemn conclusion, that in view of the ultimate goal, "a thousand years are as a day," and that while we may not relax our efforts to attain the ideal, we must be well content in case we are permitted to advance the mighty work even a little. This conviction is calculated to engender in us a new spirit of piety and self-abnegation, which yet is consistent with perfect alacrity in discharging the duty of the hour.

There could be no better result from the study of history among young men and young women than if it should have the effect of impressing on them this new piety, this genuine historic sense, in which the average citizen, especially of democratic communities, is so conspicuously deficient. But this is a digression which I must ask you to pardon.

3. The moral value of the study of literature is as great as it is obvious. Literature is the medium through which all that part of our inner life finds expression which defies scientific formulation. In the text-books of science we possess the net result of the purely intellectual labors of the past; in universal literature we have composite photographs, as it were, of the typical hopes, sentiments, and aspirations of the race. Literature gives a voice to that within us which would otherwise remain dumb, and fixity to that which would otherwise be evanescent. The best literature, and especially the best poetry, is a glass in which we see our best selves reflected. There is a legend which tells of two spirits, the one an angel, the other a demon, that accompany every human being through life, and walk invisibly at his side. The one represents our bad self, the other our better self. The moral service which the best literature renders us is to make the invisible angel visible.

4. I can but cast a cursory glance at some of the remaining branches of instruction.

Manual training has a moral effect upon the pupil, of which I have spoken at some length on another occasion.[4]

Music, apart from its subtler influences, which can not be considered here, has the special function of producing in the pupil a feeling of oneness with others, or of social unity. This is best accomplished through the instrumentality of chorus singing, while particular moral sentiments, like charity, love of home, etc., can be inculcated by means of the texts.

Gymnastic exercises likewise have a moral effect in promoting habits of self-control, prompt obedience at the word of command, etc. Indeed, it is not difficult to show the moral bearings of the ordinary branches of instruction. It would, on the contrary, be difficult to find a single one, which, when rightly viewed, is not surrounded by a moral photosphere.

Science, history, literature, and the other branches lend themselves in various ways to the development of character. But there are certain other opportunities which every school offers, apart from the teaching, and these may be utilized to the same end. The discipline of the school, above all, has an immense effect on the character. If it is of the right kind, a beneficial effect; if not, a most pernicious one.

The mere working of what may be called the school machinery tends to inculcate habits of order, punctuality, and the like. The aggregation of a large number of scholars in the same building and their intercourse with one another under the eye of the teachers, afford frequent opportunities for impressing lessons of kindness, politeness, mutual helpfulness, etc.

The recitations of lessons give occasion not only to suppress prompting, but to eradicate the motives which lead to it, and to impress deeply the duty of honesty.

The very atmosphere of the class-room should be such as to encourage moral refinement; it should possess a sunny climate, so to speak, in which meanness and vulgarity can not live.

But there is especially one avenue of influence, which I have much at heart to recommend. The teacher should join in the games of his pupils. He will thus at once come to stand on a friendly footing with them, and win their confidence, without in the least derogating from his proper dignity. And thus will be removed that barrier which in many schools separates pupils and teachers to such a degree that there actually seem to exist side by side two worlds—the world to which the teacher has access, and the world from which he is shut out. Moreover, while they are at play, the true character of the pupils reveals itself. At such times the sneak, the cheat, the bully, the liar, shows his true colors, and the teacher has the best opportunity of studying these pathological subjects and of curing their moral defects. For, while playing with them, as one concerned in the game, he has the right to insist on fair dealing, to express his disgust at cowardice, to take the part of the weak against the strong, and his words spoken on the playground will have tenfold the effect of any hortatory address which he might deliver from the platform. The greatest and most successful of teachers have not disdained to use this device.

Finally, let me say that the personality of the master or principal of the school is the chief factor of moral influence in it. Put a great, sound, whole-souled nature at the head of a school, and everything else may almost be taken for granted. In every school there exists a public opinion among the scholars, by which they are affected to a far greater degree than by the words of their superiors. The tactful master will direct his chief attention to shaping and improving this public opinion, while at the same time interfering as little as possible with the freedom of his pupils. He can accomplish his purpose by drawing close to himself those scholars who make the public opinion of the school, and these in turn he can win to fine and manly views only by the effect of his personality. The personality of the head-master is everything. It is the ultimate source of power in the school, the central organ which sends out its life-giving currents through the whole organism. And let me here add that, if I am in favor of excluding direct religious teaching from our schools, I am not in favor of excluding religious influence. That, too, flows from the personality of the true master. For if he be reverent, a truly pious soul, humble in his estimate of self, not valuing his petty schoolmaster's authority on its own account, but using it lovingly as an instrument for higher ends, he will be sure to communicate of his spirit to his pupils, and by that spirit will open their hearts, better than by any doctrinal teaching he could give, to the reception of the highest spiritual truths.

By all these means—by the culture of the intellect, the taste, and the feelings, by his daily dealings with the young, in work and play—the teacher helps to create in them certain moral habits. Why, then, should not these habits suffice? What need is there of specific moral instruction? And what is the relation of moral instruction to the habits thus engendered?

The function of moral instruction is to clinch the habits. The function of moral instruction is to explicate in clear statements, fit to be grasped by the intellect, the laws of duty which underlie the habits. The value of such intellectual statements is that they give a rational underpinning to moral practice, and, furthermore, that they permit the moral rules to be applied to new cases not heretofore brought within the scope of habit. This thought will be more fully developed and explained as we proceed.

FOOTNOTE:

[4] In the address on the subject, reprinted in the Appendix.

IV. CLASSIFICATION OF DUTIES.

The topics of which moral instruction treats are the duties of life. To teach the duties, however, we must adopt some system of classification. To which system shall we give the preference? The difficulty which we encountered at the outset seems to meet us here in a new guise.

For most if not all of the systems of classification commonly proposed are based upon some metaphysical theory or some theological doctrine. To adopt any one of these would be tantamount to adopting the theory or theology on which it is founded; would be equivalent to introducing surreptitiously a particular philosophy or creed into the minds of the pupils; and this would be a plain departure from the unsectarian principle to which we are pledged. Thus, Plato's fourfold division of the virtues into the so-called cardinal virtues of temperance, courage, justice, wisdom, is based on his psychology. Aristotle's division of the virtues into dianoetic and what he calls ethical virtues is clearly dependent on what may be termed Aristotle's intellectualism—i. e., the supreme importance which he assigns to the functions of the intellect, or νοὑς [Greek: noûs], in the attainment of the perfect life.

Kant's division of duties into complete and incomplete is an outgrowth of the ideas developed in his Critique of Pure Reason; the philosopher Herbart's fivefold classification reflects his metaphysical theory of reality; while the systems of ethical classification which are to be found in theological handbooks betray still more clearly the bias of their authors.

We can, I think, find a simple way out of this difficulty by proceeding in the following manner: Let us take for our guidance the objects to which duty relates, and disregard the sources from which it flows. It is conceded on all hands that every one is to himself an object of duty, that he has certain duties to perform with respect to himself, as, for instance, the duty of intellectual development; furthermore, that every person owes certain duties to his fellow-men generally, in virtue of the fact that they are human beings; again, that there are special duties which we owe to particular persons, such as parents, brothers, and sisters; finally, that there are certain duties, into which, so to speak, we are born, like the ones last mentioned, and others which we can freely assume or not, like the conjugal duties, but which, once assumed, become as binding as the former. Thus the very structure of human society suggests a scheme of classification. And this scheme has the advantage of being a purely objective one. It keeps close to the facts, it is in harmony with the unsectarian principle, and it is perfectly fair. It leaves the problem of first principles entirely untouched. That we have such duties to perform with respect to self and others, no one questions. Let philosophers differ as to the ultimate motives of duty. Let them reduce the facts of conscience to any set of first principles which may suit them. It is our part as instructors to interpret the facts of conscience, not to seek for them an ultimate explanation.

Let me briefly indicate how the different duties may be made to fall into line according to the plan of classification which has just been suggested. The whole field of duty may be divided into three main provinces:[5] those duties which relate to ourselves, those which we owe to all men, and those which arise in the special relations of the family, the state, etc.:

I. The Self-regarding Duties.

These may again be subdivided into duties relating to our physical nature, to the intellect, and to the feelings.

Under the head of physical duties belong the prohibition of suicide, and the duties of physical culture, temperance, and chastity.

Intellectual Duties.—Under this head may be ranged the duty of acquiring knowledge and the subsidiary duties of order, diligence, perseverance in study; while, for those who are beyond the school age, special stress should be laid on the duty of mental genuineness. This may be expressed in the words: To thine own mental self be true. Study thine own mental bent. Try to discover in what direction thy proper talent lies, and make the most of it. Work thine own mine: if it be a gold-mine, bring forth gold; if it be a silver-mine, bring forth silver; if it be an iron-mine, bring forth iron. Endeavor to master some one branch of knowledge thoroughly well. It is for thee the key which opens the gates of all knowledge. The need of general culture is felt by all, but the concentration of intellectual efforts on special studies is not inconsistent with it. On the contrary, special studies alone enable us to gain a foothold in the realm of knowledge. A branch of knowledge which we have mastered, however small, may be compared to a strong fortress in an enemy's country, from which we can sally forth at will to conquer the surrounding territory. Knowledge may also be likened to a sphere. From every point of the circumference we can, by persistent labor, dig down to the center. He who has reached the center commands the sphere.

Duties which relate to the Feelings.—The principal duty under this head may be expressed in the twofold command—control and purify thy feelings! The feelings which need to be repressed are anger, fear, self-complacency. Let the teacher, when he reaches this point, dwell upon the causes and the consequences of anger. Let him speak of certain helps which have been found useful for the suppression of angry passion. Let him distinguish anger from moral indignation.

In dealing with fear let him pursue the same method. Let him distinguish physical from moral cowardice, brute courage from moral courage, courage from fortitude.

In dealing with self-complacency let him discriminate between vanity and pride, between pride and dignity. Let him show that humility and dignity are consistent with one another, yes, that they are complementary aspects of one and the same moral quality. Not the least advantage to be reaped from lessons on duty is the fixing in the pupil's mind of the moral vocabulary. The moral terms as a rule are loosely used, and this can not but lead to confusion in their application. Precise definitions, based on thorough discussion, are an excellent means of moral training.[6]

II. The duties which we owe to all men are Justice and Charity:

Be just is equivalent to—Do not hinder the development of any of thy fellow-men. Be charitable is equivalent to—Assist the development of thy fellow-men. Under the head of charity the teacher will have occasion to speak not only of almsgiving, the visitation of the sick, and the like, but of the thousand charities of the fireside, of the charity of bright looks, of what may be called intellectual charity, which consists in opening the eyes of the mentally blind, and of the noblest charity of all, which consists in coming to the aid of those who are deep in the slough of moral despond, in raising the sinful and fallen.

III. Special social duties:

Under this head belong the duties which arise in the family: the conjugal, the parental, the filial, the fraternal duties.

Under the head of duties peculiar to the various avocations should be discussed the ethics of the professions, the ethics of the relations between employers and laborers, etc.

The consideration of the duties of the citizen opens up the whole territory of political ethics.

Lastly, the purely elective relationships of friendship and religious fellowship give rise to certain fine and lofty ethical conceptions, the discussion of which may fitly crown the whole course.

I have thus mentioned some of the main topics of practical ethics, from which we are to make our selection for the moral lessons.

But a selective principle is needed. The field being spread out before us, the question arises, At what point shall we enter it? What topics shall we single out? It would be manifestly absurd, for instance, to treat of international ethics, or of conjugal ethics, in a course intended for children. But especially the order in which the different topics are to follow each other needs to be determined. The order followed in the above sketch is a purely logical one, and the logical arrangement of a subject, as every educator knows, is not usually the one most suitable for bringing it within reach of the understanding of children. It would not be in the present instance. Clearly a selective principle is wanted.

Let me here interrupt myself for a moment to say that the problem which we are attacking, so far from being solved, has heretofore hardly even been stated. And this is due to the fact that moral instruction has been thus far almost entirely in the hands of persons whose chief interest was religious, and who, whatever their good intentions might be, were hardly qualified to look at the subject from the educator's point of view. The work of breaking ground in the matter of moral instruction has still to be done. As to the selective principle which I have in view I feel a certain confidence in its correctness; but I am aware that the applications of it will doubtless require manifold amendment and correction, for which purpose I invoke the experience and honest criticism of my fellow-teachers. This being understood, I venture to ask your attention to the following considerations:

The life of every human being naturally divides itself into distinct periods—infancy, childhood, youth, etc. Each period has a set of interests and of corresponding duties peculiar to itself. The moral teaching should be graded according to periods. The teaching appropriate to any period is that which bears upon the special duties of that period. To illustrate, the ethics of childhood may be summarized as follows: The personal duties of a child are chiefly the observance of a few simple rules of health and the curbing of its temper. It owes social duties to parents, brothers and sisters, and kinsfolk, to its playmates, and to servants. The child is not yet a citizen, and the ethics of politics, therefore, lie far beyond its horizon; it does not yet require to be taught professional ethics, and does not need to learn even the elements of intellectual duty, because its energies are still absorbed in physical growth and play. The duties of childhood can be readily stated. The peculiar duties of the subsequent stages of development, for instance, of middle life and old age, are complex, and not so easy to define. But I believe that the attempt to describe them will throw light on many recondite problems in ethics.

My first point therefore is, that the moral teaching at a given period should be made to fit the special duties of that period. Secondly—and this touches the core of the matter—in every period of life there is some one predominant duty around which all the others may be grouped, to which as a center they may be referred. Thus, the paramount duty of the young child is to reverence and obey its parents. The relation of dependence in which it stands naturally prescribes this duty, and all its other duties can be deduced from and fortified by this one. The correctness of its personal habits and of its behavior toward others depends primarily on its obedience to the parental commands. The child resists the temptation to do what is wrong, chiefly because it respects the authority and desires to win the approbation of father and mother. Secondary motives are not wanting, but reverence for parents is the principal one.

Thirdly, in each new period there emerges a new paramount ethical interest, a new center of duties. But with the new system of duties thus created the previous ethical systems are to be brought into line, into harmonious correlation. And this will be all the more feasible, because the faithful performance of the duties of any one period is the best preparation for the true understanding and fulfillment of those of the next. From these statements the following conclusions may be drawn with respect to the question under discussion—namely, the proper sequence of the topics of duty in a course of moral lessons.

The moral lessons being given in school, must cover the duties which are peculiar to the school age. The paramount duty should be placed in the foreground. Now the paramount duty of children between six and fourteen years of age is to acquire knowledge. Hence we begin the lessons with the subject of intellectual duty. In the next place, the duties learned in the previous periods are to be brought into line with the duties of the school age. At each new step on the road of ethical progress the moral ideas already acquired are to be reviewed, confirmed, and to receive a higher interpretation.

We have already seen that, before the child enters school, its personal duties are such as relate to the physical life and the feelings, and its chief social duties are the filial and fraternal.

Therefore, the order of topics for the lessons thus far stands: The duty of acquiring knowledge; the duties which relate to the physical life; the duties which relate to the feelings; the filial duties; the fraternal duties.

Again, a child that has learned to respect the rights of its brothers and sisters, and to be lovingly helpful to them, will in school take the right attitude toward its companions. The fraternal duties are typical of the duties which we owe to all our companions, and, indeed, to all human beings.

The next topic of the lessons, therefore, will be the duties which we owe to all human beings.

Finally, life in school prepares for life in society and in the state, and so this course of elementary moral lesson will properly close with "The elements of civic duty."

FOOTNOTES:

[5] It may be urged by some that duties toward God ought to be included in such a scheme of moral lessons as we are proposing. I should say, however, that the discussion of these duties belongs to the Sunday-schools, the existence of which alongside the daily schools is presupposed throughout the present course of lectures.

[6] The duties which relate to the moral nature, as a whole, such for instance as the duty of self-scrutiny, may be considered either at the end of the chapter on self-regarding duties, or at the close of the whole course.

V. THE MORAL OUTFIT OF CHILDREN ON ENTERING SCHOOL.

It is difficult to trace the beginnings of the moral life in children. The traveler who attempts to follow some great river to its source generally finds himself confused by the number of ponds and springs which are pointed out to him with the assurance in the case of each that this and no other is the real source. In truth, the river is fed not from one source but from many, and does not attain its unity and individuality until it has flowed for some distance on its way. In like manner, the moral life is fed by many springs, and does not assume its distinctive character until after several years of human existence have elapsed. The study of the development of conscience in early childhood is a study of origins, and these are always obscure. But, besides, the attention hitherto given to this subject has been entirely inadequate, and even the attempts to observe in a systematic way the moral manifestations of childhood have been few.

Parents and teachers should endeavor to answer such questions as these: When do the first stirrings of the moral sense appear in the child? How do they manifest themselves? What are the emotional and the intellectual equipments of the child at different periods, and how do these correspond with its moral outfit? At what time does conscience enter on the scene? To what acts or omissions does the child apply the terms right and wrong? If observations of this kind were made with care and duly recorded, the science of education would have at its disposal a considerable quantity of material from which no doubt valuable generalizations might be deduced. Every mother especially should keep a diary in which to note the successive phases of her child's physical, mental, and moral growth; with particular attention to the moral; so that parents may be enabled to make a timely forecast of their childrens' characters, to foster in them every germ of good, and by prompt precautions to suppress, or at least restrain, what is bad.

I propose in the present lecture to cast a glance at the moral training which the normal child receives before it enters school, and the moral outfit which it may be expected to bring with it at the time of entering. Fortunately, it is not necessary to go very deeply into the study of development of conscience for this purpose. A few main points will suffice for our guidance.

First Point.—The moral training of a child can be begun in its cradle. Regularity is favorable to morality. Regularity acts as a check on impulse. A child should receive its nourishment at stated intervals; it should become accustomed to sleep at certain hours, etc. If it protests, as it often does vigorously enough, its protests should be disregarded. After a while its cries will cease, it will learn to submit to the rule imposed, and the taking of pleasure in regularity and the sense of discomfort when the usual order is interrupted become thenceforth a part of its mental life. I do not maintain that regularity itself is moral, but that it is favorable to morality because it curbs inclination. I do not say that rules are always good, but that the life of impulse is always bad. Even when we do the good in an impulsive way we are encouraging in ourselves a vicious habit. Good conduct consists in regulating our life according to good principles; and a willingness to abide by rules is the first, the indispensable condition of moral growth. Now, the habit of yielding to rules may be implanted in a child even in the cradle.

Second Point.—A very young child—one not older than a year and a half—can be taught to obey, to yield to the parent's will. A child a year and a half old is capable of adhering to its own will in defiance of the expressed will of father or mother. In this case it should be constrained to yield. We shall never succeed in making of it a moral person if it does not realize betimes that there exists a higher law than the law of its will. And of this higher law, throughout childhood, the parent is, as it were, the embodiment. When I say that obedience can be exacted of a child of such tender age, that a child so young is capable of deliberately opposing the will of the parent, I speak from experience. I know a certain little lady who undertook a struggle with her father precisely in the way described. The struggle lasted fully thirty-five minutes by the clock. But when it was over, the child stretched out her little arms and put up her lips to be kissed, and for days after fairly clung to her father, showing him her attachment in the most demonstrative manner. Nor should this increase of affectionateness excite surprise—it is the proper result of a conflict of this sort between father and child when conducted in the right spirit. The child is happy to be freed from the sway of its wayward caprice, to feel that its feeble will has been taken up into a will larger and stronger than its own.

Third Point.—What is called conscience does not usually begin to show itself until the child is about three years old. At this age the concept self usually emerges, and the child begins to use the personal pronoun I. This is one of these critical turning points in human development, of which there are several. The beginning of adolescence marks another. I am inclined to suspect that there is one at or about thirty-three. There seem to be others later on. At any rate the first turning point—that which occurs at three—is marked unmistakably. At this time, as we have just said, the child begins to be distinctly self-conscious; it says "I," and presently "you," "he," and "they." Now, moral rules formulate the relations which ought to subsist between one's self and others, and to comprehend the rules it is clearly necessary to be able to hold apart in the mind and to contrast with one another the persons related. It is evident, therefore, that the emergence of the concept self must have a decided effect on moral development.

I feel tempted to pause here a moment and to say a word in passing about the extreme importance of the constituent elements of the concept self. For it must not be supposed that the pronoun "I" means the same thing on the lips of every person who uses it. "I" is a label denoting a mass of associated ideas, and as these ideas are capable of almost endless variation, so the notion of selfhood is correspondingly diversified in different individuals. In the case of children, perhaps the principal constituents of the concept are supplied by their outward appearance and environment. When a child speaks of itself, it thinks primarily of its body, especially its face, then of the clothes it usually wears, the house it lives in, the streets through which it habitually walks, its parents, brothers, sisters, school-masters, etc.[7] If we analyze the meaning of "I" in the case of two children, the one well-born and well brought up, the other without these advantages, we shall perhaps find such differences as the following: "I" in the one case will mean a being living in a certain decent and comfortable house, always wearing neat clothing, surrounded by parents, brothers, and sisters who speak kindly to one another and have gentle manners, etc. In the other case, the constituents of the concept self may be very different. "I" in the case of the second child may mean a creature that lives in a dark, filthy hovel and walks every day through narrow streets, reeking with garbage. "I" may mean the child of a father who comes home drunk and strikes the mother when the angry fit is upon him. "I" stands for a poor waif that wears torn clothes, and when he sits in school by the side of well-dressed children is looked at askance and put to shame. It is obvious that the elements which go to make up the concept self affect the child's moral nature by lowering or raising its self-esteem. I remember the case of one, who as a boy was the laughing-stock of his class on account of the old-fashioned, ill-fitting clothes which he was compelled to wear, and who has confessed that even late in life he could not entirely overcome the effect of this early humiliation, and that he continued to be painfully aware in himself, in consequence, of a certain lack of ease and self-possession. Hence we should see to it that the constituent elements of the concept self are of the right kind. It is a mistake to suppose that the idea of selfhood stands off independently from the elements of our environment. The latter enter into, and when they are bad eat into, the very kernel of our nature.

We have seen that the development of the intellect as it appears in the growing distinctness of self-consciousness exercises an important influence on the development of the moral faculty. But there is still another way in which this influence becomes apparent. The function of conscience further depends on the power of keeping alternative courses of action before the mind. Angels capable only of the good, or fiends actuated exclusively by malice, could not be called moral creatures. A moral act always presupposes a previous choice between two possible lines of action. And until the power of holding the judgment in suspense, of hesitating between alternative lines of conduct, has been acquired, conscience, strictly speaking, does not manifest itself. We may say that the voice of conscience begins to be heard when, the parent being absent, the child hesitates between a forbidden pleasure and obedience to the parental command. Of course, not every choice between alternative courses is a moral act. If any one hesitates whether to remain at home or to go for a walk, whether to take a road to the right or to the left, the decision is morally indifferent. But whenever one of the alternative courses is good and the other bad, conscience does come into play.

At this point, however, the question forcibly presents itself, How does it come to pass in the experience of children that they learn to regard certain lines of action as good and others as bad? You will readily answer, The parent characterizes certain acts as good and others as bad, and the child accepts his definition; and this is undoubtedly true. The parent's word is the main prop of the budding conscience. But how comes the parent's word to produce belief? This is indeed the crucial question touching the development of the moral faculty. Mr. Bain says that the child fears the punishment which the parent will inflict in case of disobedience; that the essential form and defining quality of conscience from first to last is of the nature of dread. He seems to classify the child's conscience with the criminal conscience, the rebel conscience which must be energized by the fear of penalties. But this explanation seems very unsatisfactory. Every one, of course, must admit that the confirmations of experience tend greatly to strengthen the parent's authority. The parent says, You must be neat. The child, if it does as it is bidden, finds an æsthetic pleasure in its becoming appearance. The parent says, You must not strike your little brother, but be kind to him; and the child, on restraining its anger, is gratified by the loving words and looks which it receives in return. The parent says, You must not touch the stove, or you will be burned. The disobedient child is effectually warned by the pain it suffers to be more obedient in future. But all such confirmations are mere external aids to parental authority. They do not explain the feeling of reverence with which even a young child, when rightly brought up, is wont to look up to his father's face. To explain this sentiment of reverence, I must ask you to consider the following train of reasoning. It has been remarked already that the parent should be to the child the visible embodiment of a higher law. This higher law shining from the father's countenance, making its sublime presence felt in the mother's eye, wakens an answering vibration in the child's heart. The child feels the higher presence and bows to it, though it could not, if it tried, analyze or explain what it feels. We should never forget that children possess the capacity for moral development from the outset. It is indeed the fashion with some modern writers to speak of the child as if it were at first a mere animal, and as if reflection and morality were mechanically superadded later on. But the whole future man is already hidden, not yet declared, but latent all the same in the child's heart. The germs of humanity in its totality exist in the young being. Else how could it ever unfold into full-grown morality? It will perhaps serve to make my meaning clearer if I call attention to analogous facts relating to the intellectual faculty. The formula of causality is a very abstract one, which only a thoroughly trained mind can grasp. But even very young children are constantly asking questions as to the causes of things. What makes the trees grow? what makes the stars shine?—i. e., what is the cause of the trees growing and the stars shining? The child is constantly pushing, or rather groping, its way back from effects to causes. The child's mind acts under what maybe called the causative instinct long before it can apprehend the law of causation. In the same way young children perfectly follow the process of syllogistic reasoning. If a father says, on leaving the house for a walk: I can take with me only a child that has been good; now, you have not been good to-day; the child without any difficulty draws the conclusion, Therefore I can not go out walking with my father to-day. The logical laws are, as it were, prefigured in the child's mind long before, under the chemical action of experience they come out in the bright colors of consciousness. Or, to use another figure, they exert a pressure on the child of which he himself can give no account. And in like manner the moral law—the law which prescribes certain relations between self and others—is, so to speak, prefigured in the child's mind, and when it is expressed in commands uttered by the parent, the pressure of external authority is confirmed by a pressure coming from within. We can illustrate the same idea from another point of view. Whenever a man of commanding moral genius appears in the world and speaks to the multitude from his height, they are for the moment lifted to his level and feel the afflatus of his spirit. This is so because he expresses potentialities of human nature which also exist in them, only not unfolded to the same degree as in him. It is a matter of common observation that persons who under ordinary circumstances are content to admire what is third rate and fourth rate are yet able to appreciate what is first rate when it is presented to them—at least to the extent of recognizing that it is first rate. And yet their lack of development shows itself in the fact that presently they again lose their hold on the higher standard of excellence, and are thereafter content to put up with what is inferior as if the glimpses of better things had never been opened to them. Is it not because, though capable of rising to the higher level, they are not capable of maintaining themselves on it unassisted. Now, the case of the parent with respect to the child is analogous. He is on a superior moral plane. The child feels that he is, without being able to understand why. It feels the afflatus of the higher spirit dwelling in the parent, and out of this feeling is generated the sentiment of reverence. And there is no greater benefit which father or mother can confer on their offspring than to deepen this sentiment. It is by this means that they can most efficiently promote the development of the child's conscience, for out of this reverence will grow eventually respect for all rightly constituted authority, respect and reverence for law, human and divine. The essential form and defining quality of conscience is not, therefore, as Bain has it—fear of punishment. In my opinion such fear is abject and cowardly. The sentiment engendered by fear is totally different from the one we are contemplating, as the following consideration will serve to show: A child fears its father when he punishes it in anger; and the more violent his passion, the more does the child fear him. But, no matter how stern the penalty may be which he has to inflict, the child reveres its father in proportion as the traces of anger are banished from his mien and bearing, in proportion as the parent shows by his manner that he acts from a sense of duty, that he has his eye fixed on the sacred measures of right and wrong, that he himself stands in awe of the sublime commands of which he is, for the time being, the exponent.

To recapitulate briefly the points which we have gone over: regular habits can be inculcated and obedience can be taught even in infancy. By obedience is meant the yielding of a wayward and ignorant will to a firm and enlightened one. The child between three and six years of age learns clearly to distinguish self from others, and to deliberate between alternative courses of action. It is highly important to control the elements which enter into the concept self. The desire to choose the good is promoted chiefly by the sentiment of reverence.

We are thus prepared to describe in a general way the moral outfit of the child on entering school. We have, indeed, already described it. The moral acquirements of the child at the age of which we speak express themselves in habits. The normal child, under the influences of parental example and command, has acquired such habits as that of personal cleanliness, of temperance in eating, of respect for the truth. Having learned to use the pronouns I and thou, it also begins to understand the difference between meum and tuum. The property sense begins to be developed. It claims its own seat at table, its own toys against the aggression of others. It has gained in an elementary way the notion of rights.

This is a stock of acquirements by no means inconsiderable. The next step in the progress of conscience must be taken in the school. Until now the child has been aware of duties relating only or principally to persons whom it loves and who love it. The motive of love is now to become less prominent. A part of that reverence which the child has felt for the parents whom it loves is now to be transferred to the teacher. A part of that respect for the rights of equals which has been impressed upon it in its intercourse with brothers and sisters, to whom it is bound by the ties of blood, is now to be transferred to its school companions, who are at first strangers to it. Thus the conscience of the child will be expanded, thus it will be prepared for intercourse with the world. Thus it will begin to gain that higher understanding of morality, according to which authority is to be obeyed simply because it is rightful, and equals are to be treated as equals, even when they are not and can not be regarded with affection.

I have in the above used the word habits advisedly. The morality of the young child assumes the concrete form of habits; abstract principles are still beyond its grasp. Habits are acquired by imitation and repetition. Good examples must be so persistently presented and so often copied that the line of moral conduct may become the line of least resistance. The example of parents and teachers is indeed specially important in this respect. But after all it is not sufficient. For the temptations of adults differ in many ways from those of children, and on the other hand in the lives of older persons occasions are often wanting for illustrating just the peculiar virtues of childhood. On this account it is necessary to set before the child ideal examples of the virtues of children and of the particular temptations, against which they need to be warned. Of such examples we find a large stock ready to hand in the literature of fairy tales, fables, and stories. In our next lecture therefore we shall begin to consider the use of fairy tales, fables, and stories as means of creating in children those habits which are essential to the safe guarding and unfolding of their moral life.

FOOTNOTE:

[7] So important is environment in supporting self-consciousness, that even adults, when suddenly transported into entirely new surroundings, often experience a momentary doubt as to their identity.

PRIMARY COURSE.

VI. THE USE OF FAIRY TALES.

There has been and still is considerable difference of opinion among educators as to the value of fairy tales. I venture to think that, as in many other cases, the cause of the quarrel is what logicians call an undistributed middle—in other words, that the parties to the dispute have each a different kind of fairy tale in mind. This species of literature can be divided broadly into two classes—one consisting of tales which ought to be rejected because they are really harmful, and children ought to be protected from their bad influence, the other of tales which have a most beautiful and elevating effect, and which we can not possibly afford to leave unutilized.

The chief pedagogic value they possess is that they exercise and cultivate the imagination. Now, the imagination is a most powerful auxiliary in the development of the mind and will. The familiar anecdote related of Marie Antoinette, who is said to have asked why the people did not eat cake when she was told that they were in want of bread, indicates a deficiency of imagination. Brought up amid the splendor of courts, surrounded by luxury, she could not put herself in the place of those who lack the very necessaries. Much of the selfishness of the world is due not to actual hard-heartedness, but to a similar lack of imaginative power. It is difficult for the happy to realize the needs of the miserable. Did they realize those needs, they would in many cases be melted to pity and roused to help. The faculty of putting one's self in the place of others is therefore of great, though indirect, service to the cause of morality, and this faculty may be cultivated by means of fairy tales. As they follow intently the progress of the story, the young listeners are constantly called upon to place themselves in the situations in which they have never been, to imagine trials, dangers, difficulties, such as they have never experienced, to reproduce in themselves, for instance, such feelings as that of being alone in the wide world, of being separated from father's and mother's love, of being hungry and without bread, exposed to enemies without protection, etc. Thus their sympathy in a variety of forms is aroused.

In the next place, fairy tales stimulate the idealizing tendency. What were life worth without ideals! How could hope or even religion germinate in the human heart were we not able to confront the disappointing present with visions which represent the fulfillment of our desires. "Faith," says Paul, "is the confidence of things hoped for, the certainty of things not seen." Thus faith itself can not abide unless supported by a vivid idealism. It is true, the ideals of childhood are childish. In the story called Das Marienkind we hear of the little daughter of a poor wood-cutter who was taken up bodily into heaven. There she ate sweetmeats and drank cream every day and wore dresses made of gold, and the angels played with her. Sweetmeats and cream in plenty and golden dresses and dear little angels to play with may represent the ideals of a young child, and these are materialistic enough. But I hold nevertheless that something—nay, much—has been gained if a child has learned to take the wishes out of its heart, as it were, and to project them on the screen of fancy. As it grows up to manhood, the wishes will become more spiritual, and the ideals, too, will become correspondingly elevated. In speaking of fairy tales I have in mind chiefly the German Märchen of which the word fairy tale is but an inaccurate rendering. The Märchen are more than mere tales of helpful fairies. They have, as is well-known, a mythological background. They still bear distinct traces of ancient animism, and the myths which center about the phenomena of the storm, the battle of the sun with the clouds, the struggle of the fair spring god with the dark winter demons, are in them leading themes. But what originally was the outgrowth of superstition has now, to a great extent at least, been purified of its dross and converted into mere poetry. The Märchen come to us from a time when the world was young. They represent the childhood of mankind, and it is for this reason that they never cease to appeal to children. The Märchen have a subtile flavor all their own. They are pervaded by the poetry of forest life, are full of the sense of mystery and awe, which is apt to overcome one on penetrating deeper and deeper into the woods, away from human habitations. The Märchen deal with the underground life of nature, which weaves in caverns and in the heart of mountains, where gnomes and dwarfs are at work gathering hidden treasures. And with this underground life children have a marvelous sympathy. The Märchen present glowing pictures of sheltered firesides, where man finds rest and security from howling winds and nipping cold. But perhaps their chief attraction is due to their representing the child as living in brotherly fellowship with nature and all creatures. Trees, flowers, animals wild and tame, even the stars, are represented as the comrades of children. That animals are only human beings in disguise is an axiom in the fairy tales. Animals are humanized—i. e., the kinship between animal and human life is still strongly felt, and this reminds us of those early animistic interpretations of nature, which subsequently led to doctrines of metempsychosis. Plants, too, are often represented as incarnations of human spirits. Thus the twelve lilies are inhabited by the twelve brothers, and in the story of Snow-white and Rose-red the life of the two maidens appears to be bound up with the life of the white and red rosebush. The kinship of all life whatsoever is still realized. This being so, it is not surprising that men should understand the language of animals, and that these should interfere to protect the heroes and heroines of the Märchen from threatened dangers. In the story of the faithful servant John, the three ravens flying above the ship reveal the secret of the red horse, the sulphurous shirt, and the three drops of blood, and John, who understands their communications, is thereby enabled to save his master's life. What, again, can be more beautiful than the way in which the tree and the two white doves co-operate to secure the happiness of the injured Cinderella! The tree rains down the golden dresses with which she appears at the ball, and the doves continue to warn the prince as he rides by that he has chosen the wrong bride until Cinderella herself passes, when they light on her shoulders, one on her right and the other on her left, making, perhaps, the loveliest picture to be found in all fairy lore. The child still lives in unbroken communion with the whole of nature; the harmony between its own life and the enveloping life has not yet been disturbed, and it is this harmony of the human with the natural world that reflects itself in the atmosphere of the Märchen, and makes them so admirably suited to satisfy the heart of childhood.

But how shall we handle these Märchen and what method shall we employ in putting them to account for our special purpose? I have a few thoughts on this subject, which I shall venture to submit in the form of counsels.

My first counsel is: Tell the story; do not give it to the child to read. There is an obvious practical reason for this. Children are able to benefit by hearing fairy tales before they can read. But that is not the only reason. It is the childhood of the race, as we have seen, that speaks in the fairy story to the child of to-day. It is the voice of an ancient, far-off past that echoes from the lips of the story-teller. The words "once upon a time" open up a vague retrospect into the past, and the child gets its first indistinct notions of history in this way. The stories embody the tradition of the childhood of mankind. They have on this account an authority all their own, not indeed that of literal truth, but one derived from their being types of certain feelings and longings which belong to childhood as such. The child as it listens to the Märchen, looks up with wide-opened eyes to the face of the person who tells the story, and thrills responsive as the touch of the earlier life of the race thus falls upon its own. Such an effect, of course, can not be produced by cold type. Tradition is a living thing, and should use the living voice for its vehicle.

My second counsel is also of a practical nature, and I make bold to say quite essential to the successful use of the stories. Do not take the moral plum out of the fairy-tale pudding, but let the child enjoy it as a whole. Do not make the story taper toward a single point, the moral point. You will squeeze all the juice out of it if you try. Do not subordinate the purely fanciful and naturalistic elements of the story, such as the love of mystery, the passion for roving, the sense of fellowship with the animal world, in order to fix attention solely on the moral element. On the contrary, you will gain the best moral effect by proceeding in exactly the opposite way. Treat the moral element as an incident; emphasize, it indeed, but incidentally. Pluck it as a wayside flower. How often does it happen that, having set out on a journey with a distinct object in mind, something occurs on the way which we had not foreseen, but which in the end leaves the deepest impression on the mind. The object which we had in view is long forgotten, but the incident which happened by the way is remembered for years after. So the moral result of the Märchen will not be less sure because gained incidentally. An illustration will make plain what I mean. In the story of the Frog King we are told that there was once a young princess who was so beautiful that even the Sun, which sees a great many things, had never seen anything so beautiful as she was. A golden ball was her favorite plaything. One day, as she sat by a well under an old linden tree, she tossed the ball into the air and it fell into the well. She was very unhappy, and cried bitterly. Presently a frog put his ugly head out of the water, and offered to dive for the ball, on condition, however, that she would promise to take him for her playmate, to let him eat off her golden plate and drink out of her golden cup and sleep in her little snow-white bed. The princess promised everything. But no sooner had the frog brought her the ball than she scampered away, heedless of his cries. The next day as the royal family sat at dinner a knock was heard at the door. The princess opened and beheld the ugly toad claiming admittance. She screamed with fright and hastily shut the door in his face. But when the king, her father, had questioned her, he said, "What you have promised, you must keep"; and she obeyed her father, though it was sorely against her inclination to do so. That was right, children, was it not? One must always obey, even if one does not like what one is told to do. So the toad was brought in and lifted to the table, and he ate off the little golden plate and drank out of the golden cup. And when he had had enough, he said, "I am tired now, put me into your little snow-white bed." And again when she refused her father said: "What you have promised you must keep. Ugly though he is, he helped you when you were in distress, and you must not despise him now." And the upshot of the story is that the ugly toad, having been thrown against the wall, was changed into a beautiful prince, and of course some time after the prince and the princess were married.

The naturalistic element of the story is the changing of the prince into a toad and back again from a toad into a prince. Children are very fond of disguises. It is one of their greatest pleasures to imagine things to be other than they are. And one of the chief attractions of such stories as the one we have related is that they cater to the fondness of the little folks for this sort of masquerading. The moral elements of the story are obvious. They should be touched on in such a manner as not to divert the interest from the main story.

My third counsel is to eliminate from the stories whatever is merely superstitious, merely a relic of ancient animism, and of course whatever is objectionable on moral grounds. For instance, such a story as that of the idle spinner, the purport of which seems to be that there is a special providence watching over lazy people. Likewise all those stories which turn upon the success of trickery and cunning. A special question arising under this head, and one which has been the subject of much vexed discussion, is in how far we should acquaint children with the existence of evil in the world, and to what extent we can use stories in which evil beings and evil motives are introduced. My own view is that we should speak in the child's hearing only of those lesser forms of evil, physical or moral, with which it is already acquainted, but exclude all those forms of evil which lie beyond its present experience. On this ground I should reject the whole brood of step-mother stories, or rather, as this might make too wide a swath, I should take the liberty of altering stories in which the typical bad step-mother occurs, but which are otherwise valuable. There is no reason why children should be taught to look on step-mothers in general as evilly disposed persons. The same applies to stories in which unnatural fathers are mentioned. I should also rule out such stories as that of The Wolf and The Seven Little Goats. The mother goat, on leaving the house, warns her little ones against the wolf, and gives them two signs by which they can detect him—his hoarse voice and black paws. The wolf knocks and finds himself discovered. He thereupon swallows chalk to improve his voice and compels the miller to whiten his paws. Then he knocks again, is admitted, leaps into the room, and devours the little goats one by one. The story, as used in the nursery, has a transparent purpose. It is intended to warn little children who are left at home alone against admitting strangers. The wolf represents evil beings in general—tramps, burglars, people who come to kidnap children, etc. Now I, for one, should not wish to implant this fear of strangers into the minds of the young. Fear is demoralizing. Children should look with confidence and trust upon all men. They need not be taught to fear robbers and burglars. Even the sight of wild animals need not awaken dread. Children naturally admire the beauty of the tiger's skin, and the lion in their eyes is a noble creature, of whose ferocity they have no conception. It is time enough for them later on to familiarize themselves with the fact that evil of a sinister sort exists within human society and outside of it. And it will be safe for them to face this fact then only, when they can couple with it the conviction that the forces of right and order in the world are strong enough to grapple with the sinister powers and hold them in subjection.

And now let us review a number of the Märchen against which none of these objections lie, which are delicious food for children's minds, and consider the place they occupy in a scheme of moral training. It has been already stated that each period of human life has a set of duties peculiar to itself. The principal duties of childhood are: Obedience to parents, love and kindness toward brothers and sisters, a proper regard for the feelings of servants, and kindness toward animals. We can classify the fairy tales which we can use under these various heads. Let us begin with the topic last mentioned.

Tales illustrating Kindness toward Animals.

The House in the Woods.—The daughter of a poor wood-cutter is lost in the woods, and comes at night to a lonely house. An old man is sitting within. Three animals—a cow, a cock, and a chicken—lie on the hearth. The child is made welcome, and is asked to prepare supper. She cooks for the old man and herself, but forgets the animals. The second daughter likewise goes astray in the woods, comes to the same house, and acts in the same way. The third daughter, a sweet, loving child, before sitting down to her own meal, brings in hay for the cow and barley for the cock and chicken, and by this act of kindness to animals breaks the spell which had been cast upon the house. The old man is immediately transformed into a prince, etc.

The Story of the Dog Sultan.—Sultan is old, and about to be shot by his master. The wolf, seeing his cousin the dog in such distress, promises to help him. He arranges that on the morrow he will seize a sheep belonging to Sultan's master. The dog is to run after him, and he, the wolf, will drop the sheep and Sultan shall get the credit of the rescue. Everything passes off as prearranged, and Sultan's life is spared by his grateful owner. Some time after the wolf comes prowling around the house, and, reminding his friend that one good turn deserves another, declares that he has now come for mutton in good earnest. But the dog replies that nothing can tempt him to betray the interests of his master. The wolf persists, but Sultan gives the alarm and the thief receives his due in the shape of a sound beating.

The point of special interest in the beautiful story of Snow-white and Rose-red above referred to is the incident of the bear. One cold winter's night some one knocks at the door. Snow-white and Rose-red go to open, when a huge black bear appears at the entrance and begs for shelter. He is almost frozen with the cold, he says, and would like to warm himself a bit. The two little girls are at first frightened, but, encouraged by their mother, they take heart and invite the bear into the kitchen. Soon a cordial friendship springs up between Bruin and the children. They brush the snow from his fur, tease, and caress him by turns. After this the bear returns every night, and finally turns out to be a beautiful prince.

The Story of the Queen Bee tells about three brothers who wander through the world in search of adventures. One day they come to an ant-hill. The two older brothers are about to trample upon the ants "just for the fun of it." But the youngest pleads with them, saying: "Let them live; their life is as dear to them as ours is to us." Next they come to a pond in which many ducks are swimming about. The two older brothers are determined to shoot the ducks "just for the fun of it." The youngest again pleads as before, "Let them live," etc. Finally, he saves a bee-hive from destruction in the same manner. Thus they journey on until they come to an enchanted castle. To break the spell, it is necessary to find and gather up a thousand pearls which had fallen on the moss-covered ground in a certain wood. Five thousand ants come to help the youngest to find the pearls. The second task imposed is to find a golden key which had been thrown into a pond near the castle. The grateful ducks bring up the key from the bottom. The third task is the most difficult. In one of the interior chambers of the castle there are three marble images—three princesses, namely, who had been turned into stone. Before the spell took effect they had partaken, respectively, of sugar, sirup, and honey. To restore them to life it is necessary to discover which one had eaten the honey. The Queen Bee comes in with all her swarm and lights on the lips of the youngest and so solves the problem. The enchantment is immediately dissolved. All these stories illustrate kindness to animals.

Among stories which illustrate the respect due to the feelings of servants may be mentioned the tale of Faithful John, who understood the language of the ravens and saved his master from the dangers of the red horse, etc., a story which in addition impresses the lesson that we should confide in persons who have been found trustworthy, even if we do not understand their motives. In the popular tale of Cinderella the points especially to be noted are: The pious devotion of Cinderella to her mother's memory, and the fact that the poor kitchen drudge, underneath the grime and ashes which disfigure her, possesses qualities which raise her far above the proud daughters of the house. The lesson taught by this story that we should distinguish intrinsic worth from the accidents of rank and condition, is one which can not be impressed too early or too deeply.

Under the heading of brotherly and sisterly love belongs the lovely tale of Snow-white. The little dwarfs are to all intents and purposes her brothers. They receive and treat her as a sister, and she returns their affection in kind.

The story of the Twelve Brothers, whom their sister redeems by seven years of silence at the peril of her own life, is another instance of tenderest sisterly devotion combined with self-control. This story, however, needs to be slightly altered. In place of the cruel father (we must not mention cruel fathers) who has got ready twelve coffins for his sons, in order that all the wealth of his kingdom may descend to his daughter, let us substitute the steward of the palace, who hopes by slaying the sons and winning the hand of the daughter, to become king himself.

Finally the story of Red Riding Hood illustrates the cardinal virtue of childhood—obedience to parents. Children must not loiter on the way when they are sent on errands. And Riding Hood loiters, and hence all the mischief which follows. She is sent to bring wine and cake to her grandmother. The example of such attentions as this serves to quicken in children the sentiment of reverence for the aged. Children learn reverence toward their parents in part by the reverence which these display toward the grandparents. Another point is that Red Riding Hood, to quiet her conscience, when she strays from the straight path deceives herself as to her motives. She says, "I will also gather a bunch of wild flowers to please grandmother." But her real purpose is to enjoy the freedom of the woods, and the proof is that presently she forgets all about grandmother. There is one objection that has sometimes been urged against this story, viz., the part which the wolf plays in it. But the wolf is not really treated as a hostile or fearful being. He meets Red Riding Hood on the way, and they chat confidentially together. He appears rather in the light of a trickster. But, it is objected, that he devours the grandmother and, later on, Red Riding Hood herself. Very true; but the curious fact is that, when his belly is cut open, the grandmother and Red Riding Hood come out intact. They have evidently not been injured. Children have very defective notions of the human body, with the exception of such external parts as hands, feet, and face. In an examination recently conducted by Prof. G. Stanley Hall in regard to the contents of childrens' minds at the time they enter school, it was found that ninety per cent of those questioned had no idea where the heart is located, eighty-one per cent did not know anything about the lungs, ninety per cent could not tell where their ribs are situated, etc. Of the internal organs children have no idea. Hence when the story says that the grandmother is swallowed by the wolf, the impression created is that she has been forced down into a sort of dark hole, and that her situation, while rather uncomfortable, no doubt, is not otherwise distressing. The ideas of torn and mangled flesh are not suggested. Hence the act of devouring arouses no feeling of horror, and the story of Red Riding Hood, that prime favorite of all young children, may be related without any apprehension as to its moral effect.

Then there are other stories, such as that of the man who went abroad to learn the art of shuddering—an excellent example of bravery; the story of the seven Suabians—a persiflage of cowardice; the story of the Marienkind which contains a wholesome lesson against obstinacy, etc. I have not, of course, attempted to cover the whole ground, but only to mention a few examples sufficient to show along what lines the selection may be made. The ethical interests peculiar to childhood are the heads under which the whole material can be classified.

The value of the fairy tales is that they stimulate the imagination; that they reflect the unbroken communion of human life with the life universal, as in beasts, fishes, trees, flowers, and stars; and that incidentally, but all the more powerfully on that account, they quicken the moral sentiments.

Let us avail ourselves freely of the treasures which are thus placed at our disposal. Let us welcome das Märchen into our primary course of moral training, that with its gentle bands, woven of "morning mist and morning glory," it may help to lead our children into the bright realms of the ideal.

VII. THE USE OF FABLES.

The collection of fables which figures under the name of Æsop has to a very remarkable degree maintained its popularity among children, and many of its typical characters have been adopted into current literature, such as the Dog in the Manger, the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing, King Log, and King Stork, and others. Recent researches have brought to light the highly interesting fact that these fables are of Asiatic origin. A collection of Indian and, it is believed, Buddhist fables and stories traveled at an early period into Persia, where it became known as the Pancha-Tantra. The Pancha-Tantra was translated into Arabic, and became the source of the voluminous Kalilah-wa-Dimnah literature. The Arabic tales in turn migrated into Europe at the time of the Crusades and were rendered into Greek, Hebrew, and Latin. In this form they became accessible to the nations of Europe, were extensively circulated, and a collection of them was wrongly, but very naturally, ascribed to a famous story-teller of the ancient Greeks—i. e., to Æsop. The arguments on which this deduction is based may be found in Rhys Davids's introduction to his English translation of the Jātaka Tales.[8] This author speaks of Æsop's fables as a first moral lesson-book for our children in the West. We shall have to consider in how far this description is correct—that is to say, in how far we can use the fables for moral purposes. The point to be kept in mind is their Asiatic origin, as this will at once help us to separate the fables which we can use from those which must be rejected. A discrimination of this sort is absolutely necessary. I am of the opinion that it is a serious mistake to place the whole collection as it stands in the hands of children.

To decide this question we must study the milieu in which the fables arose, the spirit which they breathe, the conditions which they reflect. The conditions they reflect are those of an Oriental despotism. They depict a state of society in which the people are cruelly oppressed by tyrannical rulers, and the weak are helpless in the hands of the strong. The spirit which they breathe is, on the whole, one of patient and rather hopeless submission. The effect upon the reader as soon as he has caught this clew, this Leitmotiv, which occurs in a hundred variations, is very saddening. I must substantiate this cardinal point by a somewhat detailed analysis. Let us take first the fable of the Kite and the Pigeons. A kite had been sailing in the air for many days near a pigeon-house with the intention of seizing the pigeons; at last he had recourse to stratagem. He expressed his deep concern at their unjust and unreasonable suspicions of himself, as if he intended to do them an injury. He declared that, on the contrary, he had nothing more at heart than the defense of their ancient rights and liberties, and ended by proposing that they should accept him as their protector, their king. The poor, simple pigeons consented. The kite took the coronation oath in a very solemn manner. But much time had not elapsed before the good kite declared it to be a part of the king's prerogative to devour a pigeon now and then, and the various members of his family adhered to the same view of royal privilege. The miserable pigeons exclaimed: "Ah, we deserve no better. Why did we let him in!"

The fable of the Wolf in Sheep's Clothing conveys essentially the same idea. The fable of the Lion and the Deer illustrates the exorbitant exactions practiced by despots. A fat deer was divided into four parts. His majesty the lion proposed that they be suitably apportioned. The first part he claimed for himself on account of his true hereditary descent from the royal family of Lion; the second he considered properly his own because he had headed the hunt; the third he took in virtue of his prerogative; and finally he assumed a menacing attitude, and dared any one to dispute his right to the fourth part also.

In the fable of the Sick Lion and the Fox, the fox says: "I see the footprints of beasts who have gone into the cave, but of none that have come out." The fable of the Cat and the Mice expresses the same thought, namely, that it is necessary to be ever on one's guard against the mighty oppressors even when their power seems for the time to have deserted them. The cat pretends to be dead, hoping by this means to entice the mice within her reach. A cunning old mouse peeps over the edge of the shelf, and says: "Aha, my good friend, are you there? I would not trust myself with you though your skin were stuffed with straw."

The fable of King Log and King Stork shows what a poor choice the people have in the matter of their kings. First they have a fool for their king, a mere log, and they are discontented. Then Stork ascends the throne, and he devours them. It would have been better if they had put up with the fool. The injustice of despotic rulers is exemplified in the fable of the Kite and the Wolf. The kite and the wolf are seated in judgment. The dog comes before them to sue the sheep for debt. Kite and wolf, without waiting for the evidence, give sentence for the plaintiff, who immediately tears the poor sheep into pieces and divides the spoil with the judges. The sort of thanks which the people get when they are foolish enough to come to the assistance of their masters, is illustrated by the conduct of the wolf toward the crane. The wolf happened to have a bone sticking in his throat, and, howling with pain, promised a reward to any one who should relieve him. At last the crane ventured his long neck into the wolf's throat and plucked out the bone. But when he asked for his reward, the wolf glared savagely upon him, and said: "Is it not enough that I refrained from biting off your head?" How dangerous it is to come at all into close contact with the mighty, is shown in the fable of the Earthen and the Brazen Pot. The brazen pot offers to protect the earthen one as they float down stream. "Oh," replies the latter, "keep as far off as ever you can, if you please; for, whether the stream dashes you against me or me against you, I am sure to be the sufferer."

The fables which we have considered have for their theme the character of the strong as exhibited in their dealings with the weak. A second group is intended to recommend a certain policy to be pursued by the weak in self-protection. This policy consists either in pacifying the strong by giving up to them voluntarily what they want, or in flight, or, if that be impossible, in uncomplaining submission. The first expedient is recommended in the fable of the Beaver. A beaver who was being hard pressed by a hunter and knew not how to escape, suddenly, with a great effort, bit off the part which the hunter desired, and, throwing it toward him, by this means escaped with his life. The expedient of flight is recommended in the fable of Reynard and the Cat. Reynard and the cat one day were talking politics in the forest. The fox boasted that though things might turn out never so badly, he had still a thousand tricks to play before they should catch him. The cat said: "I have but one trick, and if that does not succeed I am undone." Presently a pack of hounds came upon them full cry. The cat ran up a tree and hid herself among the top branches. The fox, who had not been able to get out of sight, was overtaken despite his thousand tricks and torn to pieces by the hounds. The fable of the Oak and the Reed teaches the policy of utter, uncomplaining submission. The oak refuses to bend, and is broken. The supple reed yields to the blast, and is safe. Is it not a little astonishing that this fable should so often be related to children as if it contained a moral which they ought to take to heart? To make it apply at all, it is usually twisted from its proper signification and explained as meaning that one should not be fool-hardy, not attempt to struggle against overwhelming odds. But this is not the true interpretation. The oak is by nature strong and firm, while it is the nature of the reed to bend to every wind. The fable springs out of the experience of a people who have found resistance against oppression useless. And this sort of teaching we can not, of course, wish to give to our children. I should certainly prefer that a child of mine should take the oak, and not the reed, for his pattern. The same spirit is again inculcated in the fable of the Wanton Calf. The wanton calf sneers at the poor ox who all day long bears the heavy yoke patiently upon his neck. But in the evening it turns out that the ox is unyoked, while the calf is butchered. The choice seems to lie between subserviency and destruction. The fable of the Old Woman and her Maids suggests the same conclusion, with the warning added that it is useless to rise against the agents of tyranny so long as the tyrants themselves can not be overthrown. The cock in the fable represents the agents of oppression. The killing of the cock serves only to bring the mistress herself on the scene, and the lot of the servants becomes in consequence very much harder than it had been before.

We have now considered two groups of fables: those which depict the character of the mighty, and those which treat of the proper policy of the weak. The subject of the third group is, the consolations of the weak. These are, first, that even tyrannical masters are to a certain extent dependent upon their inferiors, and can be punished if they go too far; secondly, that the mighty occasionally come to grief in consequence of dissensions among themselves; thirdly, that fortune is fickle. A lion is caught in the toils, and would perish did not a little mouse come to his aid by gnawing asunder the knots and fastenings. The bear robs the bees of their honey, but is punished and rendered almost desperate by their stings. An eagle carries off the cub of a fox; but the fox, snatching a fire-brand, threatens to set the eagle's nest on fire, and thus forces him to restore her young one. This is evidently a fable of insurrection. The fable of the Viper and the File shows that it is not safe to attack the wrong person—in other words, that tyrants sometimes come to grief by singling out for persecution some one who is strong enough to resist them though they little suspect it. The fable of the four bulls shows the effect of dissensions among the mighty. Four bulls had entered into a close alliance, and agreed to keep always near one another. A lion fomented jealousies among them. The bulls grew distrustful of one another, and at last parted company. The lion had now obtained his end, and seized and devoured them singly. The fickleness of fortune is the theme of the fable of the Horse and the Ass. The horse, richly caparisoned and champing his foaming bridle, insults an ass who moves along under a heavy load. Soon after the horse is wounded, and, being unfit for military service, is sold to a carrier. The ass now taunts the proud animal with his fallen estate. The horse in this fable is the type of many an Eastern vizier, who has basked for a time in the sunshine of a despot's favor only to be suddenly and ignominiously degraded. The ass in the fable represents the people. There remains a fourth group of fables, which satirize certain mean or ridiculous types of characters, such as are apt to appear in social conditions of the kind we have described. Especially do the fables make a target of the folly of those who affect the manners of the aristocratic class, or who try to crowd in where they are not wanted, or who boast of their high connections. The frog puffs himself up so that he may seem as large as the ox, until he bursts. The mouse aspires to marry the young lioness, and is in fact well received; but the young lady inadvertently places her foot on her suitor and crushes him. The jackdaw picks up feathers which have fallen from the peacocks, sticks them among his own, and introduces himself into the assembly of those proud birds. They find him out, strip him of his plumes, and with their sharp bills punish him as he deserves. A fly boasts that he frequents the most distinguished company, and that he is on familiar terms with the king, the priests, and the nobility. Many a time, he says, he has entered the royal chamber, has sat upon the altar, and has even enjoyed the privilege of kissing the lips of the most beautiful maids of honor. "Yes," replies an ant, "but in what capacity are you admitted among all these great people? One and all regard you as a nuisance, and the sooner they can get rid of you the better they are pleased."

Most of the fables which thus far have been mentioned we can not use. The discovery of their Asiatic origin sheds a new, keen light upon their meaning. They breathe, in many cases, a spirit of fear, of abject subserviency, of hopeless pessimism. Can we desire to inoculate the young with this spirit? The question may be asked why fables are so popular with boys. I should say, Because school-boy society reproduces in miniature to a certain extent the social conditions which are reflected in the fables. Among unregenerate school-boys there often exists a kind of despotism, not the less degrading because petty. The strong are pitted against the weak—witness the fagging system in the English schools—and their mutual antagonism produces in both the characteristic vices which we have noted above. The psychological study of school-boy society has been only begun, but even what lies on the surface will, I think, bear out this remark. Now it has come to be one of the commonplaces of educational literature, that the individual of to-day must pass through the same stages of evolution as the human race as a whole. But it should not be forgotten that the advance of civilization depends on two conditions: first, that the course of evolution be accelerated, that the time allowed to the successive stages be shortened; and, secondly, that the unworthy and degrading elements which entered into the process of evolution in the past, and at the time were inseparable from it, be now eliminated. Thus the fairy-tales which correspond to the myth-making epoch in human history must be purged of the dross of superstition which still adheres to them, and the fables which correspond to the age of primitive despotisms must be cleansed of the immoral elements they still embody.

The fables which are fit for use may be divided into two classes: those which give illustrations of evil,[9] the effect of which on the young should be to arouse disapprobation, and those which present types of virtue. The following is a list of some of the principal ones in each category:

An Instance of Selfishness. The porcupine having begged for hospitality and having been invited into a nest of snakes, inconveniences the inmates and finally crowds them out. When they remonstrate, he says, "Let those quit the place that do not like it."

Injustice. The fable of the Kite and the Wolf, mentioned above.

Improvidence. The fable of the Ant and the Grasshopper; also the fable entitled One Swallow does not make Summer, and the fable of the Man who Killed the Goose that laid the Golden Eggs.

Ingratitude. The fable of the snake which bit the countryman who had warmed it in his breast.

Cowardice. The fable of the Stag and the Fawn, and of the Hares in the Storm.

Vanity. The fables of the Peacock and the Crane, and of the Crow who lost his Cheese by listening to the flattery of the fox.

Contemptuous Self-confidence. The Hare and the Tortoise.

The Evil Influence of Bad Company. The Husbandman and the Stork.

Cruelty to Animals. The Fowler and the Ringdove; the Hawk and the Pigeons.

Greediness. The Dog and the Shadow.

Lying. The fable of the boy who cried "Wolf!"

Bragging. The fable of the Ass in the Lion's Skin.

Deceit. The fable of the Fox without a Tail.

Disingenuousness. The fable of the Sour Grapes.

A Discontented Spirit. The fable of the Peacock's Complaint.

Equal Graces are not given to all. The fable of the Ass who leaped into his Master's Lap.

Borrowed Plumes. The fable of the Jackdaw and the Peacocks, mentioned above.

Malice. The fable of the Dog in the Manger, who would not eat, neither let others eat.

Breaking Faith. The fable of the Traveler and the Bear.

To Fan Animosity is even Worse than to Quarrel. The fable of the Trumpeter.

The value of these fables, as has been said, consists in the reaction which they call forth in the minds of the pupils. Sometimes this reaction finds expression in the fable itself; sometimes the particular vice is merely depicted in its nakedness, and it becomes the business of the teacher distinctly to evoke the feeling of disapprobation, and to have it expressly stated in words. The words tend to fix the feeling. Often, when a child has committed some fault, it is useful to refer by name to the fable that fits it. As, when a boy has made room in his seat for another, and the other crowds him out, the mere mention of the fable of the Porcupine is a telling rebuke; or the fable of the Hawk and the Pigeons may be called to mind when a boy has been guilty of mean excuses. On the same principle that angry children are sometimes taken before a mirror to show them how ugly they look. The fable is a kind of mirror for the vices of the young.

Of the fables that illustrate virtuous conduct, I mention that of Hercules and the Cart-driver, which teaches self-reliance. Hercules helps the driver as soon as the latter has put his own shoulders to the wheel. Also the fable of the Lark. So long as the farmer depends on his neighbors, or his kinsmen, the lark is not afraid; but when he proposes to buckle to himself, she advises her young that it is time to seek another field. The fable of the Wind and the Sun shows that kindness succeeds where rough treatment would fail. The fable of the Bundle of Sticks exemplifies the value of harmony. The fable of the Wolf, whom the dog tries to induce to enter civilization, expresses the sentiment that lean liberty is to be preferred to pampered servitude. The fable of the Old Hound teaches regard for old servants. Finally, the fable of the Horse and the Loaded Ass, and of the Dove and the Ant, show that kindness pays on selfish principles. The horse refuses to share the ass's burden; the ass falls dead under his load; in consequence, the horse has to bear the whole of it. On the other hand the dove rescues the ant from drowning, and the ant in turn saves the dove from the fowler's net.

The last remark throws light on the point of view from which the fables contemplate good and evil. It is to be noted that a really moral spirit is wanting in them; the moral motives are not appealed to. The appeal throughout is to the bare motive of self-interest. Do not lie, because you will be found out, and will be left in the lurch when you depend for help on the confidence of others. Do not indulge in vanity, because you will make yourself ridiculous. Do not try to appear like a lion when you can not support the character, because people will find out that you are only an ass. Do not act ungratefully, because you will be thrust out of doors. Even when good conduct is inculcated, it is on the ground that it pays. Be self-reliant, because if you help yourself others will help you. Be kind, because by gentle means you can gain your purpose better than by harshness. Agree with your neighbors, because you can then, like the bundle of sticks, resist aggression from without. That lying is wrong on principle; that greediness is shameful, whether you lose your cheese or not; that kindness is blessed, even when it does not bring a material reward; that it is lovely for neighbors to dwell together in peace, is nowhere indicated. The beauty and the holiness of right conduct lie utterly beyond the horizon of the fable. Nevertheless, as we have seen when speaking of the efficient motives of conduct, self-interest as a motive should not be underrated, but should be allowed the influence which belongs to it as an auxiliary to the moral motive. It is well, it is necessary, for children to learn that lying, besides being in itself disgraceful, does also entail penalties of a palpable sort; that vanity and self-conceit, besides being immoral, are also punished by the contempt of one's fellows; that those who are unkind, as the horse was to the ass, may have to bear the ass's burden. The checks and curbs supplied by such considerations as these serve the purpose of strengthening the weak conscience of the young, and are not to be dispensed with, provided always they are treated not as substitutes for but as auxiliaries to the moral motives, properly speaking.

As to the place in the primary course which I have assigned to the fables, I have the following remark to offer: In speaking of fairy tales, it was stated that the moral element should be touched on incidentally, and that it should not be separated from the other, the naturalistic elements. The pedagogical reason which leads me to assign to the fables the second place in the course, is that each fable deals exclusively with one moral quality, which is thus isolated and held up to be contemplated. In the stories which will occupy the third place a number of moral qualities are presented in combination. We have, therefore, what seems to be a logical and progressive order—first, fairy tales in which the moral is still blended with other elements; secondly, a single moral quality set off by itself; then, a combination of such qualities.

The peculiar value of the fables is that they are instantaneous photographs, which reproduce, as it were, in a single flash of light, some one aspect of human nature, and which, excluding everything else, permit the entire attention to be fixed on that one.

As to the method of handling them, I should say to the teacher: Relate the fable; let the pupil repeat it in his own words, making sure that the essential points are stated correctly. By means of questions elicit a clean-cut expression of the point which the fable illustrates; then ask the pupil to give out of his experience other instances illustrating the same point. This is precisely the method pursued in the so-called primary object lessons. The child, for instance, having been shown a red ball, is asked to state the color of the ball, and then to name other objects of the same color; or to give the shape of the ball, and then to name other objects having the same shape. In like manner, when the pupil has heard the fable of the Fox and the Wolf, and has gathered from it that compassion when expressed merely in words is useless, and that it must lead to deeds to be really praiseworthy, it will be easy for him out of his own experience to multiply instances which illustrate the same truth. The search for instances makes the point of the fable clearer, while the expression of the thought in precise language, on which the teacher should always insist, tends to drive it home. It will be our aim in the present course of lectures to apply the methods of object teaching, now generally adopted in other branches, to the earliest moral instruction of children—an undertaking, of course, not without difficulties.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Buddhist Birth Stories; or Jātaka Tales, translated by T. W. Rhys Davids.

[9] I remarked above that fables should be excluded if the moral they inculcate is bad, not if they depict what is bad. In the latter case they often may serve a useful purpose.

VIII. SUPPLEMENTARY REMARKS ON FABLES.

Apart from the collection which figures under the name of Æsop, there are other fables, notably the so-called Jātaka tales, which deserve attention. The Jātaka tales contain deep truths, and are calculated to impress lessons of great moral beauty. The tale of the Merchant of Seri, who gave up all that he had in exchange for a golden dish, embodies much the same idea as the parable of the Priceless Pearl, in the New Testament. The tale of the Measures of Rice illustrates the importance of a true estimate of values. The tale of the Banyan Deer, which offered its life to save a roe and her young, illustrates self-sacrifice of the noblest sort. The Kulāvaka-Jātaka contains the thought that a forgiving spirit toward one's enemies disarms even the evil-minded. The tale of the Partridge, the Monkey, and the Elephant teaches that the best seats belong not to the nobles or the priests, to the rich or the learned, not even to the most pious, but that reverence and service and respect and civility are to be paid according to age, and for the aged the best seat, the best water, the best rice, are to be reserved. The tale of Nanda, or the Buried Gold, is a rebuke to that base insolence which vulgar natures often exhibit when they possess a temporary advantage. The tale of the Sandy Road is one of the finest in the collection. It pictures to us a caravan wandering through the desert under the starlight. The guide, whose duty it was to pilot them through this sea of sand, has, it appears, fallen asleep at his post from excessive weariness, and at dawn the travelers discover that they have gone astray, and that far and wide no water is in sight wherewith to quench their burning thirst. At this moment, however, the leader espies a small tuft of grass on the face of the desert, and, reasoning that water must be flowing somewhere underneath, inspires his exhausted followers to new exertions. A hole sixty feet deep is dug under his direction, but at length they come upon hard rock, and can dig no farther. But even then he does not yield to despair. Leaping down, he applies his ear to the rock. Surely, it is water that he hears gurgling underneath! One more effort, he cries, and we are saved! But of all his followers one only had strength or courage enough left to obey. This one strikes a heavy blow, the rock is split open, and lo! the living water gushes upward in a flood. The lesson is that of perseverance and presence of mind in desperate circumstances. The tale entitled Holding to the Truth narrates the sad fate of a merchant who suffered himself to be deceived by a mirage into the belief that water was near, and emptied the jars which he carried with him in order to reach the pleasant land the sooner. The Jātaka entitled On True Divinity contains a very beautiful story about three brothers, the Sun prince, the Moon prince, and the future Buddha or Bodisat. The king, their father, expelled the Moon prince and the future Buddha in order to secure the succession to the Sun prince alone. But the Sun prince could not bear to be separated from his brothers, and secretly followed them into exile. They journeyed together until they came to a certain lake. This lake was inhabited by an evil spirit, to whom power had been given to destroy all who entered his territory unless they could redeem their lives by answering the question, "What is truly divine?" So the Sun prince was asked first, and he answered, "The sun and the moon and the gods are divine." But that not being the correct answer, the evil spirit seized and imprisoned him in his cave. Then the Moon prince was asked, and he answered, "The far-spreading sky is called divine." But he, too, was carried away to the same place to be destroyed. Then the future Buddha was asked, and he answered: "Give ear, then, attentively, and hear what divine nature is;" and he uttered the words—

"The pure in heart who fear to sin,

The good, kindly in word and deed,

These are the beings in the world

Whose nature should be called divine."

And when the evil spirit heard these words, he bowed, and said: "I will give up to you one of your brothers." Then the future Buddha said, "Give me the life of my brother, the Sun prince, for it is on his account that we have been driven away from our home and thrust into exile." The evil spirit was overcome by this act of generosity, and said, "Verily, O teacher, thou not only knowest what is divine, but hast acted divinely." And he gave him the life of both his brothers, the Sun prince as well as the Moon prince.

I could not resist the temptation of relating a few of these tales. They are, as every one must admit, nobly conceived, lofty in meaning, and many a helpful sermon might be preached from them as texts. But, of course, not all are fit to be used in a primary course. Some of them are, some are not. The teacher will have no difficulty in making the right selection. To the former class belongs also No. 28 of the collection,[10] which is excellently adapted to impress the lesson of kindness to animals. Long ago the Buddha came to life in the shape of a powerful bull. His master, a Brahman, asserted that this bull of his could move a hundred loaded carts ranged in a row and bound together. Being challenged to prove his assertion, he bathed the bull, gave him scented rice, hung a garland of flowers around his neck, and yoked him to the first cart. Then he raised his whip and called out, "Gee up, you brute. Drag them along, you wretch!" The bull said to himself, "He calls me wretch; I am no wretch." And keeping his forelegs as firm as steel, he stood perfectly still. Thereupon the Brahman, his master, was compelled to pay a forfeit of a thousand pieces of gold because he had not made good his boast. After a while the bull said to the Brahman, who seemed very much dispirited: "Brahman, I have lived a long time in your house. Have I ever broken any pots, or have I rubbed against the walls, or have I made the walks around the premises unclean?" "Never, my dear," said the Brahman. "Then why did you call me wretch? But if you will never call me wretch again, you shall have two thousand pieces for the one thousand you have lost." The Brahman, hearing this, called his neighbors together, set up one hundred loaded carts as before, then seated himself on the pole, stroked the bull on the back, and called out, "Gee up, my beauty! Drag them along, my beauty!" And the bull, with a mighty effort, dragged along the whole hundred carts, heavily loaded though they were. The bystanders were greatly astonished, and the Brahman received two thousand pieces on account of the wonderful feat performed by the bull.

The 30th Jātaka corresponds to the fable of the Ox and the Calf in the Æsop collection. The 33d, like the fable of the Bundle of Sticks, teaches the lesson of unity, but in a form a little nearer to the understanding of children. Long ago, when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha came to life as a quail. At that time there was a fowler who used to go to the place where the quails dwelt and imitate their cry; and when they had assembled, he would throw his net over them. But the Buddha said to the quails: "In future, as soon as he has thrown the net over us, let each thrust his head through a mesh of the net, then all lift it together, carry it off to some bush, and escape from underneath it." And they did so and were saved. But one day a quail trod unawares on the head of another, and a disgraceful quarrel ensued. The next time the fowler threw his net over them, each of the quails pretended that the others were leaving him to bear the greatest strain, and cried out, "You others begin, and then I will help." The consequence was that no one began, and the net was not raised, and the fowler bagged them all. The 26th Jātaka enforces the truth that evil communications corrupt good manners, and contains more particularly a warning against listening to the conversation of wicked people. Thus much concerning the Jātaka tales.

There exists also a collection of Hindu fairy tales and fables, gathered from oral tradition by M. Frere, and published under the title of Old Deccan Days. A few of these are very charming, and well adapted for our purpose. For example, the fable of King Lion and the Sly Little Jackals. The story is told with delightful naïveté. Singh-Rajah, the lion-king, is very hungry. He has already devoured all the jackals of the forest, and only a young married couple, who are extremely fond of each other, remain. The little jackal-wife is terribly frightened when she hears in their immediate vicinity the roar of Singh-Rajah. But the young husband tries to comfort her, and to save their lives he hits on the following expedient: He makes her go with him straight to the cave of the terrible lion. Singh-Rajah no sooner sees them than he exclaims: "It is well you have arrived at last. Come here quickly, so that I may eat you." The husband says: "Yes, your Majesty, we are entirely ready to do as you bid us, and, in fact, we should have come long ago, as in duty bound, to satisfy your royal appetite, but there is another Singh-Rajah mightier than you in the forest, who would not let us come." "What!" says the lion, "another Singh-Rajah mightier than I! That is impossible." "Oh! but it is a fact," say the young couple in a breath; "and he is really much more terrible than you are." "Show him to me, then," says Singh-Rajah, "and I will prove to you that what you say is false—that there is no one to be compared with me in might." So the little jackals ran on together ahead of the lion, until they reached a deep well. "He is in there," they said, pointing to the well. The lion looked down angrily and saw his own image, the image of an angry lion glaring back at him. He shook his mane; the other did the same. Singh-Rajah thereupon, unable to contain himself, leaped down to fight his competitor, and, of course, was drowned. The fable clothes in childlike language the moral that anger is blind, and that the objects which excite our anger are often merely the outward reflections of our own passions. In the fable of the Brahman, the Tiger, and the Six Judges, we have a lesson against ingratitude, and also against useless destruction of animal life. In the fable of the Camel and the Jackal, the latter does not appear in the same favorable light as above. The jackal and the camel were good friends. One day the jackal said to his companion: "I know of a field of sugar-cane on the other side of the river, and near by there are plenty of crabs and small fishes. The crabs and fishes will do for me, while you can make a fine dinner off the sugar-cane. If there were only a way of getting across!" The camel offered to swim across, taking the jackal on his back, and in this way they reached the opposite bank. The jackal ate greedily, and had soon finished his meal; thereupon he began to run up and down, and to exercise his voice, screaming lustily. The camel begged him to desist, but in vain. Presently the cries of the jackal roused the villagers. They came with sticks and cudgels and cruelly beat the camel, and drove him out of the field before he had had time to eat more than a few mouthfuls. When the men were gone at last, the jackal said, "Let us now go home." "Very well," said the camel, "climb on my back." When they were midway between the two banks, the camel said to the jackal: "Why did you make such a noise and spoil my dinner, bringing on those cruel men, who beat me so that every bone in my body aches? Did I not beg you to stop?" "Oh," said the jackal, "I meant no harm. I was only singing a bit. I always sing after dinner, just for amusement." They had by this time reached the place where the water was deepest. "Well," said the camel, "I also like innocent amusements. For instance, it is my custom to lie on my back after dinner and to stretch myself a bit." With that he turned over, and the jackal fell into the stream. He swallowed pailfuls of water, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that he succeeded in reaching the bank. He had received a salutary lesson on the subject of inconsiderate selfishness—a fault very common with children, which such a story as this may help to correct.

As to the modern fables, I fear they will yield us but a scanty harvest. The fables of La Fontaine, where they depart from Æsopian originals, are hardly suitable for children, and those of the German poet Gellert impress me, on the whole, in the same way, though a few of them may be added to our stock. For instance, the fable of the Greenfinch and the Nightingale. These two birds occupy the same cage before the window of Damon's house. Presently the voice of the nightingale is heard, and then ceases. The father leads his little boy before the cage and asks him which of the two he believes to have been the sweet musician, the brightly colored greenfinch or the outwardly unattractive nightingale. The child immediately points to the former, and is then instructed as to his error. The lesson, of course, is that fine clothes and real worth do not always go together. The fable of the Blind and the Lame Man teaches the advantages of co-operation. The Carriage Horse and the Cart Horse is a fable for the rich. Possibly the fable of the Peasant and his Son, which is directed against lies of exaggeration, may also be utilized, though I realize that there are objections to it.

FOOTNOTE:

[10] Buddhist Birth Stories; or Jātaka Tales.

IX. STORIES FROM THE BIBLE.

Introduction.—It will have been noticed that in choosing our illustrative material we have confined ourselves to what may be called classical literature. The German Märchen has lived in the traditions of the German people for centuries, and is as fresh to-day as Snow-white herself when she woke from her trance. The fables, as has been shown, have been adopted into the language and literature of Persia, of Arabia, of the nations of Europe, and are still found in the hands of our own children. Let us continue to pursue the same method of selection. Instead of relying on juvenile literature just produced, or attempting to write moralizing stories specially adapted for the purpose in hand, let us continue, without excluding invention altogether, to rely mainly on that which has stood the test of time. In the third part of our primary course we shall use selected stories from the classical literature of the Hebrews, and later on from that of Greece, particularly the Odyssey and the Iliad. The stories to which I refer possess a perennial vitality, an indestructible charm. I am, I trust, no blind worshiper of antiquity. The mere fact that a thing has existed for a thousand or two thousand years is not always proof that it is worth preserving. But the fact that after having been repeated for two thousand years a story still possesses a perfectly fresh attraction for the child of to-day, does indeed prove that there is in it something of imperishable worth. How is this unique charm of the classical literature to be explained? What quality exists in Homer, in the Bible, enabling them, despite the changes of taste and fashion, to hold their own? The novels of the last century are already antiquated; few care to read them. The poetry of the middle ages is enjoyed only by those who cultivate a special taste for it. Historical and scientific works hardly have time to leave an impression before new books appear to crowd them out. But a few great masterpieces have survived, and the truth and beauty of these the lapse of ages, it seems, has left unaltered. Mr. Jebb remarks[11] that Homer aims at the lucid expression of primary motives, and refrains from multiplying individual traits which might interfere with their effect, and that this typical quality in Homer's portraiture has been one secret of its universal impressiveness. The Homeric outlines are in each case brilliantly distinct, while they leave to the reader a certain liberty of private conception, and he can fill them in so as to satisfy his own ideal. We may add that this is just as true of the Bible as of Homer. The biblical narrative, too, depicts a few essential traits of human nature, and refrains from multiplying minor traits which might interfere with the main effect. The Bible, too, draws its figures in outline, and leaves every age free to fill them in so as to satisfy its own ideal. Thus the biblical story, as conceived in the mind of Milton, reflects the Puritan ideal; the same story, narrated in a modern pulpit or Sunday-school, will inevitably reflect, to a greater or less degree, the modern humanitarian ideal, and this liberty of interpretation is one cause of the vitality of the Bible. But it may be asked further, How did Homer, how did the biblical writers, succeed in producing such universal types, in drawing their figures so correctly that, however the colors may thenceforth be varied, the outlines remain forever true? He who should attempt at the present day to give expression to the most universal traits of human nature, freed from the complex web of conditions, disengaged from the thousand-fold minor traits which modify the universal in particular instances, would find it difficult to avoid one or the other of two fatal errors. If he keeps his eyes fixed on the universal, he is in danger of producing a set of bloodless abstractions, pale shadows of reality, which will not live for a day, much less for a thousand years. If, on the other hand, he tries to keep close to reality he will probably produce more or less accurate copies of the types that surround him, but the danger will always be that the universal will be lost amid the particulars. By what quality in themselves or fortunate constellation of circumstances did Homer and the biblical writers succeed in avoiding both these errors, in creating types of the utmost universality and yet imparting to them the breath of life, the gait and accent of distinctive individuality? I imagine that they succeeded because they lived at a time when life was much less complex than it is at present, when the conversation, the manners, the thoughts, the motives of men were simple. They were enabled to individualize the universal because the most universal, the simplest motives, still formed the mainspring in the conduct of individuals. It was not necessary for them to enter into the barren region of abstraction and generalization to discover the universal. They pictured what they actually saw. The universal and the individual were still blended in that early dawn of human history.

We have thus far spoken of Homer and the Bible jointly. But let us now give our particular attention to the biblical narrative. The narrative of the Bible is fairly saturated with the moral spirit; the moral issues are everywhere in the forefront. Duty, guilt and its punishment, the conflict of conscience with inclination, are the leading themes. The Hebrew people seem to have been endowed with what may be called "a moral genius," and especially did they emphasize the filial and fraternal duties to an extent hardly equaled elsewhere. Now it is precisely these duties that must be impressed on young children, and hence the biblical stories present us with the very material we require. They can not, in this respect, be replaced; there is no other literature in the world that offers what is equal to them in value for the particular object we have now in view. Before proceeding, however, to discuss the stories in detail, let me remind you that in studying them a larger tax is made on the attention of children, and a higher development of the moral judgment is presupposed, than in the previous parts of our course; for in them a succession of acts and their consequences are presented to the scholar, on each of which his judgment is to be exercised. Those who teach the biblical stories merely because it has been customary to regard the Bible as the text-book of morals and religion, without, however, being clear as to the place which belongs to it in a scheme of moral education, will always, I doubt not, achieve a certain result. The stories will never entirely fail of their beneficial effect, but I can not help thinking that this effect will be greatly heightened if their precise pedagogic value is distinctly apprehended, and if the preparatory steps have been taken in due course. It seems to me that the moral judgment should first be exercised on a single moral quality as exhibited in a single act before it is applied to a whole series of acts; and hence that the fable should precede the story.

In making our selection from the rich material before us we need only keep in mind the principle already enunciated in the introductory lectures—that the moral teaching at any period should relate to the duties of that period.

Adam and Eve in Paradise.

This is a wonderful story for children. It deserves to be placed at the head of all the others, for it inculcates the cardinal virtue of childhood—obedience. It is also a typical story of the beginning, the progress, and the culmination of temptation. Will you permit me to relate the story as I should tell it to little children? I shall endeavor to keep true to the outlines, and if I depart from the received version in other respects, may I not plead that liberty of interpretation to which I have referred above.

Once upon a time there were two children, Adam and Eve. Adam was a fine and noble-looking lad. He was slender and well built, and fleet of foot as a young deer. Eve was as beautiful as the dawn, with long golden tresses, and blue eyes, and cheeks like the rose. They lived in the loveliest garden that you have ever heard of. There were tall trees in it, and open meadows where the grass was as smooth as on a lawn, and clear, murmuring brooks ran through the woods. And there were dense thickets filled with the perfume of flowers, and the flowers grew in such profusion, and there were so many different kinds, each more beautiful than the rest, that it was a perfect feast for the eyes to look at them. It was so warm that the children never needed to go in-doors, but at night they would just lie down at the foot of some great tree and look at the stars twinkling through the branches until they fell asleep. And when it rained they would find shelter in some beautiful cavern, spreading leaves and moss upon the ground for a bed. The garden where they lived was called Paradise. And there were ever so many animals in it—all kinds of animals—elephants, and tigers, and leopards, and giraffes, and camels, and sheep, and horses, and cows; but even the wild animals did them no harm. But the children were not alone in that garden: their Father lived with them. And every morning when they woke up their first thought was to go to him and to look up into his mild, kind face for a loving glance, and every evening before they went to sleep he would bend over them. And once, as they lay under the great tree, looking at a star shining through the branches, Adam said to Eve: "Our Father's eye shines just like that star."

One day their Father said to them: "My children, there is one tree in this beautiful garden the fruit of which you must not eat, because it is hurtful to you. You can not understand why, but you know that you must obey your Father even when you do not understand. He loves you and knows best what is for your good." So they promised, and for a time remembered. But one day it happened that Eve was passing near the tree of the fruit of which she knew she must not eat, when what should she hear but a snake talking to her. She did not see it, but she heard its voice quite distinctly. And this is what the snake said: "You poor Eve! you must certainly have a hard time. Your Father is always forbidding you something. How stern he is! I am sure that other children can have all the fruit they want." Eve was frightened at first. She knew that her Father was kind and good, and that the snake was telling a falsehood. He did not always forbid things. But still he had forbidden her to eat of the fruit, and she thought that was a little hard; and she could not understand at all why he had done so. Then the snake spoke again: "Listen, Eve! He forbade you to eat only of it. It can do no harm just to look at it. Go up to it. See how it glistens among the branches! How golden it looks!" And the snake kept on whispering: "How good it must be to the taste! Just take one bite of it. Nobody sees you. Only one bite; that can do no harm." And Eve glanced around, and saw that no one was looking, and presently with a hasty movement she seized the fruit and ate of it. Then she said to herself: "Adam, too, must eat of it. I can never bear to eat it alone." So she ran hastily up to Adam, and said: "See, I have some of the forbidden fruit, and you, too, must eat." And he, too, looked at it and was tempted, and ate. But that evening they were very much afraid. They knew they had done wrong, and their consciences troubled them. So they hurried away into the wood where it was deepest, and hid themselves in the bushes. But soon they heard their Father calling to them; and it was strange, their Father's voice had never sounded so sad before. And in a few moments he found them where they were hiding. And he said to them: "Why do you hide from me?" And they were very much confused, and stammered forth all sorts of excuses. But he said: "Come hither, children." And he looked into their eyes, and said: "Have you eaten of the fruit of which I told you not to eat?" And Adam, who was thoughtless and somewhat selfish, spoke up, and said: "Yes, but it was Eve who gave me of it; she led me on." And Eve hung her head, and said: "It was the snake that made me eat." Now the snake, you know, was no real snake at all; she never saw it, she only heard its voice. And, you know, when we want to do anything wicked, there is within every one of us something bad, that seems to whisper: "Just look! Mere looking will do no harm"; and then: "Just taste; no one sees you." So the snake was the bad feeling in Eve's heart. And their Father took them by the hand, and said: "Tomorrow, when it is dawn, you will have to leave this place. In this beautiful Paradise no one can stay who has once disobeyed. You, Adam, must learn to labor; and, you, Eve, to be patient and self-denying for others. And, perhaps, after a long, long time, some day, you will come back with me into Paradise again."

It is a free rendering, I admit. I have filled in the details so as to bring it down to the level of children's minds, but the outlines, I think, are there. The points I have developed are all suggested in the Bible. The temptation begins when the snake says with characteristic exaggeration: "Is it true that of all the fruit you are forbidden to eat?" Exaggerating the hardships of the moral command is the first step on the downward road. The second step is Eve's approach to look at the fruit—"and she saw that it was good for food, and pleasant to the eyes." The third step is the actual enjoyment of what is forbidden. The fourth step is the desire for companionship in guilt, so characteristic of sin—"and she gave also unto her husband with her, and he did eat." The next passage describes the working of conscience, the fear, the shame, the desire to hide, and then comes the moral verdict: You are guilty, both of you. You have lost your paradise. Try to win it back by labor and suffering.

Note.—I would add to what has been said in the text, that the pupils are expected to return to the study of the Bible, to read and re-read these stories, and to receive a progressively higher interpretation of their meaning as they grow older. If in the above I have spoken in a general way of a Father and his two children, it will be easy for the Sunday-school teacher to add later on that the Father in the story was God.

Cain and Abel.

In teaching the story of the two brothers Cain and Abel the following points should be noted. The ancients believed that earthly prosperity and well-being depended on the favor of God, or the gods, and that the favor of the gods could be secured by sacrifice. If any one brought a sacrifice and yet prosperity did not set in, this was supposed to be a sign that his sacrifice had not been accepted. On the other hand, to say of any person that his sacrifice had been accepted, was tantamount to saying that he was happy and prosperous. Applying this to the story of Cain and Abel, we may omit all mention of the bringing of the sacrifices, which presents a great and needless difficulty to children's minds, and simply make the equivalent statement that Abel was prosperous and Cain was not.

Again, Cain is not represented as an intentional murderer. The true interpretation of the story depends on our bearing this in mind. It is erroneous to suppose that a brand was fixed on Cain's forehead. The passage in question, correctly understood, means that God gave Cain a sign to reassure him that he should not be regarded by men as a common murderer. With these prefatory remarks the story may be told somewhat as follows:

Long ago there lived two brothers. The name of the elder was Cain, and of the younger Abel. Cain was a farmer. He toiled in the sweat of his brow, tilling the stubborn ground, taking out stones, building fences. Winter and summer he was up before the sun, and yet, despite all his labor, things did not go well with him. His crops often failed through no fault of his. He never seemed to have an easy time. Moreover, Cain was of a proud disposition. Honest he was, and truthful, but taciturn, not caring much to talk to people whom he met, but rather keeping to himself. Abel, on the other hand, was a shepherd. He led, or seemed to lead, the most delightfully easy life. He followed his flocks from one pasture to another, watching them graze; and at noon he would often lie down in the shade of some leafy tree and play on his flute by the hour. He was a skillful musician, a bright, talkative companion, and universally popular. He was a little selfish too, as happy people sometimes are. He liked to talk about his successes, and, in a perfectly innocent way, which yet stung Cain to the quick, he would rattle on to his brother about the increase of his herds, about his plans and prospects, and the pleasant things that people were saying of him. Cain grew jealous of his brother Abel. He did not like to confess it to himself, but yet it was a fact. He kept comparing his own life of grinding toil with the easy, lazy life of the shepherd—it was not quite so lazy, but so it seemed to Cain—his own poverty with the other's wealth, his own loneliness with Abel's popularity. And a frown would often gather on his brow, and he grew more and more moody and silent. He knew that he was not in the right state of mind. There was a voice within him that said: "Sin is at thy door, but thou canst become master over it." Sin is like a wild beast crouching outside the door of the heart. Open the door ever so little, and it will force its way in, and will have you in its power. Keep the door shut, therefore; do not let the first evil thought enter into your heart. Thus only can you remain master of yourself. But Cain was already too far gone to heed the warning voice. One day he and Abel were walking together in the fields. Abel, no doubt, was chatting in his usual gay and thoughtless manner. The world was full of sunshine to him; and he did not realize in the least what dark shadows were gathering about his brother's soul. Perhaps the conversation ran somewhat as follows: He had just had an addition to his herd, the finest calf one could imagine: would not Cain come to admire it? And then, to-morrow evening he was to play for the dancers on the green, at the village feast: would not Cain join in the merry-making? When the solitary, embittered Cain heard such talk as this the angry feeling in his heart rose up like a flood. Overmastered by his passion, with a few wild, incoherent words of rage he turned upon his brother and struck him one fierce blow. Ah, that was a relief! The pent-up feeling had found vent at last. The braggart had received the chastisement he deserved! And Cain walked on; and for a time continued to enjoy his satisfaction. He had just noticed that Abel, when struck, had staggered and fallen, but he did not mind that. "Let him lie there for a while; he will pick himself up presently. He may be lame for a few days, and his milk-white face may not be so fair at the feast, but that will be all the better for him. It will teach him a lesson." Nevertheless, when he had walked on for some distance he began to feel uneasy. He looked around from time to time to see whether Abel was following him, and the voice of conscience began to be heard, saying, "Cain, where is thy brother?" But he silenced it by saying to himself, "Am I my brother's keeper? Is he such a child that he can not take care of himself—that he can not stand a blow?" But he kept looking back more and more often, and when he saw no one coming, he came at last to a dead halt. His heart was beating violently by this time; the beads of perspiration were gathered on his brow. He turned back to seek his missing brother. Then, as he did not meet him, he began to run, and faster and faster he ran, until at last, panting and out of breath, with a horrible fear hounding him on, he arrived at the place where he had struck the blow. And there he saw—a pool of blood, and the waxen face of his brother, and the glazed, broken eyes! And then he realized what he had done. And it is this situation which the Bible has in view in the words, "Behold, thy brother's blood cries up from the earth against thee." And then as he surveyed his deed in stony despair, he said to himself, "I am accursed from the face of the earth"—I am unworthy to live. The earth has no resting-place for such as I. But a sign was given him to show him that his life would not be required of him. He had not committed willful murder. He had simply given the reins to his violent passion. He must go into another land, where no one knew him, there through years of penance to try to regain his peace of soul. The moral of the story is: Do not harbor evil thoughts in the mind. If you have once given them entrance, the acts to which they lead are beyond your control. Cain's sin consisted in not crushing the feeling of envy in the beginning; in comparing his own lot with that of his more favored brother and dwelling on this comparison, until, in a fit of insane passion, he was led on to the unspeakable crime which, indeed, he had never contemplated, to which he had never given an inward assent. The story also illustrates the vain subterfuges with which we still seek to smother the consciousness of guilt after we have done wrong, until the time comes when our eyes are opened and we are compelled to face the consequences of our deeds and to realize them in all their bearings. The story of Cain and Abel is thus a further development of the theme already treated in simpler fashion in the story of Adam and Eve, only that, while in the latter case the filial duty of obedience to parents is in the foreground, attention is here directed to the duty which a brother owes to a brother. It is a striking tale, striking in the vividness with which it conjures up the circumstances before our minds and the clearness with which the principal motives are delineated; and it contains an awful warning for all time.

The question here presents itself, whether we should arrange the biblical stories according to subjects—e. g., grouping together all those which treat of duty to parents, all those which deal with the relations of brothers to brothers, etc.—or whether we should adopt the chronological arrangement. On the whole, I am in favor of the latter. It is expected that the pupils, as they grow older, will undertake a more comprehensive study of the Bible, and for this they will be better prepared if they have been kept to the chronological order from the outset. Another more practical reason is, that children tire of one subject if it is kept before their minds too long. It is better, therefore, to arrange the stories in groups or cycles, each of which will afford opportunity to touch on a variety of moral topics. It will be impossible to continue to relate in extenso the stories which I have selected, and I shall therefore content myself in the main with giving the points of each story upon which the teacher may lay stress.

The Story of Noah and his Sons.

Describe the beauty of the vine, and of the purple grapes hanging in clusters amid the green leaves. How sweet is this fruit to the taste! But the juice of it has a dangerous property. Once there lived a man, Noah, who had three sons. He planted a vine, plucked the grapes, but did not know the dangerous property of the juice. The second son, on seeing his father in a state of intoxication, allowed his sense of the ridiculous to overcome his feeling of reverence. But the eldest and the youngest sons acted differently. They took a garment, covered their father with it, and averted their faces so as not to see his disgrace. The moral is quite important. An intelligent child can not help detecting a fault now and then even in the best of parents. But the right course for him to take is to throw the mantle over the fault, and to turn away his face. He should say to himself: Am I the one to judge my parents—I who have been the recipient of so many benefits at their hands, and who see in them so many virtues, so much superior wisdom? By such reasoning the feeling of reverence is even deepened. The momentary superiority which the child feels serves only to bring out his general inferiority.

The Abraham Cycle.

There is a whole series of stories belonging to this group, illustrating in turn the virtues of brotherly harmony, generosity toward the weak, hospitality toward strangers, and maternal love. Abraham and Lot are near kinsmen. Their servants quarrel, and to avoid strife the former advises a separation. "If thou wilt go to the left," he says, "I will turn to the right; if thou preferrest the land to the right, I will take the left." Abraham, being the older, was entitled to the first choice, but he waived his claim. Lot chose the fairer portion, and Abraham willingly assented. "Let there be no strife between us, for we be brethren." The lesson is, that the older and wiser of two brothers or kinsmen may well yield a part of his rights for harmony's sake.

Abraham's conduct toward the King of Sodom is an instance of generosity. The story of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah may be introduced by describing the Dead Sea and the surrounding scene of desolation. The moral lies in the circumstance that ill treatment of strangers brought down the doom. Hospitality toward strangers is one of the shining virtues of the Old Testament heroes. Even at the present day strangers are still despised and ridiculed by the vulgar, their foreign manners, language, and habits seeming contemptible; the lesson of hospitality is not yet superfluous.

The story of Hagar and her Child I should recast in such a way as to exclude what in it is repellent, and retain the touching picture of maternal affection. I should relate it somewhat as follows: There was once a little lad whose name was Ishmael. He had lost his father and had only his mother to cling to. She was a tall, beautiful lady, with dark eyes which were often very sad, but they would light up, and there was always a sweet smile on her lips whenever she looked at her darling boy. Ishmael and his mother, Hagar, had never been separated; they were all in all to each other. One day it happened that they walked away from their home, which was near the great, sandy desert. Ishmael's mother was in deep distress, there was something troubling her, and every now and then a tear would steal down her cheeks. Ishmael was sad, too, because his mother was, but he did not dare to ask her what it was that grieved her, fearing to give her pain. So they walked on and on, holding each other's hands in silence. But at last they saw that they had lost their way; and they tried first one direction, and then another, thinking that it would bring them back toward home, but they only got deeper and deeper into the vast, lonely desert. And the sun burned hot and hotter above their heads, and little Ishmael, who had tried to keep up like a brave lad, at last became so parched with thirst, and so faint with want of food, and so tired with walking—for they had wandered about for many, many hours—that he could go on no farther. Then his mother took him up in her arms and laid him under a bush, where there was a little shade. And then, oh then, how her poor heart was wrung, and how she wept to see her darling in such suffering, and how she cried for help! Then she sat down on the glaring sand at some distance away, and turned her face in the direction opposite to where Ishmael was lying; for she said, "I can not bear to see my boy die." But just as she had given up all hope, suddenly she saw a noble-looking man, wearing the dress of the Bedouins, approach her. He had come from behind one of the sand hills, and it seemed to her as if he had come down straight from the sky. He asked her why she was in such grief, and when she told him, and pointed to her little son, he said: "It is fortunate that you have come to this place. There is a beautiful oasis close by." An oasis, children, is a spot of fruitful green earth right in the midst of the desert, like an island in the ocean. And the man took the boy up and carried him in his arms, and Hagar followed after him. And presently, when they came to the oasis, they found a cool, clear spring, full of the most delicious water, and palm-trees with ever so many dates on them, and all the people who lived there gathered around them. And the man who had been so kind proved to be the chief. And he took charge of Ishmael's education, showed him how to shoot with the bow and how to hunt, and was like a real father to him. And when Ishmael grew up he became a great chief of the Bedouins. But he always remained true to his mother, and loved her with all his heart.

I am strongly in favor of omitting the story of the Sacrifice of Isaac. I do not think we can afford to tell young children that a father was prepared to draw the knife against his own son, even though he desisted in the end. I should not be willing to inform a child that so horrible an impulse could have been entertained even for a moment in a parent's heart. I regard the story, indeed, as, from an historical point of view, one of the most valuable in the Bible; it has a deep meaning; but it is not food fit for children. A great mistake has been made all along in supposing that whatever is true in religion must be communicated to children; and that if anything be very true and very important we ought to hasten to give it to children as early as possible; but there must be preparatory training. And the greatest truths are often of such a kind as only the mature mind, ripe in thought and experience, is fitted to assimilate.

One of the most charming idyls of patriarchal times is the story of Rebecca at the Well. It illustrates positively, as the story of Sodom does negatively, the duty of hospitality toward strangers. "Drink, lord, and I will give thy camels drink also," is a pleasant phrase which is apt to stick in the memory. Moreover, the story shows the high place which the trusted servant occupied in the household of his master, and offers to the teacher an opportunity of dwelling on the respect due to faithful servants.

The Jacob Cycle.

What treatment shall Jacob receive at our hands, he, the sly trickster, who cheats his brother of his birthright and steals a father's blessing? Yet he is one of the patriarchs, and is accorded the honorable title of "champion of God." To hold him up to the admiration of the young is impossible. To gloss over his faults and try to explain them away were a sorry business, and honesty forbids. The Bible itself gives us the right clew. His faults are nowhere disguised. He is represented as a person who makes a bad start in life—a very bad start, indeed—but who pays the penalty of his wrong-doing. His is a story of penitential discipline.

In telling the story, all reference to the duplicity of Rebecca should be omitted, for the same reason that malicious step-mothers and cruel fathers have been excluded from the fairy tales.

The points to be discussed may be summarized as follows:

Taking advantage of a brother in distress.—Jacob purchases the birthright for a mess of pottage.

Tender attachment to a helpless old father.—Esau goes out hunting to supply a special delicacy for his father's table. This is a point which children will appreciate. Unable to confer material benefits on their parents, they can only show their love by slight attentions.

Deceit.—Jacob simulates the appearance of his older brother and steals the blessing. In this connection it will be necessary to say that a special power was supposed to attach to a father's blessing, and that the words once spoken were deemed irrevocable.

Jacob's penitential discipline begins.—The deceiver is deceived, and made to feel in his own person the pain and disappointment which deceit causes. He is repeatedly cheated by his master Laban, especially in the matter which is nearest to him, his love for Rachel.

The forgiveness of injuries.—Esau's magnanimous conduct toward his brother.

The evil consequences of tale-bearing and conceit.—It is a significant fact that Joseph is not a mere coxcomb. He is a man of genius, as his later career proves, and the stirrings of his genius manifest themselves in his early dreams of future greatness. Persons of this description are not always pleasant companions, especially in their youth. They have not yet accomplished anything to warrant distinction, and yet they feel within themselves the presentiment of a destiny and of achievements above the ordinary. Their faults, their arrogance, their seemingly preposterous claims, are not to be excused, but neither is the envy they excite excusable. One of the hardest things to learn is to recognize without envy the superiority of a brother.

Moral cowardice.—Reuben is guilty of moral cowardice. He was an opportunist, who sought to accomplish his ends by diplomacy. If he, as the oldest brother, had used his authority and boldly denounced the contemplated crime, he might have averted the long train of miseries that followed.

Strength and depth of paternal love.—"Joseph is no more: an evil beast has devoured him. I will go mourning for my son Joseph into the grave." It is a piece of poetic justice that Jacob, who deceived his father in the matter of the blessing by covering himself with the skin of a kid, is himself deceived by the blood of a kid of the goats with which the coat of Joseph had been stained.

In speaking of the temptation of Joseph in the house of Potiphar, it is enough to say that the wife conspired against her husband, and endeavored to induce Joseph to betray his master. A pretty addition to the story is to be found in the Talmud, to the effect that Joseph saw in imagination the face of his father before him in the moment of temptation, and was thereby strengthened to resist.

The light of a superior mind can not be hidden even in a prison.—Joseph wins the favor of his fellow-prisoners, and an opportunity is thus opened to him to exercise his talents on the largest scale.

Affliction chastens.—The famine had in the mean time spread to Palestine. The shadow of the grief for Joseph still lay heavily on the household of the patriarch. Joseph is lost; shall Benjamin, too, perish? It is pleasant to observe that the character of the brothers in the mean time has been changed for the better. There is evidently a lurking sense of guilt and a desire to atone for it in the manner in which Judah pledges himself for the safety of the youngest child. And the same marked change is visible in the conduct of all the brothers on the journey. The stratagem of the cup was cunningly devised to test their feelings. They might have escaped by throwing the blame on Benjamin. Instead of that, they dread nothing so much as that he may have to suffer, and are willing to sacrifice everything to save him. When this new spirit has become thoroughly apparent, the end to which the whole group of Jacob stories pointed all along is reached; the work of moral regeneration is complete. Jacob himself has been purified by affliction, and the brothers and Joseph have been developed by the same hard taskmaster into true men. The scene of recognition which follows, when the great vice-regent orders his attendants from the apartment and embraces those who once attempted his life, with the words, "I am Joseph, your brother: does my father still live?" is touching in the extreme, and the whole ends happily in a blaze of royal pomp, like a true Eastern tale.

A word as to the method which should be used in teaching these stories. If the fairy tale holds the moral element in solution, if the fable drills the pupil in distinguishing one moral trait at a time, the biblical stories exhibit a combination of moral qualities, or, more precisely, the interaction of moral causes and effects; and it is important for the teacher to give expression to this difference in the manner in which he handles the stories. Thus, in the fables we have simply one trait, like ingratitude, and its immediate consequences. The snake bites the countryman, and is cast out; there the matter ends. In the story of Joseph we have, first, the partiality of the father, which produces or encourages self-conceit in the son; Joseph's conceit produces envy in the brothers. This envy reacts on all concerned—on Joseph, who in consequence is sold into slavery; on the father, who is plunged into inconsolable grief; on the brothers, who nearly become murderers. The servitude of Joseph destroys his conceit and develops his nobler nature. Industry, fidelity, and sagacity raise him to high power. The sight of the constant affliction of their father on account of Joseph's loss mellows the heart of the brothers, etc. It is this interweaving of moral causes and effects that gives to the stories their peculiar value. They are true moral pictures; and, like the pictures used in ordinary object lessons, they serve to train the power of observation. Trained observation, however, is the indispensable preliminary of correct moral judgment.

The Moses Cycle.

The figures of the patriarchs and the prophets appeal to us with a fresh interest the moment we regard them as human beings like ourselves, who were tempted as we are, who struggled as we are bound to do, and who acted, howsoever the divine economy might supervene, on their own responsibility. Looked at from this point of view, the figure of Moses, the Liberator, approaches our sympathies at the same time that he towers in imposing proportions above our level. Let us briefly review his career. Like Arminius at a later day, he is educated at the court of the enemies of his people. In dress, in manners, in speech, he doubtless resembles the grandees of Pharaoh's court. When he approaches the well in Midian, the daughter of Jethro exclaims, "Behold, an Egyptian is coming!" But at heart he remains a Hebrew, and is deeply touched by the cruel sufferings of his race. His first public intervention on their behalf takes place when he strikes down and kills a native overseer whom he detects in the act of maltreating a Hebrew slave. This is characteristic of the manner in which reformers begin. They direct their first efforts against the particular consequences of some great general wrong. Later on they perceive the uselessness of such a procedure and take heart to attack the evil at its source. Moses flees into the desert. The lonely life he leads there is necessary to the development of his ideas. Solitude is essential to the growth of genius. The burning bush is the outward symbol of an inward fact. The fire which can not be quenched is in his own breast, and out of that inward burning he hears more and more distinctly the voice which bids him go back and free his people. But when he considers the means at his disposal, when in fancy he sees his people, a miserable horde of slaves, pitted against the armed hosts of Pharaoh, he is ready to despair; until he hears the comforting voice, which says, "The Eternal is with thee; the unchangeable power of right is on thy side: it will prevail!" Like Jeremiah, like Isaiah, like all great reformers, Moses is profoundly imbued with the sense of his unfitness for the task laid upon him. He pleads that he is heavy of speech. He can only stammer forth the message of freedom. But he is reassured by the thought that a brother will be found, that helpers will arise, that the thought which he can barely formulate will be translated by other lesser men into a form suitable for the popular understanding. He returns to Egypt to find that the greatest obstacle in his way is the lethargy and unbelief of the very people whom he wishes to help. This again is a typical feature of his career. The greatest trials of the reformer are due not to the open enmity of the oppressor, but to the meanness, the distrust and jealousy, of those whom oppression has degraded. At last, however, the miracle of salvation is wrought, the weak prevail over the mighty, the cause of justice triumphs against all apparent odds to the contrary. The slaves rise against their masters, the flower of Egyptian chivalry is destroyed. Pharaoh rallies his army and sets out in pursuit. But the Hebrews, under Moses's guidance, have gained the start, and escape into the wilderness in safety.

Freedom is a precious opportunity—no more. Its value depends on the use to which it is put. And therefore, no sooner was the act of liberation accomplished, than the great leader turned to the task of positive legislation, the task of developing a higher moral life among his people. But here a new and keener disappointment awaited him. When he descended from the mount, the glow of inspiration still upon his face, the tablets of the law in his hand, he saw the people dancing about the golden calf. It is at this moment that Michel Angelo, deeply realizing the human element in the biblical story, has represented the form of the liberator in the colossal figure which was destined for Pope Julius's tomb. "The right foot is slightly advanced; the long beard trembles with the emotion which quivers through the whole frame; the eyes flash indignant wrath; the right hand grasps the tablets of the law; in another moment, we see it plainly, he will leap from his sitting posture and shatter the work which he has made upon the rocks." This trait, too, is typical. Many a leader of a noble cause has felt, in moments of deep disappointment, as if he could shatter the whole work of his life. Many a man, in like situation, has said to himself: The people are willing enough to hail the message of the higher law to-day, but to-morrow they sink back into their dull, degraded condition, as if the vision from the mount had never been reported to them. Let me, then, leave them to their dreary ways, to dance about their golden calf. But a better and stronger mood prevailed in Moses. He ascended once more to the summit, and there prostrated himself in utter self-renunciation and self-effacement. He asked nothing for himself, only that the people whom he loved might be benefited ever so little, be raised ever so slowly above their low condition. And again the questioning spirit came upon him, and he said, as many another has said: The paths of progress are dark and twisted; the course of history seems so often to be in the wrong direction. How can I be sure that there is such a thing as eternal truth—that the right will prevail in the end? And then there came to him that grand revelation, the greatest, as I think, and the most sublime in the Old Testament, when the eternal voice answered his doubt, and said: "Thou wouldst know my ways, but canst not. No living being can see my face; only from the rearward canst thou know me." As a ship sails through the waters and leaves its wake behind, so the divine Power passes through the world and leaves behind the traces by which it can be known. And what are those traces? Justice and mercy. Cherish, therefore, the divine element in thine own nature, and thou wilt see it reflected in the world about thee. Wouldst thou be sure that there is such a thing as a divine Power? be thyself just and merciful. And so Moses descended again to his people, and became exceeding charitable in spirit. The Bible says: "The man Moses was exceeding humble; there was no one more humble than he on the face of the earth." He bore with resignation their complaints, their murmurings, their alternate cowardice and foolhardiness. He was made to feel, like many another in his place, that his foes were they of his own household. He had an only brother and an only sister. His brother and sister rose up against him. His kinsmen, too, revolted from him. He endured all their weakness, all their follies; he sought to lift them by slow degrees to the height of his own aims. He set the paths of life and death before them, and told them that the divine word can not be found by crossing the seas or by searching the heavens, but must be found in the human heart; and if men find it not there they will find it nowhere else. And so, at last, his pilgrimage drew to a close. He had reached the confines of Palestine. Once more he sought the mountain-top, and there beheld the promised land stretching far away—the land which his eyes were to see but which he was never to enter. Few great reformers, indeed few men who have started a great movement in history, and have been the means of producing deep and permanent changes in the ideas and institutions of society, have lived to see those changes consummated. The course of evolution is slow, and the reformer can hope at best to see the promised land from afar—as in a dream. Happy he if, like Moses, he retains the force of his convictions unabated, if his spiritual sight remains undimmed, if the splendid vision which attended him in the beginning inspires and consoles him to the end.

The narrative which has thus been sketched touches on some of the weightiest problems of human existence, and deals with motives both complex and lofty. I have entered into the interpretation of these motives for the purpose of showing that they are too complex and too lofty to be within the comprehension of children, and that it is an error, though unfortunately a common one, to attempt to use the grand career of a reformer and liberator as a text for the moral edification of the very young. They are wholly unprepared to understand, and that which is not understood, if forced on the attention, awakens repugnance and disgust. Few of those who have been compelled to study the life of Moses in their childhood have ever succeeded in conquering this repugnance, or have drawn from it, even in later life, the inspiration and instruction which it might otherwise have afforded them. For our primary course, however, we can extract a few points interesting even to children, thus making them familiar with the name of Moses, and preparing the way for a deeper interest later on. The incidents of the story which I should select are these: The child Moses exposed on the Nile; the good sister watching over his safety; the kind princess adopting him as her son; the sympathy manifested by him for his enslaved brethren despite his exemption from their misfortunes. The killing of the Egyptian should be represented as a crime, palliated but not excused by the cruelty of the overseer. Special stress may be laid upon the chivalric conduct of Moses toward the young girls at the well of Midian. The teacher may then go on to say that Moses, having succeeded in freeing his people from the power of the Egyptian king, became their chief, that many wise laws are ascribed to him, etc. The story of the spies, and of the end of Moses, may also be briefly told.

The mention of the laws of Moses leads me to offer a suggestion. I have remarked above that children should be taught to observe moral pictures before any attempt is made to deduce moral principles; but certain simple rules should be given even to the very young—must, indeed, be given them for their guidance. Now, in the legislation ascribed to Moses we find a number of rules fit for children, and a collection of these rules might be made for the use of schools. They should be committed to memory by the pupils, and perhaps occasionally recited in chorus. I have in mind such rules as these:[12]

1. Ye shall not lie. (Many persons who pay attention only to the Decalogue, and forget the legislation of which it forms a part, seem not to be aware that there is in the Pentateuch [Lev. xix, 11] a distinct commandment against lying.)

2. Ye shall not deceive one another.

3. Ye shall take no bribe.

4. Honor thy father and thy mother.

5. Every one shall reverence his mother and his father. (Note that the father is placed first in the one passage and the mother first in the other, to indicate the equal title of both to their children's reverence.)

6. Thou shalt not speak disrespectfully of those in authority.

7. Before the hoary head thou shalt rise and pay honor to the aged.

10. Thou shalt not spread false reports.

11. Thou shalt not go about as a tale-bearer among thy fellows.

12. Thou shalt not hate thy neighbor in thy heart, but shalt warn him of his evil-doing.

13. Thou shalt not bear a grudge against any, but thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.

8. Thou shalt not speak evil of the deaf (thinking that he can not hear thee), nor put an obstacle in the way of the blind.

9. If there be among you a poor man, thou shalt not harden thy heart, nor shut thy hand from thy poor brother, but thou shalt open thy hand wide unto him, and shalt surely lend him sufficient for his need.

14. If thou seest the property of thine enemy threatened with destruction, thou shalt do thy utmost to save it.

15. If thou findest what is not thine own, and the owner is not known to thee, guard it carefully, that thou mayest restore it to its rightful owner.

16. Thou shalt not do evil because many others are doing the same evil.

Bearing grudges, lying, mocking those who (like the deaf and blind) are afflicted with personal defects, appropriating what is found without attempting to discover the owner, seeking to excuse wrong on the plea that many others are guilty of it—all these are forms of moral evil with which children are perfectly familiar, and against which they need to be warned. It is more than strange that such commandments as the sixth and eighth of the Decalogue (the commandment against murder and against adultery, forsooth), which are inapplicable to little children, should be made so much of in primary moral instruction, while those other commandments which do come home to them are often overlooked. The theory here expounded, that moral teaching should keep pace with the experience and intelligence of the child, should save us from such mistakes.

To proceed with the stories, the book of Joshua offers nothing that we can turn to account, nor do the stories of Jael, Deborah, and Gideon contain moral lessons fit for the young. Sour milk is not proper food for children, nor do those stories afford the proper moral food in which, so to speak, the milk of human kindness has turned sour. The labors of Samson, the Hebrew Hercules, are likewise unfit to be used at this stage, at least for the purpose of moral instruction. The story of the daughter of Jephtha, the Hebrew Iphigenia, is exquisitely pathetic, but it involves the horrible idea of human sacrifice, and therefore had better be omitted. The acts and speeches of Samuel mark an epoch in the history of the Hebrew religion, and are of profound interest to the scholar. But there are certain features, such as the killing of Agag, which would have to be eliminated in any case; then the theological and moral elements are so blended that it would be difficult if not impossible to separate them; and altogether the character of this mighty ancient seer, this Hebrew Warwick, this king-maker and enemy of kings, is above the comprehension of primary scholars. We shall therefore omit the whole intervening period, and pass at once from the Moses cycle to

The David Cycle.

The first story of this group is that of Naomi and Ruth, the ancestress of David. Upon the matchless beauty of this tale it is unnecessary to expatiate. I wish to remark, however, in passing that it illustrates as well as any other—better perhaps than any other—the peculiar art of the biblical narrative to which we have referred above. If any one at the present day were asked to decide whether a woman placed in Ruth's situation would act rightly in leaving her home and following an aged mother-in-law to a distant country, how many pros and cons would he have to weigh before he would be able to say yes or no? Are her own parents still living, and are they so situated that she is justified in leaving them? Are there other blood relations who have a prior claim on her? Has she raised expectations at home which she ought not to disappoint, or undertaken duties which ought not to be set aside in deference to a sentiment no matter how noble? Of all such side issues and complications of duty which would render a decision like hers difficult in modern times, the story as we have it before us is cleared. All minor traits are suppressed. It is assumed that she has a right to go if she pleases, and the mind is left free to dwell, unimpeded by any counter-considerations, upon the beauty of her choice. This choice derives its excellence from the fact that it was perfectly free. There was no tie of consanguinity between Naomi and her. The two women were related in such a way that the bond might either be drawn more tightly or severed without blame. Orpah, too, pitied her mother-in-law. She wept, but she returned to her home. We can not, on that account, condemn her. It was not her bounden duty to go. Ruth, on the other hand, might perhaps have satisfied her more sensitive conscience by accompanying her mother-in-law as far as Bethlehem, and then returning to Moab. But she preferred instead exile and the hardships of a life among strangers. Not being a daughter, she freely took upon herself the duties of a daughter; and it is this that constitutes the singular merit of her action. In telling the story it is best to follow the original as closely as possible. "Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to desist from following after thee, for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people: where thou diest will I die and there will I be buried." Where in universal literature shall we find words more eloquent of tender devotion than these? It will be noticed that I have left out the phrase "and thy God shall be my God" for two reasons. No matter how much we may love another person, religious convictions ought to be held sacred. We have no right to give up our convictions even for affection's sake. Moreover, the words correctly understood are really nothing but an amplification of what has preceded. The language of Ruth refers throughout to the proposed change of country. "Whither thou goest, I will go; where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy folk shall be my folk; where thou diest, I will die." And the phrase "Thy God shall be my God" has the same meaning. The ancients believed that every country has its God, and to say "Thy God shall be my God" was tantamount to saying "Thy country shall be my country." It is better, therefore, to omit these words. Were we to retain them, the impression might be created that Ruth contemplated a change of religion merely to please the aged Naomi, and such a step from a moral point of view would be unwarrantable. It was this Gentile woman Ruth who became the ancestress of the royal house of David.

The story of David's life is replete with dramatic interest. It may be arranged in a series of pictures. First picture: David and Goliath—i. e., skill pitted against brute strength, or the deserved punishment of a bully. Every boy takes comfort in this story. Second picture: David and Jonathan, their arms twined about each other's neck, a beautiful example of youthful friendship. Especially should the unselfishness of Jonathan be noted. He, the Hebrew crown prince, so far from being jealous of his rival, recognized the superior qualities of the latter and served him with the most generous fidelity. Third picture: David the harper, playing before the gloomy, moody king, whom an evil spirit has possessed. It should be noted how difficult is the task incumbent upon Jonathan of combining his duty to his father and his affection for his friend. Yet he fails in neither. Fourth picture: David's loyalty manifest. He has the monarch in his power in the camp, in the cave, and proves that there is no evil intention in his mind. The words of Saul are very touching, "Is it thy voice I hear, my son David?" Fifth picture: the battle, the tragical end of Saul and Jonathan. The dirge of David floats above the field: "The beauty of Israel is slain upon the high places. How are the mighty fallen!" etc. A second series of pictures now begins. David is crowned king, first by his clansmen, then by the united tribes. David, while besieging Bethlehem, is athirst and there is no water. Three of his soldiers cut their way to the well near the gate, which is guarded by the enemy, and bring back a cup of water. He refuses it, saying: "It is not water, but the blood of the men who have risked their lives for me." Omitting the story of Bathsheba, we come next to the rebellion of Absalom. The incidents of this rebellion may be depicted as follows: First, Absalom in his radiant beauty at the feast of the sheep-shearer. Next, Absalom at the gate playing the demagogue, secretly inciting the people to revolt. Next, David ascending Mount Olivet weeping, the base Shimei, going along a parallel ridge, flinging stones at the king and reviling him. David remarks: "If my own son seek my life, how shall I be angry with this Benjamite?" Next, the death of Absalom in the wood. Finally, David at the gate receiving the news of Absalom's death, and breaking forth into the piercing cry: "O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee! O Absalom, my son, my son!" It is the story of a rebellious and undutiful child, and illustrates by contrast the unfathomable depth of a father's love, of a love that yearns even over the wicked, over the lost.

The points of the stories included in the David cycle are: skill and courage triumphant over brute strength, unselfish friendship, loyalty, a leader's generosity toward his followers, and parental love. The arrangement of the words in the lament of David for his son deserves to be specially noted. It corresponds to and vividly describes the rhythmic movements of the emotions excited by great sorrow. From the life of Solomon we select only the judgment, related in I Kings, iii. We may compare with it a similar story, showing, however, interesting variations, in the Jātaka tales.

With this our selections from the Old Testament narrative come to an end. The ideal types are exhausted, and the figures which now appear upon the scene stand before us in the dry light of history.

From the New Testament we select for the primary course the story of the Good Samaritan, as illustrative of true charity. Selected passages from the Sermon on the Mount may also be explained and committed to memory. The Beatitudes, however, and the parables lie outside our present limits, presupposing as they do a depth of spiritual experience which is lacking in children.

Note.—It should be remembered that the above selections have been made with a view to their being included in a course of unsectarian moral instruction. Such a course must not express the religious tenets of any sect or denomination. Much that has here been omitted, however, can be taught in the Sunday schools, the existence of which alongside of the daily schools is, as I have said, presupposed in these lectures. I have simply tried to cull the moral meaning of the stories, leaving, as I believe, the way open for divergent religious interpretations of the same stories. But I realize that the religious teacher may claim the Bible wholly for his own, and may not be willing to share even a part of its treasure with the moral teacher. If this be so, then these selections from the Bible, for the present, at all events, will have to be omitted. They can, nevertheless, be used by judicious parents, and some if not all of the suggestions they contain may prove acceptable to teachers of Sunday schools.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] In his Introduction to Homer.

[12] I have taken the liberty of altering the language here and there, for reasons that will be obvious in each case.

X. THE ODYSSEY AND THE ILIAD.

As we leave the field of biblical literature and turn to the classic epic of Greece, a new scene spreads out before us, new forms and faces crowd around us, we breathe a different atmosphere.

The poems of Homer among the Greeks occupied a place in many respects similar to that of the Bible among the Hebrews. At Athens there was a special ordinance that the Homeric poems should be recited once every fourth year at the great Panathenaic festival. On this occasion the rhapsode, standing on an elevated platform, arrayed in rich robes, with a golden wreath about his head, addressed an audience of many thousands. The poems were made the subject of mystical, allegorical, and rationalistic interpretation, precisely as was the case with the text of the Bible. As late as the first century of our era, the first book placed in the hands of children, the book from which they learned to read and write, was Homer. Xenophon in the Symposium has one of the guests say: "My father, anxious that I should become a good man, made me learn all the poems of Homer, and now I could repeat the whole Iliad and Odyssey by heart."[13]

We shall not go quite to the same length as Xenophon. We should hardly think it sufficient in order to make a good man of a boy to place Homer in his hands. But we do believe that the knowledge of the Homeric poems, introduced at the right time and in the right way, will contribute to such a result.

Let us, however, examine more closely in what the value of these poems consists.

Ulysses is the hero of the Odyssey, Achilles of the Iliad. Ulysses is pre-eminently the type of resourceful intelligence, Achilles of valor. In what way will these types appeal to our pupils? As the boy develops beyond the early period of childhood, there shows itself in him a spirit of adventure. This has been noticed by all careful educators. Now, there is a marked difference between the spirit of adventure and the spirit of play. Play consists in the free exercise of our faculties. Its characteristic mark is the absence of taxing effort. The child is said to be at play when it frolics in the grass, when it leaps or runs a race, or when it imitates the doings of its elders. As soon, however, as the exertion required in carrying on a game becomes appreciable, the game is converted into a task and loses its charm. The spirit of adventure, on the contrary, is called forth by obstacles; it delights in the prospect of difficulties to be overcome; it is the sign of a fresh and apparently boundless energy, which has not yet been taught its limitations by the rough contact with realities. The spirit of adventure begins to develop in children when the home life no longer entirely contents them, when they wish to be freed from the constraint of dependence on others, when it seems to them as if the whole world lay open to them and they could dare and do almost anything. It is at this time that children love to read tales of travel, and especially tales of the sea, of shipwreck, and hair-breadth escapes, of monsters slain by dauntless heroes, of rescue and victory, no matter how improbable or impossible the means. Now success in such adventures depends largely on courage. And it is good for children to have examples even of physical courage set before them, provided it be not brutal. The craven heart ought to be despised. Mere good intentions ought not to count. Unless one has the resolute will, the fearless soul, that can face difficulties and danger without flinching, he will never be able to do a man's work in the world. This lesson should be imprinted early. A second prerequisite of success is presence of mind, or what has been called above resourceful intelligence. And this quality is closely allied with the former. Presence of mind is the result of bravery. The mind will act even in perilous situations if it be not paralyzed by fear. It is fear that causes the wheels of thought to stop. If one can only keep off the clog of fear, the mind will go on revolving and often find a way of escape where there seemed none. Be not a coward, be brave and clear-headed in the midst of peril—these are lessons the force of which is appreciated by the growing pupil. The Iliad and Odyssey teach them on every page.

Bravery and presence of mind, it is true, are commonly regarded as worldly, rather than as, in the strict sense, moral qualities. However that may be—and I, for one, am inclined to rank true courage and true presence of mind among the highest manifestations of the moral nature—these qualities when they show themselves in the young soon exert a favorable influence on the whole character, and serve especially to transform the attitude of the child toward its parents. Hitherto the young child has been content to be the mere recipient of favors; as soon as the new consciousness of strength, the new sense of independence and manliness has developed, the son begins to feel that he would like to give to his parents as well as to receive from them; to be of use to his father, and to confer benefits, as far as he is able, in the shape of substantial services. These remarks will find their application in the analysis of the Odyssey, which we shall presently attempt.

The Odyssey is a tale of the sea. Ulysses is the type of sagacity, as well as of bravery, his mind teems with inventions. In the boy Telemachus we behold a son struggling to cut loose from his mother's leading-strings, and laudably ambitious to be of use to his parents. In the Odyssey we gain a distinct advance upon the moral results obtained from the study of the biblical stories. In the Bible it is chiefly the love of parents for their children which is dwelt upon, in the Odyssey the devotion of children to their parents; and this, of course, marks a later stage. In the Odyssey, too, the conjugal relation comes into the foreground. In the Bible, the love of the husband for his wife is repeatedly touched upon. But the love of the wife for the husband is not equally emphasized, and the relations between the two do not receive particular attention. The joint authority of both parents over their children is the predominant fact, the delicate bonds of feeling which subsist between the parents themselves are not in view. And this again corresponds to the earlier stage of childhood. The young child perceives the joint love which father and mother bear toward it, and feels the joint authority which they exercise over it. But as the child grows up, its eyes are opened to perceive more clearly the love which the parents bear to one another, and its affection for both is fed and the desire to serve them is strengthened by this new insight. Thus it is in the Odyssey. The yearning of Ulysses for his wife, the fidelity of Penelope during twenty years of separation, are the leading theme of the narrative, and the effect of this love upon their son is apparent throughout the poem.

Let us now consider the ethical elements of the Odyssey in some detail, arranging them under separate heads.

1. Conjugal affection. Ulysses has been for seven years a prisoner in the cave of Calypso. The nymph of the golden hair offers him the gift of immortality if he will consent to be her husband, but he is proof against her blandishments, and asks for nothing but to be dismissed, so that he may see his dear home and hold his own true wife once more in his arms.

"Apart upon the shore

He sat and sorrowed. And oft in tears

And sighs and vain repinings passed the hours,

Gazing with wet eyes on the barren deep."[14]

I would remark that, as the poem is too long to be read through entirely, and as there are passages in it which should be omitted, it is advisable for the teacher to narrate the story, quoting, however, such passages as give point to the narrative or have a special beauty of their own. Read the description of Calypso's cave v, 73, ff. Penelope meantime is patiently awaiting her husband's return. Read the passages which describe her great beauty, especially that lovely word-picture in which she is described as standing by a tall column in the hall, a maid on either side, a veil hiding her lustrous face, while she addresses the suitors. The noblest princes of Ithaca and the surrounding isles entreat her hand in marriage, and, thinking that Ulysses will never return, hold high revels in his house, and shamelessly consume his wealth. Read the passage ii, 116-160, describing Penelope's device to put off the suitors, and at the same time to avert the danger which would have threatened her son in case she had openly broken with the chiefs. The love of Penelope is further set vividly before us by many delicate touches. Every stranger who arrives in Ithaca is hospitably entertained by the queen, and loaded with gifts, in the hope that he may bring her some news of her absent lord, and often she is deceived by wretches who speculate on her credulous grief. See the passage xiv, 155. During the day she is busy with her household cares, overseeing her maids, and seeking to divert her mind by busy occupation; but at night the silence and the solitude become intolerable, and she weeps her eyes out on her lonely couch. How the love of Penelope influences her boy, who was a mere babe when his father left for Troy, how the whole atmosphere of the house is charged with the sense of expectancy of the master's return, is shown in the passage ii, 439, where Telemachus says:

"Nurse, let sweet wine be drawn into my jars,

The finest next to that which thou dost keep,

Expecting our unhappy lord, if yet

The nobly born Ulysses shall escape

The doom of death and come to us again."

The best cheer, the finest wine, the best of everything is kept ready against the father's home-coming, which may be looked for any day, if haply he has escaped the doom of death. There is one passage in which we might suspect that the poet has intended to show the hardening effect of grief on Penelope's character, xv, 479. Penelope does not speak to her old servants any more; she passes them by without a word, apparently without seeing them. She does not attend to their wants as she used to do, and they, in turn, do not dare to address her. But we may forgive this seeming indifference inasmuch as it only shows how completely she is absorbed by her sorrow.

A companion picture to the love of Ulysses and Penelope is to be found in the conjugal relation of Alcinous, king of Phæacia, and his wife Arete, as described in the sixth book and the following. This whole episode is incomparably beautiful. Was there ever a more perfect embodiment of girlish grace and modesty, coupled with sweetest frankness, than Nausicaa? And what a series of lovely pictures is made to pass in quick succession before our eyes as we read the story! First, Nausicaa, moved by the desire to prepare her wedding garments against her unknown lover's coming, not ashamed to acknowledge the motive to her own pure heart, but veiling it discreetly before her mother; then the band of maidens setting out upon their picnic party, Nausicaa holding the reins; next the washing of the garments, the bath, the game of ball, the sudden appearance of Ulysses, the flight of her companions, the brave girl being left to keep her place alone, with a courage born of pity for the stranger, and of virtuous womanhood.

"Alone

The daughter of Alcinous kept her place,

For Pallas gave her courage and forbade

Her limb to tremble. So she waited there."

Who that has inhaled the fragrance of her presence from these pages can ever forget the white-armed Nausicaa! Then follows the picture of the palace, a feast for the imagination, the most magnificent description, I think, in the whole poem.

"For on every side beneath

The lofty roof of that magnanimous king

A glory shone as of the summer moons."

Read from l. 100-128, book vii. Next we witness the splendid hospitality proffered to the stranger guest. For again and again in this poem the noble sentiment is repeated, that the stranger and the poor are sent from Jove. Then we see Ulysses engaged in the games, outdoing the rest, or standing aside and watching "the twinkle of the dancer's feet." The language, too, used on these occasions is strikingly noble, so courteous and well-chosen, so simple and dignified, conveying rich meanings in the fewest possible words. What can be finer, e. g., than Nausicaa's farewell to Ulysses?

"Now, when the maids

Had seen him bathed, and had anointed him

With oil, and put his sumptuous mantle on,

And tunic, forth he issued from the bath,

And came to those who sat before their wine.

Nausicaa, goddess-like in beauty, stood

Beside a pillar of that noble roof,

And, looking on Ulysses as he passed,

Admired, and said to him in winged words—

'Stranger, farewell, and in thy native land

Remember thou hast owed thy life to me.'"

Nausicaa, it is evident, loves Ulysses; she stands beside a pillar, a favorite attitude for beautiful women with Homer, and as Ulysses passes, she addresses to him those few words so fraught with tenderness and renunciation. Ulysses's own speech to Arete, too, is a model of simplicity and dignity, possessing, it seems to me, something of the same quality which we admire in the speeches of Othello. But throughout this narrative, pre-eminent above all the other figures in it is the figure of the queen herself, of Arete. Such a daughter as Nausicaa could only come from such a mother. To her Ulysses is advised to address his supplication. She is the wise matron, the peace-maker who composes the angry feuds of the men. And she possesses the whole heart and devotion of her husband.

"Her Alcinous made his wife

And honored her as nowhere else on earth

Is any woman honored who bears charge

Over a husband's household. From their hearts

Her children pay her reverence, and the king

And all the people, for they look on her

As if she were a goddess. When she goes

Abroad into the streets, all welcome her

With acclamations. Never does she fail

In wise discernment, but decides disputes

Kindly and justly between man and man.

And if thou gain her favor there is hope

That thou mayst see thy friends once more."

We have then as illustrations of conjugal fidelity: the main picture, Ulysses and Penelope; the companion picture, Alcinous and Arete; and, as a foil to set off both, there looms up every now and then in the course of the poem, that unhappy pair, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, the latter, the type of conjugal infidelity, from which the soul of Homer revolts. This foil is very skillfully used. At the very end of the poem, when everything is hastening toward a happy consummation, Ulysses having slain the suitors and being about to be reunited with his wife, we are introduced into the world of shades, where the ghost of Agamemnon once more rehearses the story of Clytemnestra's treachery. At that moment the spirits of the suitors come flying down to Hades, and the happier destiny of Ulysses is thus brought into clearer relief by contrast.

The next ethical element of which I have to speak is the filial conduct of Telemachus. In him the spirit of adventure has developed into a desire to help his father. In the early part of the poem he announces that he is now a child no longer. He begins to assert authority. And yet in his home he continues to be treated as a child. The suitors laugh at him, his own mother can not bear to think that he should go out into the wide world alone, and the news of his departure is accordingly concealed from her. Very fine are the words in which her mother's love expresses itself when she discovers his absence:

"And her knees failed her and her heart

Sank as she heard. Long time she could not speak;

Her eyes were filled with tears, and her clear voice

Was choked; yet, finding words at length, she said:

'O herald! wherefore should my son have gone?'

"... Now, my son,

My best beloved, goes to sea—a boy

Unused to hardship and unskilled to deal

With strangers. More I sorrow for his sake

Than for his father's. I am filled with fear."

She lies outstretched upon the floor of her chamber overcome with grief (iv, 910). Telemachus, however, has gone forth in search of his sire. He finds a friend in Pisistratus, the son of Nestor, and the two youths join company on the journey. They come to the court of Menelaus, King of Sparta. There, as everywhere, Telemachus hears men speak of his great father in terms of the highest admiration and praise, and the desire mounts in his soul to do deeds worthy of such a parent. What better stimulation can we offer to growing children than this recital of Telemachus's development from boyhood into manhood? His reception at the court of Menelaus affords an opportunity to dwell again upon the generous and delicate hospitality of the ancient Greeks. First, the guest is received at the gates; then conducted to the bath and anointed; then, when he is seated on a silver or perchance a golden throne, a handmaiden advances with a silver ewer and a golden jug to pour water on his hands; then a noble banquet is set out for his delectation; and only then, after all these rites of hospitality have been completed, is inquiry made as to his name and his errand. "The stranger and the poor are sent from Jove." The stranger and the poor were welcome in the Grecian house. Telemachus returns to Ithaca, escapes the ambush which the murderous suitors had set for him, and arrives just in time to help his father in his last desperate struggle. It is he, Telemachus, who conveys the weapons from the hall, he who pinions the treacherous Melantheus and renders him harmless. He quits himself like a man—discreet, able to keep his counsel, and brave and quick in the moment of decisive action.

The third element which attracts our attention is the resourceful intelligence of Ulysses, or his presence of mind amid danger. This is exhibited on many occasions; for instance, in the cave of Polyphemus; where he saves his companions by concealing them in the fleece of the giant's flock, and at the time of the great shipwreck, before he reaches Phæacia. His raft is shattered, and he is plunged into the sea. He clings to one of the fragments of the wreck, but from this too is dislodged. For two days and nights he struggles in the black, stormy waters. At last he approaches the shore, but is nearly dashed to pieces on the rocks. He swims again out to sea, until, finding himself opposite the mouth of a river, he strikes out for this and lands in safety. Pallas Athene has guided him. But Pallas Athene is only another name for his own courage and presence of mind. In the same connection may be related the story of Ulysses's escape from the Sirens and from the twin perils of Scylla and Charybdis. The Sirens, with their bewitching songs, seek to lure him and his companions to destruction. But he stops the ears of his companions with wax so that they can not hear, and causes himself to be bound with stout cords to the mast, so that, though he may hear, he can not follow. There is an obvious lesson contained in this allegory. When about to be exposed to temptation, if you know that you are weak, do not even listen to the seductive voices. But no matter how strong you believe yourself to be, at least give such pledges and place yourself in such conditions that you may be prevented from yielding. From the monster Charybdis, too, Ulysses escapes by extraordinary presence of mind and courage. He leaps upward to catch the fig-tree in the moment when his ship disappears beneath him in the whirlpool; then, when it is cast up again, lets go his hold and is swept out into safe waters.

The fourth ethical element which we select from the poem is the veneration shown to grandparents. I have already remarked, in a former lecture, that if parents wish to retain the reverence of their children they can not do better than in their turn to show themselves reverent toward their own aged and enfeebled parents. Of such conduct the Odyssey offers us a number of choice examples. Thus Achilles, meeting Ulysses in the realm of shades, says that the hardest part of his lot is to think of his poor old father, who has no one now to defend him, and who, being weak, is likely to be neglected and despised. If only he, the strong son, could return to the light of day, how he would protect his aged parent and insure him the respect due to his gray hairs! Penelope is advised to send to Laertes, Telemachus's grandfather, to secure his aid against the suitors. But with delicate consideration she keeps the bad news from him, saying: "He has enough grief to bear on account of the loss of his son Ulysses; let me not add to his burden." Again, how beautiful is the account of the meeting of Laertes and Ulysses after the return and triumph of the latter. On the farm, at some distance from the town, Ulysses seeks his aged father. Laertes is busy digging. He, a king, wears a peasant's rustic garb and lives a life of austere self-denial, grieving night and day for his absent son. When Ulysses mentions his name, Laertes at first does not believe. Then the hero approaches the bent and decrepit old man, and becomes for the moment a child again. He brings up recollections of his earliest boyhood; he reminds his father of the garden-patch which he set aside for him long, long ago; of the trees and vines which he gave him to plant; and then the father realizes that the mighty man before him is indeed his son.

The structural lines of the Odyssey are clearly marked, and can easily be followed. First, we are shown the house of Ulysses bereft of its master. The noisy crowd of suitors are carousing in the hall; the despairing Penelope weaves her web in an upper chamber; the resolve to do and dare for his father's sake awakens in Telemachus's heart. Next Ulysses on the way home, dismissed by Calypso, arrives at Phæacia, from which port without further misadventures he reaches Ithaca. The stay in the palace of the Phæacian king gives an opportunity for a rehearsal of the previous sufferings and adventures of the hero. Then follow the preparations for the conflict with the suitors; the appearance of Ulysses in his own palace in the guise of a beggar; the insults and blows which he receives at the hands of his rivals and their menials; the bloody fight, etc. In relating the story I should follow the course of the poem, laying stress upon the ethical elements enumerated above. The fight which took place in the palace halls with closed doors should be merely mentioned, its bloody details omitted. The hanging of the maidens, the trick of Vulcan related in a previous book, and other minor episodes, which the teacher will distinguish without difficulty, should likewise be passed over. The recognition scenes are managed with wonderful skill. The successive recognitions seem to take place inversely in the order of previous connection and intimacy with Ulysses. The son, who was a mere babe when his father left and did not know him at all, recognizes him first. This, moreover, is necessary in order that his aid may be secured for the coming struggle. Next comes Argus, the dog.

"While over Argus the black night of death

Came suddenly as he had seen

Ulysses, absent now for twenty years."

Next comes the nurse Eurycleia, who recognizes him by a scar inflicted by the white tusk of a boar whom he hunted on Parnassus's heights; then his faithful followers; last of all, and slowly and with difficulty, the wife who had so yearned for him. Her impetuous son could not understand her tardiness. Vehemently he chid her: "Mother, unfeeling mother, how canst thou remain aloof, how keep from taking at my father's side thy place to talk with him and question him? Mother, thy heart is harder than a stone." But she only sat opposite to Ulysses and gazed and gazed and wondered. Ulysses himself, at last, in despair at her impenetrable silence, exclaimed, "An iron heart is hers." But it was only that she could not believe. It seemed so incredible to her that the long waiting should be over; that the desire of her heart should really be fulfilled; that this man before her should be indeed the husband, the long-lost husband, and not a mocking dream. But when at last it dawned upon her, when he gave her the token of the mystery known only to him and to her, then indeed the ice of incredulity melted from her heart, and her knees faltered and the tears streamed from her eyes, "and she rose and ran to him and flung her arm about his neck and kissed his brow, and he, too, wept as in his arms he held his dearly loved and faithful wife." "As welcome as the land to those who swim the deep, tossed by the billow and the blast, and few are those who from the hoary ocean reach the shore, their limbs all crested with the brine, these gladly climb the sea-beach and are safe—so welcome was her husband to her eyes, nor would her fair white arms release his neck."

And so with the words uttered by the shade of Agamemnon we may fitly close this retrospect of the poem:

"Son of Laertes, fortunate and wise,

Ulysses! thou by feats of eminent might

And valor dost possess thy wife again.

And nobly minded is thy blameless queen,

The daughter of Icarius, faithfully

Remembering him to whom she gave her troth

While yet a virgin. Never shall the fame

Of his great valor perish, and the gods

Themselves shall frame, for those who dwell on earth,

Sweet strains in praise of sage Penelope."

Well might the rhapsodes in the olden days, clad in embroidered robes, with golden wreaths about their brows, recite such verses as these to the assembled thousands and ten thousands. Well might the Hellenic race treasure these records of filial loyalty, of maiden purity, of wifely tenderness and fidelity, of bravery, and of intelligence. And well may we, too, desire that this golden stream flowing down to us from ancient Greece shall enter the current of our children's lives to broaden and enrich them.

I have not space at my command to attempt a minute analysis of the Iliad, and shall content myself with mentioning the main significant points. The Iliad is full of the noises of war, the hurtling of arrows, the flashing of swords, the sounding of spears on metal shields, the groans of the dying, "whose eyes black darkness covers." The chief virtues illustrated are valor, hospitality, conjugal affection, respect for the aged. I offer the following suggestions to the teacher. After describing the wrath of Achilles, relate the meeting of Diomedes and Glaucus, their hostile encounter, and their magnanimous embrace on discovering that they are great friends. Read the beautiful passage beginning with the words, "Even as the generations of leaves, such are those likewise of men." Dwell on the parting of Hector and Andromache. Note that she has lost her father, her lady mother, and her seven brothers. Hector is to her father, mother, brother, and husband, all in one. Note also Hector's prayer for his son that the latter may excel him in bravery. As illustrative of friendship, tell the story of Achilles's grief for Patroclus, how he lies prone upon the ground, strewing his head with dust; how he follows the body lamenting; how he declares that though the dead forget their dead in Hades, even there he would not forget his dear comrade. Next tell of the slaying of Hector, and how Achilles honors the suppliant Priam and restores to him the body of his son. It is the memory of his own aged father, which the sight of Priam recalls, that melts Achilles's heart, and they weep together, each for his own dead. Finally, note the tribute paid to Hector's delicate chivalry in the lament of Helen.[15]

FOOTNOTES:

[13] See Jebb's Introduction to Homer.

[14] The quotations are taken from Bryant's translation of the Odyssey.

[15] In connection with the Homeric poems selections from Greek mythology may be used, such as the story of Hercules, of Theseus, of Perseus, the story of the Argonauts, and others. These, too, breathe the spirit of adventure and illustrate the virtues of courage, perseverance amid difficulties, chivalry, etc.

GRAMMAR COURSE. LESSONS ON DUTY.

XI. THE DUTY OF ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE.

In setting out on a new path it is well to determine beforehand the goal we hope to reach. We are about to begin the discussion of the grammar course, which is intended for children between twelve and fifteen years of age, and accordingly ask: What result can we expect to attain? One thing is certain, we must continue to grade our teaching, to adapt each successive step to the capacities of the pupils, to keep pace with their mental development.

The due gradation of moral teaching is all-important. Whether the gradations we propose are correct is, of course, a matter for discussion; but, at all events, a point will be gained if we shall have brought home forcibly to teachers the necessity of a graded, of a progressive system.

In the primary course we have set before the pupils examples of good and bad conduct, with a view to training their powers of moral perception. We are now ready to advance from percepts to concepts. We have endeavored to cultivate the faculty of observation, we can now attempt the higher task of generalization. In the primary course we have tried to make the pupils perceive moral distinctions; in the grammar course we shall try to make them reason about moral distinctions, help them to gain notions of duty, to arrive at principles or maxims of good conduct. The grammar course, therefore, will consist in the main of lessons on duty.

What has just been said, however, requires further explanation to prevent misapprehension. I have remarked that the pupil is now to reach out toward concepts of duty, and to establish for himself maxims or principles of conduct. But of what nature shall these maxims be? The philosopher Kant has proposed the following maxim: "So act that the maxim underlying thy action may justify itself to thy mind as a universal law of conduct." According to him, the note of universality is the distinctive characteristic of all ethical conduct. The school of Bentham proposes a different maxim: "So act that the result of thy action shall tend to insure the greatest happiness of the greatest number." Theologians tell us so to act that our will may harmonize with the will of God. But pupils of the grammar grade are not ripe to understand such metaphysical and theological propositions. And, moreover, as was pointed out in our first lecture, it would be a grave injustice to teach in schools supported by all ethical first principles which are accepted only by some. We are not concerned with first principles. We exclude the discussion of them, be they philosophical or theological, from the school. But there are certain secondary principles, certain more concrete rules of behavior, which nevertheless possess the character of generalizations, and these will suffice for our purpose. And with respect to these there is really no difference of opinion among the different schools and sects, and on them as a foundation we can build.

It is our business to discover such secondary principles, and in our instruction to lead the pupil to the recognition of them. The nature of the formulas of duty which we have in mind—formulas which shall express the generalized moral experience of civilized mankind, will appear more plainly if we examine the processes by which we arrive at them. An example will best elucidate: Suppose that I am asked to give a lesson on the duty of truthfulness. At the stage which we have now reached it will not be enough merely to emphasize the general commandment against lying. The general commandment leaves in the pupil's mind a multitude of doubts unsolved. Shall I always tell the truth—that is to say, the whole truth, as I know it, and to everybody? Is it never right to withhold the truth, or even to say what is the contrary of true, as, e. g., to the sick or insane. Such questions as these are constantly being asked. What is needed is a rule of veracity which shall leave the general principle of truth-speaking unshaken, and shall yet cover all these exceptional cases. How to arrive at such a rule? I should go about it in the following manner, and the method here described is the one which is intended to be followed throughout the entire course of lessons on duty. I should begin by presenting a concrete case. A certain child had broken a precious vase. When asked whether it had done so, it answered, "No." How do you characterize such a statement? As a falsehood. The active participation of the pupils in the discussion is essential. Properly questioned, they will join in it heart and soul. There must be constant give and take between teacher and class. Upon the fulfillment of this condition the value of this sort of teaching entirely depends. The teacher then proceeds to analyze the instance above given, or any other that he may select from those which the pupils offer him. The child says no when it should have said yes, or a person says black when he should have said white. In what does the falsehood of such statements consist? In the circumstance that the words spoken do not correspond to the facts. Shall we then formulate the rule of veracity as follows: Make thy words correspond to the facts; and shall we infer that any one whose words do not correspond to the facts is a liar? But clearly this is not so. The class is asked to give instances tending to prove the insufficiency of the proposed formula. Before the days of Copernicus it was generally asserted that the sun revolves around the earth. Should we be justified in setting down the many excellent persons who made such statements as liars? Yet their words did not correspond to the facts. Very true; but they did not intend to deviate from the facts—they did not know better. Shall we then change the formula so as to read: Intend that thy words shall conform to the facts? But the phrase "correspond to the facts" needs to be made more explicit. Cases occur in which a statement does correspond to the facts, or, at least, seems to do so, and yet a contemptible falsehood is implied. The instance of the truant boy is in point who entered the school-building five minutes before the close of the exercises, and on being asked at home whether he had been at school, promptly answered "Yes"; and so he had been for five minutes. But in this case the boy suppressed a part of the facts—and, moreover, the essential part—namely, that he had been absent from school for five hours and fifty-five minutes. Cases of mental reservation and the like fall under the same condemnation. The person who took an oath in court, using the words, "As truly as I stand on this stone," but who had previously filled his shoes with earth, suppressed the essential fact—viz., that he had filled his shoes with earth.

Shall we then formulate the rule in this wise: Intend to make thy words correspond to the essential facts? But even this will not entirely satisfy. For there are cases, surely, in which we deliberately frame our words in such a way that they shall not correspond to the essential facts—for instance, if we should meet a murderer who should ask us in which direction his intended victim had fled, or in the case of an insane person intent on suicide, or of the sick in extreme danger, whom the communication of bad news would kill. How can we justify such a procedure? We can justify it on the ground that language as a means of communication is intended to further the rational purposes of human life, and not conversely are the rational purposes of life to be sacrificed to any merely formal principle of truth-telling. A person who, like the murderer, is about to use the fact conveyed to him by my words as a weapon with which to kill a fellow-being has no right to be put in possession of the fact. An insane person, who can not use the truthful communications of others except for irrational ends, is also outside the pale of those to whom such tools can properly be intrusted. And so are the sick, when so enfeebled that the shock of grief would destroy them. For the rational use of grief is to provoke in us a moral reaction, to rouse in us the strength to bear our heavy burdens, and, in bearing, to learn invaluable moral lessons. But those who are physically too weak to rally from the first shock of grief are unable to secure this result, and they must therefore be classed, for the time being, as persons not in a condition to make rational use of the facts of life. It is not from pain and suffering that we are permitted to shield them. Pain and suffering we must be willing both to endure and also to inflict upon those whom we love best, if necessary. Reason can and should triumph over pain. But when the reasoning faculty is impaired, or when the body is too weak to respond to the call of reason, the obligation of truth-telling ceases. I am not unaware that this is a dangerous doctrine to teach. I should always take the greatest pains to impress upon my pupils that the irrational condition, which alone justifies the withholding of the truth, must be so obvious that there can be no mistake about it, as in the case of the murderer who, with knife in hand, pursues his victim, or of the insane, or of the sick, in regard to whom the physician positively declares that the shock of bad news would endanger life. But I do think that we are bound to face these exceptional cases, and to discuss them with our pupils. For the latter know as well as we that in certain exceptional situations the best men do not tell the truth, that in such situations no one tells the truth, except he be a moral fanatic. And unless these exceptional cases are clearly marked off and explained and justified, the general authority of truth will be shaken, or at least the obligation of veracity will become very much confused in the pupil's mind. In my opinion, the confusion which does exist on this subject is largely due to a failure to distinguish between inward truthfulness and truthfulness as reflected in speech. The law of inward truthfulness tolerates no exceptions. We should always, and as far as possible, be absolutely truthful, in our thinking, in our estimates, in our judgments. But language is a mere vehicle for the communication of thoughts and facts to others, and in communicating thoughts and facts we are bound to consider in how far others are fit to receive them. Shall we then formulate the rule of veracity thus: Intend to communicate the essential facts to those who are capable of making a rational use of them. I think that some such formula as this might answer. I am not disposed to stickle for this particular phraseology. But the formula as stated illustrates my thought, and also the method by which the formulas, which we shall have to teach in the grammar course are to be reached. It is the inductive method. First a concrete case is presented, and a rule of conduct is hypothetically suggested, which fits this particular case. Then other cases are adduced. It is discovered that the rule as it stands thus far does not fit them. It must therefore be modified, expanded. Then, in succession, other and more complex cases, to which the rule may possibly apply are brought forward, until every case we can think of has been examined; and when the rule is brought into such shape that it fits them all, we have a genuine moral maxim, a safe rule for practical guidance, and the principle involved in the rule is one of those secondary principles in respect to which men of every sect and school can agree. It needs hardly to be pointed out how much a casuistical discussion of this sort tends to stimulate interest in moral problems, and to quicken the moral judgment. I can say, from an experience of over a dozen years, that pupils between twelve and fifteen years of age are immensely interested in such discussions, and are capable of making the subtilest distinctions. Indeed, the directness with which they pronounce their verdict on fine questions of right and wrong often has in it something almost startling to older persons, whose contact with the world has reconciled them to a somewhat less exacting standard.

But here a caution is necessary. Some children seem to be too fond of casuistry. They take an intellectual pleasure in drawing fine distinctions, and questions of conscience are apt to become to them mere matter of mental gymnastics. Such a tendency must be sternly repressed whenever it shows itself. In fact, reasoning about moral principles is always attended with a certain peril. After all, the actual morality of the world depends largely on the moral habits which mankind have formed in the course of many ages, and which are transmitted from generation to generation. Now a habit acts a good deal like an instinct. Its force depends upon what has been called unconscious cerebration. As soon as we stop to reason about our habits, their hold on us is weakened, we hesitate, we become uncertain, the interference of the mind acts like a brake. It is for this reason that throughout the primary course, we have confined ourselves to what the Germans call Anschauung, the close observation of examples with a view of provoking imitation or repugnance, and thus strengthening the force of habit. Why, then, introduce analysis now, it may be asked. Why not be content with still further confirming the force of good habits? My answer is that the force of habit must be conserved and still further strengthened, but that analysis, too, becomes necessary at this stage. And why? Because habits are always specialized. A person governed by habits falls into a certain routine, and moves along easily and safely as long as the conditions repeat themselves to which his habits are adjusted. But when confronted by a totally new set of conditions, he is often quite lost and helpless. Just as a person who is solely guided by common sense in the ordinary affairs of life, is apt to be stranded when compelled to face circumstances for which his previous experience affords no precedent. It is necessary, therefore, to extract from the moral habits the latent rules of conduct which underlie them, and to state these in a general form which the mind can grasp and retain, and which it will be able to apply to new conditions as they arise. To this end analysis and the formulation of rules are indispensable. But in order, at the same time, not to break the force of habit, the teacher should proceed in the following manner: He should always take the moral habit for granted. He should never give his pupils to understand that he and they are about to examine whether, for instance, it is wrong or not wrong to lie. The commandment against lying is assumed, and its obligation acknowledged at the outset. The only object of the analysis is to discern more exactly what is meant by lying, to define the rule of veracity with greater precision and circumspectness, so that we may be enabled to fulfill the commandment more perfectly. It is implied in what I have said that the teacher should not treat of moral problems as if he were dealing with problems in arithmetic. The best thing he can do for his pupils—better than any particular lesson he can teach—will be to communicate to them the spirit of moral earnestness. And this spirit he can not communicate unless he be full of it himself. The teacher should consecrate himself to his task; he should be penetrated by a sense of the lofty character of the subject which he teaches. Even a certain attention to externals is not superfluous. The lessons, in the case of the younger children, may be accompanied by song; the room in which the classes meet may be hung with appropriate pictures, and especially is it desirable that the faces of great and good men and women shall look down upon the pupils from the walls. The instruction should be given by word of mouth; for the right text-books do not yet exist, and even the best books must always act as a bar to check that flow of moral influence which should come from the teacher to quicken the class. To make sure that the pupils understand what they have been taught, they should be required from time to time to reproduce the subject matter of the lessons in their own language, and using their own illustrations, in the form of essays.

And now, after this general introduction, let us take up the lessons on the duties in their proper order. What is the proper order? This question, you will remember, was discussed in the lecture on the classification of duties. It was there stated that the life of man from childhood upward, may be divided into periods, that each period has its special duties, and that there is in each some one central duty around which the others may be grouped. During the school age the paramount duty of the pupil is to study. We shall therefore begin with the duties which are connected with the pursuit of knowledge. We shall then take up the duties which relate to the physical life and the feelings; next, the duties which arise in the family; after that the duties which we owe to all men; and lastly we will consider in an elementary way the civic duties.

The Duty of acquiring Knowledge.—In starting the discussion of any particular set of duties, it is advisable, as has been said, to present some concrete case, and biographical or historical examples are particularly useful. I have sometimes begun the lesson on the duty of acquiring knowledge by telling the story of Cleanthes and that of Hillel. Cleanthes, a poor boy, was anxious to attend the school of Zeno. But he was compelled to work for his bread, and could not spend his days in study as he longed to do. He was, however, so eager to learn that he found a way of doing his work by night. He helped a gardener to water his plants, and also engaged to grind corn on a hand-mill for a certain woman. Now the neighbors, who knew that he was poor, and who never saw him go to work, were puzzled to think how he obtained the means to live. They suspected him of stealing, and he was called before the Judge to explain. The Judge addressed him severely, and commanded him to tell the truth. Cleanthes requested that the gardener and the woman might be sent for, and they testified that he had been in the habit of working for them by night. The Judge was touched by his great zeal for knowledge, acquitted him of the charge, and offered him a gift of money. But Zeno would not permit him to take the gift. Cleanthes became the best pupil of Zeno, and grew up to be a very wise and learned man, indeed one of the most famous philosophers of the Stoic school. The story of Hillel runs as follows: There was once a poor lad named Hillel. His parents were dead, and he had neither relatives nor friends. He was anxious to go to school, but, though he worked hard, he did not earn enough to pay the tuition fee exacted at the door. So he decided to save money by spending only half his earnings for food. He ate little, and that little was of poor quality, but he was perfectly happy, because with what he laid aside he could now pay the door-keeper and find a place inside, where he might listen and learn. This he did for some time, but one day he was so unlucky as to lose his situation. He had now no money left to buy bread, but he hardly thought of that, so much was he grieved at the thought that he should never get back to his beloved school. He begged the door-keeper to let him in, but the surly man refused to do so. In his despair a happy thought occurred to him. He had noticed a skylight on the roof. He climbed up to this, and to his delight found that through a crack he could hear all that was said inside. So he sat there and listened, and did not notice that evening was coming on, and that the snow was beginning to fall. Next morning when the teachers and pupils assembled as usual, every one remarked how dark the room seemed. The sun too was shining again by this time quite brightly outside. Suddenly some one happened to look up and with an exclamation of surprise pointed out the figure of a boy against the skylight. Quickly they all ran outside, climbed to the roof, and there, covered with snow, quite stiff and almost dead, they found poor Hillel. They carried him indoors, warmed his cold limbs, and worked hard to restore him to life. He was at last resuscitated, and from this time on was allowed to attend the school without paying. Later he became a great teacher. He lived in Palestine at about the time of Jesus. He was admired for his learning, but even more for his good deeds and his unfailing kindness to every one. The question is now raised, Why did Cleanthes work at night instead of seeking rest, and why did Hillel remain outside in the bitter cold and snow? The pupils will readily answer, Because they loved knowledge. But why is knowledge so desirable? With this interrogatory we are fairly launched on the discussion of our subject. The points to be developed are these:

First, knowledge is indispensable as a means of making one's way in the world. Show the helplessness of the ignorant. Compare the skilled laborer with the unskilled. Give instances of merchants, statesmen, etc., whose success was due to steady application and superior knowledge. Knowledge is power (namely, in the struggle for existence).

Secondly, knowledge is honor. An ignorant person is despised. Knowledge wins us the esteem of our fellow-men.

Thirdly, knowledge is joy in a twofold sense. As the perception of light to the eye of the body, so is the perception of truth to the eye of the mind. The mind experiences an intrinsic pleasure in seeing things in their true relations. Furthermore, mental growth is accompanied by the joy of successful effort. This can be explained even to a boy or girl of thirteen. Have you ever tried hard to solve a problem in algebra? Perhaps you have spent several hours over it. It has baffled you. At last, after repeated trials, you see your way clear, the solution is within your grasp. What a sense of satisfaction you experience then. It is the feeling of successful mental effort that gives you this satisfaction. You rejoice in having triumphed over difficulties, and the greater the difficulty, the more baffling and complex the problems, the greater is the satisfaction in solving them.

Fourthly, knowledge enables us to do good to others. Speak of the use which physicians make of their scientific training to alleviate suffering and save life. Refer to the manifold applications of science which have changed the face of modern society, and have contributed so largely to the moral progress of the world. Point out that all true philanthropy, every great social reform, implies a superior grasp of the problems to be solved, as well as devotion to the cause of humanity. In accordance with the line of argument just sketched the rule for the pursuit of knowledge may be successively expanded as follows:

Seek knowledge that you may succeed in the struggle for existence.

Seek knowledge that you may gain the esteem of your fellow-men.

Seek knowledge for the sake of the satisfaction which the attainment of it will give you.

Seek knowledge that you may be able to do good to others.

These points suffice for the present. In the advanced course we shall return to the consideration of the intellectual duties. I would also recommend that the moral teacher, not content with dwelling on the uses of knowledge in general, should go through the list of subjects which are commonly taught in school, such as geography, history, language, etc., and explain the value of each. This is too commonly neglected.

Having stationed the duty of acquiring knowledge in the center, connect with it the various lesser duties of school life, such as punctual attendance, order, diligent and conscientious preparation of home lessons, etc. These are means to an end, and should be represented as such. He who desires the end will desire the means. Get your pupils to love knowledge, and the practice of these minor virtues will follow of itself. Other matters might be introduced in connection with what has been mentioned, but enough has been said to indicate the point of view from which the whole subject of intellectual duty should, as I think, be treated in the present course.

XII. DUTIES WHICH RELATE TO THE PHYSICAL LIFE.

Of the duties which relate to the physical life, the principal one is that of self-preservation, and this involves the prohibition of suicide. When one reflects on the abject life which many persons are forced to lead, on their poverty in the things which make existence desirable and the lack of moral stamina which often goes together with such conditions, the wonder is that the number of suicides is not much greater than it actually is. It is true most people cling to life instinctively, and have an instinctive horror of death. Nevertheless, the force of instinct is by no means a sufficient deterrent in all cases, and the number of suicides is just now alarmingly on the increase. If we were here considering the subject of suicide in general we should have to enter at large into the causes of this increase; we should have to examine the relations subsisting between the increase of suicide and the increase of divorce, and inquire into those pathological conditions of modern society of which both are the symptoms; but our business is to consider the ethics of the matter, not the causes. The ethics of suicide resolves itself into the question, Is it justifiable under any circumstances to take one's life? You may object that this is not a fit subject to discuss with pupils of thirteen or fourteen. Why not? They are old enough to understand the motives which ordinarily lead to suicide, and also the reasons which forbid it—especially the most important reason, namely, that we live not merely or primarily to be happy, but to help on as far as we can the progress of things, and therefore that we are not at liberty to throw life away like an empty shell when we have ceased to enjoy it. The discussion of suicide is indeed of the greatest use because it affords an opportunity early in the course of our lessons on duty to impress this cardinal truth, to describe upon the moral globe this great meridian from which all the virtues take their bearings. However, in accordance with the inductive method, we must approach this idea by degrees. The first position I should take is that while suffering is often temporary, suicide is final. It is folly to take precipitately a step which can not be recalled. Very often in moments of deep depression the future before us seems utterly dark, and in our firmament there appears not one star of hope; but presently from some wholly unexpected quarter help comes. Fortune once more takes us into her good graces, and we are scarcely able to understand our past downheartedness in view of the new happiness to which we have fallen heirs. Preserve thy life in view of the brighter chances which the future may have in store. This is a good rule as far as it goes, but it does not fit the more trying situations. For there are cases where the fall from the heights of happiness is as complete as it is sudden, and the hope of recovering lost ground is really shut out.

Take from actual life the case of a husband who fairly idolized his young wife and lost her by death three months after marriage. We may suppose that in the course of years he will learn to submit to his destiny. We may even hope that peace will come back to his poor heart, but we can not imagine that he will ever again be happy. Another case is that of a person who has committed a great wrong, the consequences of which are irreparable, and of which he must carry the agonizing recollection with him to the grave. Time may assuage the pangs of remorse, and religion may comfort him, but happiness can never be the portion of such as he.

Still another instance—less serious, but of more frequent occurrence—is that of a merchant who has always occupied a commanding position in the mercantile community, and who, already advanced in years, is suddenly compelled to face bankruptcy. The thought of the hardships to which his family will be exposed, of his impending disgrace, drives him nearly to distraction. The question is, would the merchant, would those others, be justified in committing suicide? Certainly not. The merchant, if he has the stuff of true manhood in him, will begin over again, at the bottom of the ladder if need be, will work to support his family, however narrowly. It would be the rankest selfishness in him to leave them to their fate. The conscience-stricken sinner must be willing to pay the penalty of his crime, to the end that he may be purified even seven times in the fire of repentance. And even the lover who has lost his bride will find, if he opens his eyes, that there is still work for him to do in life. The world is full of evils which require to be removed, full of burdens which require to be borne. If our own burden seems too heavy for us, there is a way of lightening it. We may add to it the burden of some one else, and ours will become lighter. Physically, this would be impossible, but morally it is true. The rule of conduct, therefore, thus far reads, Preserve thy life in order to perform thy share of the work of the world. But the formula, even in this shape, is not yet entirely adequate, for there are those who can not take part in the work of the world, who can only suffer—invalids, e. g., who are permanently incapacitated, and whose infirmities make them a constant drag on the healthy lives of their friends. Why should not these be permitted to put an end to their miseries? I should say that so long as there is the slightest hope of recovery, and even where this hope is wanting, so long as the physical pain is not so intense or so protracted as to paralyze the mental life altogether, they should hold out. They are not cut off from the true ends of human existence. By patient endurance, by the exercise of a sublime unselfishness, they may even attain on their sick-beds a height of spiritual development which would otherwise be impossible; and, in addition, they may become by their uncomplaining patience the sweetest, gentlest helpers of their friends, not useless, assuredly, but shining examples of what is best and noblest in human nature. The rule, therefore, should read: Preserve thy life in order to fulfill the duties of life, whether those duties consist in doing or in patiently suffering. As has been said long ago, we are placed on guard as sentinels. The sentinel must not desert his post. I think it possible to make the pupil in the grammar grade understand that suicide is selfish, that we are bound to live, even though life has ceased to be attractive, in order that we may perform our share of the world's work and help others and grow ourselves in moral stature. This does not, of course, imply any condemnation of that vast number of cases in which suicide is committed in consequence of mental aberration.

In the advanced course we shall have to return to this subject, and shall there refer in extenso to the views of the Stoics. The morality of the Stoic philosophers in general is so high, and their influence even to this day so great, that their defense, or rather enthusiastic praise of suicide,[16] needs to be carefully examined. I am of the opinion that we have here a case in which metaphysical speculation has had the effect of distorting morality. Metaphysics in this respect resembles religion. On the one hand the influence of religion on morality has been highly beneficial, on the other it has been hurtful in the extreme—instance human sacrifices, religious wars, the Inquisition, etc. In like manner, philosophy, though not to the same extent, has both aided morality and injured it. I regard the Stoic declamations on suicide as an instance of the latter sort. The Stoic philosophy was pantheistic. To live according to Nature was their principal maxim, or, more precisely, according to the reason in Nature. They maintained that in certain circumstances a man might find it impossible to live up to the rational standard; he might, for instance, discover himself to be morally so weak as to be unable to resist temptation, and in that case it would be better for him to retire from the scene and to seek shelter in the Eternal Reason, just as, to use their own simile, one who found the room in which he sat filled to an intolerable degree with smoke would not be blamed for withdrawing from it. It was their pantheism that led them to favor suicide, and in this respect it is my belief that the modern conscience, trained by the Old and New Testaments, has risen to a higher level than theirs. We moderns feel it impossible to admit that to the sane mind temptation can ever be so strong as to be truly irresistible. We always can resist if we will. We can, because we ought; as Kant has taught us to put it. We always can because we always ought.

Note.—Despite the rigorous disallowance of suicide in general plainly indicated in the above, I should not wish to be understood as saying that there are no circumstances whatever in which the taking of one's life is permissible. In certain rare and exceptional cases I believe it to be so. In the lecture as delivered I attempted a brief description of these exceptional cases, too brief, it appeared, to prevent most serious misconception. I deem it best, therefore, to defer the expression of my views on this delicate matter until an occasion arrives when I shall be able to articulate my thought in full detail, such as would here be impossible.

From the commandment "Preserve thy life" it follows not only that we should not lay violent hands upon ourselves, but that we should do all in our power to develop and invigorate the body, in order that it may become an efficient instrument in the service of our higher aims. The teacher should inform himself on the subject of the gymnastic ideal of the Greeks and consider in how far this ideal is applicable to modern conditions. In general, the teacher should explore as fully as possible the ethical problems on which he touches. He should not be merely "one lesson ahead" of his pupils. Really it is necessary to grasp the whole of a subject before we can properly set forth its elements. A very thorough normal training is indispensable to those who would give moral instruction to the young.

The duties of cleanliness and temperance fall under the same head as the above. In speaking of cleanliness, there are three motives—the egoistic, the æsthetic, and the moral—to which we may appeal. Be scrupulously clean for the sake of health, be clean lest you become an object of disgust to others, be clean in order to retain your self-respect. Special emphasis should be laid on secret cleanliness. Indolent children are sometimes neat in externals, but shockingly careless in what is concealed from view. The motive of self-respect shows itself particularly in secret cleanliness.

The duty of temperance is supported by the same three motives. Intemperance undermines health, the glutton or the drunkard awakens disgust, intemperance destroys self-respect. To strengthen the repugnance of the pupils against intemperance in eating, contrast the way in which wild beasts eat with that in which human beings partake of their food. The beast is absorbed in the gratification of its appetite, eats without the use of implements, eats unsocially. The human way of eating is in each particular the opposite. Show especially that the act of eating is spiritualized by being made subservient to friendly intercourse and to the strengthening of the ties of domestic affection. The family table becomes the family altar. Call attention also to the effects of drunkenness; point out the injuries which the drunkard inflicts on wife and children by his neglect to provide for them, by the outbursts of violence to which he is subject under the influence of strong drink; describe his physical, mental, and moral degradation; lay stress on the fact that liquor deprives him of the use of his reason. With respect to temperance in food, there are one or two points to be noted. I say to my pupils if you are particularly fond of a certain dish, sweetmeats, for instance, make it a rule to partake less of that than if you were not so fond of it. This is good practice in self-restraint. I make out as strong a case as possible against the indulgence of the candy habit. Young people are not, as a rule, tempted to indulge in strong drink; but they are tempted to waste their money and injure their health by an excessive consumption of sweets. It is well to apply the lesson of temperance to the things in which they are tempted. For the teacher the following note may be added: Of the senses, some, like that of taste, are more nearly allied to the physical part of us; others, like sight and hearing, to our rational nature. This antithesis of the senses may be used in the interest of temperance. Appeal to the higher senses in order to subdue the lower. A band of kindergarten children, having been invited on a picnic, were given the choice between a second plate of ice cream, for which many of them were clamoring, and a bunch of flowers for each. Most of them were sufficiently interested in flowers to prefer the latter. In the case of young children, the force of the physical appetite may also be weakened by appealing to their affection. During the later stage of adolescence, when the dangers which arise from the awakening life of the senses become great and imminent, the attention should be directed to high intellectual aims, the social feelings should be cultivated, and a taste for the pleasures of the senses of sight and hearing—namely, the pleasures of music, painting, sculpture, etc.—should be carefully developed. Artistic, intellectual, and social motives should be brought into play jointly to meet the one great peril of this period of life.

Duties which relate to the Feelings.

Under this head let me speak first of fear. There is a distinction to be drawn between physical and moral cowardice. Physical cowardice is a matter of temperament or organization. Perhaps it can hardly ever be entirely overcome, but the exhibition of it can be prevented by moral courage. Moral cowardice, on the other hand, is a fault of character. In attempting to formulate the rule of conduct, appeal as before to the egoistic motive, then to the social—i. e., the desire for the good opinion of others—and lastly to the moral motive, properly speaking. Fear paralyzes; it fascinates its victim like the fabled basilisk. Nothing is more common than a sense of helpless immobility under the influence of fear. There is a way of escape. You might run or leap for your life, but you can not stir a limb. What you need to do is to turn away your attention by a powerful effort of the will from the object which excites fear. So long as that object is before you the mind can not act; the mind is practically absent. What you need is presence of mind. Let the teacher adduce some of the many striking instances in which men in apparently desperate straits have been saved by presence of mind. The rule thus far would read: Be brave and suppress fear, because by so doing you may escape out of danger. In the next place, by so doing you will escape the reproaches of your fellow-men, for cowardice is universally condemned as shameful. Cite from Spartan history examples showing in the strongest light the feeling of scorn and contempt for the coward. There are, however, cases where death is certain, and where there is no support like that of public opinion to sustain courage. What should be the rule of duty in such cases? Take the case of a person who has been shipwrecked. He swims the sea alone, he is still clinging to a spar, but realizes that in a few minutes he must let go, his strength being well-nigh spent. What should be his attitude of mind in that supreme moment. The forces of nature are about to overwhelm him. What motive can there be strong enough to support bravery in that moment? The rule of duty for him would be: Be brave, because as a human being you are superior to the forces of nature, because there is something in you—your moral self—over which the forces of nature have no power, because what happens to you in your private character is not important, but it is important that you assert the dignity of humanity to the last breath.

After having discussed courage, define fortitude. Point out the importance of strength of will. Contrast the strong will with the feeble, with the wayward, the irresolute, and also the obstinate will, for obstinacy is often the sign of weakness rather than of strength. See, for useful hints on this subject, Bain's The Emotions and the Will.

What happens to thy little self is not important. This is the leading thought which shall also guide us in the discussion of Anger. In entering on the subject of anger begin by describing the effects of it. Quote the passage from Seneca's treatise on anger, showing how it disfigures the countenance. Point out that anger provokes anger in return, and is therefore contrary to self-interest. Call to your aid the social motive by showing that under the influence of anger we often overshoot the mark and inflict injuries on others which we had not intended. Finally, show that indulgence in anger is immoral. In what sense is it immoral? Anger is an emotional reaction against injury. When a child hurts its foot against a stone, it is often so unreasonably angry at the stone as to strike it. When an adult person receives a blow, his first impulse is to return it. This desire to return injury for injury is one of the characteristic marks of anger. Another mark is that anger is proportional to the injury received, and not to the fault implied. Every one knows that a slight fault in another may occasion a great injury to ourselves, while, on the other hand, a serious fault may only cause us a slight inconvenience. The angry person measures his resentment by the injury, and not by the fault. Anger is selfish. It is fed and pampered by the delusion that our pleasures and pains are of chief importance. Contrast with anger the moral feeling of indignation. Anger is directed against the injury received, indignation solely against the wrong done. The immoral feeling prompts us to hate wrong because it has been inflicted on us. The moral feeling prompts us to hate wrong because it is wrong. Now, to the extent that we sincerely hate wrong we shall be stirred up to diminish its power over others as well as over ourselves; we shall, for instance, be moved to save the evil doer who has just injured us from the tyranny of his evil nature; we shall aspire to become the moral physicians of those who have hurt us. And precisely because they have hurt us, they have a unique claim on us. We who know better than others the extent of their disease are called upon more than others to labor with a view to their cure. In this connection the rule of returning good for evil should be explained. This rule does not apply alike in all cases, though the spirit of it should always inspire our actions. If a pickpocket should steal our purse, it would be folly to hand him a check for twice the amount he has just stolen. If a hardened criminal should draw his knife and wound us in the back, it would be absurd to request him kindly to stab us in the breast also. We should in this case not be curing him, but simply confirming him in his evil doing. The rule is: Try to free the sinner from the power of sin. In some cases this is best accomplished by holding his hand, as it were, and preventing him from carrying out the intended wrong. In other cases by depriving him of his liberty for a season, subjecting him to wholesome discipline, and teaching him habits of industry. Only in the case of those who have already attained a higher moral plane, and whose conscience is sensitive, does the rule of returning good for evil apply literally. If a brother has acted in an unbrotherly way toward you, do you on the next occasion act wholly in a brotherly way toward him. You will thereby show him how he ought to have acted and awaken the better nature in him.

Certain practical rules for the control of anger may be given to the pupil. Suppress the signs of anger; you will thereby diminish its force. Try to gain time: "When you are angry, count ten before you speak; when you are very angry, count a hundred." Having gained time, examine rigorously into your own conduct. Ask yourself whether you have not been partly to blame. If you find that you have, then, instead of venting your wrath on your enemy, try rather to correct the fault which has provoked hostility. But if, after honest self-scrutiny, you are able to acquit yourself, then you can all the more readily act the part of the moral physician, for it is the innocent who find it easiest to forgive. It is also useful to cite examples of persons who, like Socrates, have exhibited great self-control in moments of anger; and to quote proverbs treating of anger, to explain these proverbs and to cause them to be committed to memory. I advise, indeed, that proverbs be used in connection with all the moral lessons. Of the manner in which they are to be used I shall speak later on.

The last of the present group of duties which we shall discuss relates to the feelings of vanity, pride, humility. Vanity is a feeling of self-complacency based on external advantages. A person is vain of his dress or of his real or supposed personal charms. The peacock is the type of vanity. Though the admiration of others ministers to vanity, yet it is possible to be vain by one's self—before a mirror, for instance. The feeling of pride, on the other hand, depends upon a comparison between self and others. Pride implies a sense of one's own superiority and of the inferiority of others. Both feelings are anti-moral. They spring, like moral cowardice and anger, from the false belief that this little self of ours is of very great importance. There is no such thing as proper pride or honest pride. The word pride used in this connection is a misnomer. Vanity is spurious self-esteem based on external advantages. Pride is spurious self-esteem based on comparison with others. Genuine self-esteem is based on the consciousness of a distinction which we share with all humanity—namely, the capacity and the duty of rational development. This genuine self-esteem has two aspects—the one positive, the other negative. The positive aspect is called dignity, the negative humility. True dignity and true humility always go together. The sense of dignity arises within us when we remember the aims to which as human beings we are pledged; the sense of humility can not fail to arise when we consider how infinitely in practice we all fall below those aims. Thus while pride depends on a comparison of ourselves with others, the genuinely moral feeling is excited when we consider our relation to the common ends of mankind. On the one hand, we are indeed privileged to pursue those ends, and are thereby exalted above all created things and above the whole of the natural world with all its stars and suns. Upon this consideration is founded the sense of dignity. On the other hand, we can not but own how great is the distance which separates even the best of us from the goal, and this gives rise to a deep sense of humility. The rule of conduct which we are considering is a rule of proper self-estimation. Estimate thy worth not by external advantages nor by thy pre-eminence above others, but by the degree of energy with which thou pursuest the moral aims. To mark off the distinction between vanity and pride on the one hand and dignity on the other, the teacher may contrast in detail the lives of Alcibiades and Socrates.

In connection with the discussion of anger and of pride, define such terms as hate, envy, malice. Hatred is anger become chronic. Or we may also say the state of mind which leads to passionate paroxysms in the case of anger is called hate when it has turned into a settled inward disposition. In other respects the characteristic marks of both are the same. Envy is the obverse of pride. Pride is based on real or fancied superiority to others. Envy is due to real or fancied inferiority. Pride is the vice of the strong, envy of the weak. Malice is pleasure in the loss of others irrespective of our gain.

I have observed on a previous occasion that the feelings considered by themselves have no moral value. Nevertheless, we have now repeatedly spoken of moral feelings. The apparent contradiction disappears if we remember that all feelings of the higher order presuppose, and are the echo of complex systems of ideas. The moral feelings are those in which moral ideas have their resonance; and those feelings are valuable in virtue of the ideas which they reflect. The feeling of moral courage depends on the idea that the injuries we receive at the hands of fortune are not important, but that it is important for us to do credit to our rational nature. The feeling of moral indignation depends on the idea that the injuries we receive from our fellow-men are not important, but that it is important that the right be done and the wrong abated. The feelings of moral dignity and humility combined depend on the idea that it does not signify whether the shadow we cast in the world of men be long or short, but only that we live in the light of the moral aims.

FOOTNOTE:

[16] See, e. g., the famous passage in Seneca, De Ira, iii, 15.

XIII. DUTIES WHICH RELATE TO OTHERS.

Filial Duties.

We began our course of moral instruction with the self-regarding duties, and assigned the second place to the duties which relate to others. There is an additional reason besides the one already given for keeping to this order.

If we were to begin with the commandments or prohibitions which relate to others—e. g., the sixth, eighth, and ninth commandments of the Decalogue—the pupil might easily get the impression that these things are forbidden solely because they involve injuries to others, but that in cases where the injury is inconsiderable, or not apparent, the transgression of moral commandments is more or less excusable. There are many persons who seem unable to understand that it is really sinful to defraud the custom-house or to neglect paying one's fare in a horse-car. And why? Because the injury inflicted seems so insignificant. Now, it is of the utmost consequence to impress upon the pupil that every action which involves a violation of duty to others at the same time produces a change in the moral quality of the agent, that he suffers as well as the one whom he wrongs. The subjective and objective sides of transgression can not in point of principle and ought not in actual consciousness to be separated. If, therefore, we begin by enforcing such duties as temperance the pupil will at once feel that the violation of the law changes his inward condition, degrades him in his own eyes, lowers him in the scale of being. The true standpoint from which all moral transgression should be regarded will thus be gained at the outset, and it will be comparatively easy to maintain the same point of view when we come to speak of the social duties.

To start discussion on the subject of the filial duties, relate the story of Æneas carrying his aged father, Anchises, out of burning Troy; also the story of Cleobis and Bito (Herodotus, i, 31). Recall the devotion of Telemachus to Ulysses. Tell the story of Lear and his daughters, contrasting the conduct of Regan and Goneril with that of Cordelia. An excellent story to tell, especially to young children, is that of Dama. Æneas and Telemachus illustrate the filial spirit as expressed in services rendered to parents, but opportunity to be of real service to parents is not often offered to the very young. The story of Dama exhibits the filial spirit as displayed in acts of delicacy and consideration, and such acts are within the power of all children. The story is located in Palestine, and is supposed to have occurred at the time when the temple at Jerusalem was still standing. Dama was a dealer in jewels, noted for possessing the rarest and richest collection anywhere to be found. It happened that it became necessary to replace a number of the precious stones on the breastplate of the high priest, and a deputation was sent from Jerusalem to wait on Dama and to select from his stock what was needed. Dama received his distinguished visitors with becoming courtesy, and on learning their mission spread out before them a large number of beautiful stones. But none of these were satisfactory. The stones must needs be of extraordinary size and brilliancy. None but such might be used. When Dama was informed of this he reflected a moment, then said that in a room occupied by his old father there was a cabinet in which he kept his most precious gems, and that among them he was sure he could find what his visitors wanted. He bade them delay a few moments, while he made the necessary search. But presently he returned without the jewels. He expressed the greatest regret, but declared that it was impossible to oblige them. They were astonished, and, believing it to be a mere trader's trick, offered him an immense price for the stones. He answered that he was extremely sorry to miss so profitable a transaction, but that it was indeed beyond his power to oblige them now—if they would return in an hour or two he could probably suit them. They declared that their business admitted of no delay; that the breastplate must be repaired at once, so that the priest might not be prevented from discharging his office. And so he allowed them to depart. It appears that when Dama opened the door of the room he saw his old father asleep on the couch. He tried to enter noiselessly, but the door creaked on its hinges, and the old man started in his sleep. Dama checked himself, and turned back. He said, "I will forego the gain which they offer me, but I will not disturb the slumbers of my father." The sleep of the old father was sacred to Dama. Children are often thoughtless in breaking noisily into a room where father or mother is resting. Such a story tends to instill the lesson of consideration and of reverence.

Reverence is the key-note of filial duty. You will remember that Goethe, in Wilhelm Meister, in those chapters in which he sketches his pedagogical ideal, bases the entire religious and moral education of the young on a threefold reverence. He applies the following symbolism: The pupils of the ideal pedagogical institution are required to take, on different occasions, three different attitudes. Now they fold their arms on their breast, and look with open countenance upward; again they fold their arms on their backs, and their bright glances are directed toward the earth; and again they stand in a row, and their faces are turned to the right, each one looking at his neighbor. These three attitudes are intended to symbolize reverence toward what is above us, toward what is beneath us, and toward our equals. These three originate and culminate in the true self-reverence. In speaking of filial duty, we are concerned with reverence toward what is above us. The parent is the physical, mental, and moral superior of the child. It is his duty to assist the child's physical, mental, and moral growth; to lift it by degrees out of its position of inferiority, so that it may attain the fullness of its powers, and help to carry on the mission of mankind when the older generation shall have retired from the scene. The duty of the superior toward the inferior is to help him to rise above the plane of inferiority. The receptive and appreciative attitude of one who is thus helped is called reverence. But we must approach the nature of parental duty more closely, and the following reflections may put us in the way: No man can attain the intellectual aims of life without assistance. A scientist inhabiting a desert island and limited to his own mental resources could make little headway. The scientist of to-day utilizes the accumulated labors of all the generations of scientists that have preceded him, and depends for the value of his results on the co-operation and the sifting criticism of his contemporaries. And as no one can get much knowledge without the help of others, so no one is justified in seeking knowledge for his own private pleasure, or in seeking the kind of knowledge that happens to pique his vanity. For instance, it is a violation of intellectual duty to spend one's time in acquiring out-of-the way erudition which is useful only for display. The pursuit of knowledge is a public not a private end. Every scholar and man of science is bound to enlarge as far as he can the common stock of truth, to add to the scientific possessions of the human race. But in order to do this he must question himself closely, that he may discover in what direction his special talent lies, and may apply himself sedulously to the cultivation of that. For it is by specializing his efforts that he can best serve the general interests of truth. The same holds good with respect to the pursuit of social ends—e. g., the correction of social abuses and the promotion of social justice. The reformer of to-day stands on the shoulders of all the reformers of the past, and would have little prospect of success in any efforts he may make without the co-operation and criticism of numerous co-workers. Nor, again, is it right for him to take up any and every project of reform that may happen to strike his fancy. He ought rather to consider what particular measures under existing circumstances are most likely to advance the cause of progress, and in what capacity he is specially fitted to promote such measures. Justice and truth are public, not private ends. The highest aim of life for each one is to offer that contribution which he, as an individual, is peculiarly fitted to make toward the attainment of the public ends of mankind. The individual when living only for himself, absorbed in his private pleasures and pains, is a creature of little worth; and his existence is of little more account in the scheme of things than that of the summer insects, who have their day and perish. But the individual become the organ of humanity acquires a lasting worth, and his individuality possesses an inviolable sanctity. The sacredness of individuality in the sense just indicated is a leading idea of ethics—perhaps it would not be too much to say, the leading idea.

And now we can state more exactly the nature of parental duty. It is the duty of the parent, remembering that he is the guardian of the permanent welfare of his child, to respect, to protect, to develop its individuality—above all, to discover its individual bent; for that is often latent, and requires to be persistently searched out. It is the duty and the privilege of the parent to put the child, as it were, in possession of its own soul.

And upon this relationship filial reverence is founded, and from it the principal filial duties may be deduced. Because the child does not know what is best for it, in view of its destiny, as described above, it is bound to obey. Obedience is the first of the filial duties. Secondly, the child is bound to show gratitude for the benefits received at the hands of its parents. The teacher should discuss with his pupils the principal benefits conferred by parents. The parents supply the child with food, shelter, and raiment; they nurse it in sickness, often sacrificing sleep, comfort, and health for its sake. They toil in order that it may want nothing; they give it, in their fond affection, the sweet seasoning of all their other gifts. It is well to bring these facts distinctly before the pupil's mind. The teacher can do it with a better grace than the parent himself. The teacher can strengthen and deepen the home feeling, and it is his office to do so. The pupil should go home from his moral lesson in school and look upon his parents with a new realization of all that he owes them, with a new and deeper tenderness. But the duty of gratitude should be based, above all, upon the greatest gift which the child obtains from his parents, the help which it receives toward attaining the moral aim of its existence.

I do not include the commandment "Love thy parents" among the rules of filial duty, for I do not think that love can be commanded. Love follows of itself if the right attitude of reverence, obedience, gratitude be observed. Love is the sense of union with another. And the peculiarity of filial love, whereby it is distinguished from other kinds of love, is that it springs from union with persons on whom we utterly depend, with moral superiors, to whom we owe the fostering of our spiritual as well as of our physical existence.

But how shall the sentiment of filial gratitude express itself? Gratitude is usually displayed by a return of the kindness received. But the kindness which we receive from parents is such that we can never repay it. It is of the nature of a debt which we can never hope fully to cancel. We can do this much—when our parents grow old, we can care for them, and smooth the last steps that lead to the grave. And when we ourselves have grown to manhood and womanhood, and have in turn become parents, we can bestow upon our own offspring the same studious and intelligent care which our parents, according to the light they had, bestowed on us, and thus ideally repay them by doing for others what they did for us. But this is a point which concerns only adults. As for young children, they can show their gratitude in part by slight services, delicacies of behavior, the chief value of which consists in the sentiment that inspires them, but principally by a willing acceptance of parental guidance, and by earnest efforts in the direction of their own intellectual and moral improvement. There is no love so unselfish as parental love. There is nothing which true parents have more at heart than the highest welfare of their children. There is no way in which a child can please father and mother better than by doing that which is for its own highest good. The child's progress in knowledge and in moral excellence are to every parent the most acceptable tokens of filial gratitude. And this leads me to an important point, to which reference has already been made. It has been stated that each period of life has its distinct set of duties; furthermore, that in each period there is one paramount duty, around which the others may be grouped; and, lastly, that at each successive stage it is important to reach backward and to bring the ethical system of the preceding period into harmony with the new system. Of this last point we are now in a position to give a simple illustration. The paramount duty of the school period is to acquire knowledge; the paramount duty of the previous period is to reverence parents. But, as has just been shown, reverence toward parents at this stage is best exhibited by conscientious study, and thus the two systems are merged into one.[17]

The Fraternal Duties.

Thus much concerning the filial relations. We pass on to speak of the fraternal duties; the duties of brothers to brothers and sisters to sisters; of brothers to sisters and conversely; of older to younger brothers and sisters and conversely. The fraternal duties are founded upon the respect which equals owe to equals. The brotherly relation is of immense pedagogic value, inasmuch as it educates us for the fulfillment later on of our duties toward all equals, be they kinsmen or not. As between brothers, the respect of each for the rights of the other is made comparatively easy by natural inclination. The tie of blood, close and constant association in the same house, common experience of domestic pleasures and sorrows—all this tends to link the hearts of the brothers together, and thus the first lessons in one of the hardest duties are given by Love, the gentlest of school-masters. But the word equality must not be misconceived. Equality is not to be taken in its mathematical sense. One brother is gifted and may eventually rise to wealth and fame, another is Nature's step-child; one sister is beautiful, another the opposite. If the idea of equality be pressed to a literal meaning, it is sure to give rise to ugly feelings in the hearts of the less fortunate. How, then, shall we define equality in the moral sense? A superior, as we have seen, renders services which the inferior can not adequately return. Equals are those who are so far on the same level as to be capable of rendering mutual services, alike in importance, though not necessarily the same in kind. Equals are correlative to one another. The services of each are complementary to those of the other. The idea of mutual service, therefore, is characteristic of the relation of brothers, and the rule of duty may be formulated simply, Serve one another. From this follow all the minor commands and prohibitions which are usually impressed upon children,[18] and also the far loftier counsels which apply only to adults.

It will be perceived that the rule of mutual service, when carried to its highest applications, presupposes the principle of individual differentiation, to which we have already attached so much weight. This principle is fundamental to fraternal as well as to paternal and filial duty. For precisely to the extent that brothers are distinctly individualized can they supplement each other and correlate their mutual services. One can not indeed overlook the patent fact that brothers who are unlike in nature frequently repel each other, and that in such cases the very closeness of the relation often becomes a source of extreme irritation, and even of positive agony. But, on the other hand, there is no surer sign of moral ripeness than the ability to enter into, to understand, to appreciate a nature totally unlike one's own, and thus to some extent to appropriate its excellences. The very fact, therefore, that we at first feel ourselves repelled should be taken as a hint that this natural repulsion is to be overcome. For every type of character needs its opposite to correct it. The idealist, for instance, needs the realist, if he would keep his balance. And our uncongenial brothers, precisely because they are at first uncongenial, if we will but remember that they are, after all, our brothers, and that it is our duty to come into harmonious relations with them, can best help us to this fine self-conquest, this true enrichment and enlargement of our moral being.

A word may be added as a caution to parents and teachers. The way to create brotherly feeling among the young is to treat them impartially, to love them with an equal love. Those who love and are beloved by the same person are strongly induced to love one another. In the next place, when disputes arise, as is perhaps unavoidable, the parent or teacher should, as a rule, enter patiently into the cause and not cut off inquiry because the whole matter seems trivial. The subject matter of the dispute may be insignificant enough, but the satisfaction of the sense of justice of the young is of the greatest significance. When the sense of justice is outraged, be the cause never so trivial, a feeling of distrust against the parent is generated, and of incipient hatred against the brother who may have provoked the unjust decision.

I have yet to speak of the duties of older to younger brothers and sisters. If it is difficult to serve two masters, it is hardly pleasant to be asked to serve half a dozen. The youngest children in a large family are often placed in this position. There is, in the first place, the authority of the parents, which must be respected; then, in addition, each of the grown-up sons and daughters is apt to try to exercise a little authority on his or her own account. The younger ones naturally resent this petty despotism, and disobedience and angry recriminations are the unpleasant consequences. It is often necessary that elder sons and daughters should have partial charge of the younger. They can in all cases make their authority acceptable by representing it as delegated, by having it understood that they regard themselves merely as substitutes in the parents' place. There must be unity of influence in the home, or else the moral development of the young will be sadly interfered with. There must be only a single center of authority, represented by the parents, and all minor exercise of authority should be referred back to that center. "Father and mother wish me to help you"; "Father and mother will be pleased if you do so and so; let me try to show you how"—if the method of management implied in such words as these be adopted, the younger children will look upon the elder as their friends and be glad to accept advice and direction.

Lastly, a word about the relation between brothers and sisters, and conversely. This relationship is qualified by the difference of sex. A certain chivalry characterizes the attitude of the brother toward the sister, a certain motherliness that of the sister toward the brother. The relation may be and often is a very beautiful one. The peculiar moral responsibility connected with it is that the sister is usually the first woman whom the brother knows at all intimately and as an equal, and that his notions of womanhood are largely influenced by the traits which he sees in her, while the brother is usually the first man whom the sister knows as a companion, and her ideas of men are colored by what she sees in him.

To illustrate the fraternal relation I have been in the habit of recalling the stories from the Old Testament which bear upon this subject. I have also given an account of the life of the brothers Jacob and William Grimm. There was only a year's difference between them. Jacob Grimm, in the eulogy on William, which he delivered before the Berlin Academy in the year 1860, says: "During the slowly creeping years of our school life we slept in the same bed and occupied the same room. There we sat at one and the same table studying our lessons. Later on there were two tables and two beds in the same room; and later still, during the entire period of our riper manhood, we still continued to occupy two adjoining rooms, always under the same roof." All their property, and even their books, they held in common; what belonged to the one belonged to the other. They visited the university together in the same year; they both took up, in deference to their mother's wish, the same study, that of the law, which they alike hated, and then they turned in common to the study of philology, in which both delighted and both achieved such great distinction. They published their first important works in the same year; and as they slept together in the same bed when they were children, so now they sleep side by side in the grave.

I refer to the story of Lear and his daughters to show that the common love for the parents is necessary to sustain the love of brothers and sisters toward one another. Lear had estranged the affection of Goneril and Regan through his partiality for Cordelia. The two women, who had no love for their father, hated each other; and Goneril, who was the first to cast him out, poisoned her sister.

To illustrate the relations of brothers to sisters, I give an account of the beautiful lives of Charles and Mary Lamb. To show the redeeming power of womanhood as represented in a sister, I explain to older pupils the story which underlies Goethe's drama of Iphigenia. Orestes is sick; and what is his malady? His soul has been poisoned by remorse. Believing himself to be the executive arm of justice, he committed a great crime, and now he is torn by the pangs of conscience, and his mind is forever dwelling on that scene in which he was a fatal actor. And how does Iphigenia heal him? She heals him by the clear truthfulness of her nature, which the play is designed to bring out. With the light of genuine womanhood which emanates from her she illuminates anew his darkened path. By the force of the good which he learns to recognize in her he is led to a new trust in the redeeming power of the good in himself, and thus to start out afresh in a life of courage, hope, and active effort. The teacher should analyze and cause to be committed to memory the various beautiful proverbs which bear upon the subject of fraternal duty.

FOOTNOTES:

[17] It may also be pointed out to the pupil that a part of the task of intellectual and moral training, which originally belongs entirely to the parents, has by them been intrusted to the teachers, and that something of the reverence which belongs to the former is now due to the latter.

[18] Do not quarrel over your respective rights; rather be more eager to secure the rights of your brother than your own. Do not triumph in your brother's disgrace or taunt him with his failings, but rather seek to build up his self-respect. Help one another in your tasks, etc.

XIV. DUTIES TOWARD ALL MEN.

JUSTICE AND CHARITY.

Justice.—The subject of justice is a difficult one to treat. Justice in the legal sense is to be distinguished from justice in the moral sense. We are concerned only with the latter. How much of it can we hope to include in such a course of instruction as this? We can, I think, explain the essential principle and give a few of its most important applications. What is this principle? Human society is an organism, and the perfection of it depends upon the degree to which the parts related are differentiated. Unity of organization is the end, differentiation is the means. The serving of universal ends is the aim, the emphasizing of individuality the means. The principle which underlies the laws of justice I take to be respect for individuality of others. And this may be expressed in the rule, Respect the individuality of every human being. It might, indeed, appear at first sight as if justice had to do only with those points in which all men are alike, and took no notice of the differences that subsist between them. Thus justice enjoins respect for the life of others; and in regard to this all men are exactly on a par, all men are equally entitled to live. But justice also commands us to respect the convictions of others, however different they may be from our own. And it is but a finer sense of justice which keeps us from intruding on the privacy of others, which leads us to show a proper consideration for the ways and idiosyncrasies of others, and in general to refrain from encroaching on the personality of others. The principle of justice may also be expressed in the rule, Do not interfere with the individual development of any one.

Applications of the Principle of Justice.—

1. Do not kill. By taking away the life of a human being we should of course cut off all chance of that person's further development. This requires no comment. But certain casuistical questions arise in connection with this command. Is it right to kill another in self-defense? The difficulty involved might be put in this way: A burglar breaks into your house by night and threatens to kill you. You have a weapon at hand and can save yourself by killing him. Now it is evident that one of two lives must be taken. But would it not be more moral on your part to say: I, at least, will not break the commandment. I would rather be killed than kill? This question serves to show to what absurdities a purely formal principle in ethics can lead, as we have already seen in the discussion of truthfulness. The problem of the duel and that of the taking of the life of others in war also belong under this head, but will be reserved for the advanced course.

2. Respect the personal liberty of others. Slavery, under whatever form, is an outrage on justice. The slave is degraded to be the mere instrument of his master's profit or pleasure. Let the teacher point out in what particulars the slave is wronged, and show the evil effects of the institution of slavery on the character of the master as well as of the slave. Question—Is it right to speak of wage-slavery, for instance, in cases where the hours of labor are so prolonged as to leave no time for higher interests, or where the relations of the laborer to his employer are such as to impair his moral independence?

3. Respect the property of others. Unless we are careful we may at this point commit a grave wrong. Upon what moral considerations shall the right of property be based? The school, especially the moral lessons which are imparted in it, should certainly not be placed in the service of vested interests. On the other hand, the school should not fill the pupils' minds with economic theories, which they are incapable of understanding, and of which the truth, the justice, the feasibility are still hotly disputed. We are therefore taking a very responsible step in introducing the idea of property at all into our moral lessons. And yet it is too great and important to be ignored. Some writers have advanced the theory that the right in question rests on labor, and they regard it as a self-evident proposition, one which, therefore, might safely be taught to the young, that every person is entitled to the products of his labor. Jules Simon says (see Paul Janet, Elements of Morals, English translation, p. 66): "This earth was worth nothing and produced nothing. I dug the soil, I brought from a distance fertilizing earth; it is now fertile. This fertility is my work; by fertilizing it, I made it mine." American writers have eloquent passages to the same effect. But this proposition certainly does not appear to me self-evident, nor even true. Chiefly for the reason that "my labor" and "my skill" are not original, but derivative factors in production. They are very largely the result of the labor and the skill of generations that have preceded me, that have built up in me this brain, this skill, this power of application. The products of my labor would indeed belong to me if my labor were really mine, if it were not to an incalculable extent the consequent of social antecedents, in regard to which I can not claim the least merit. The attempt to found the rewards of labor upon the merit of the laborer seems to me a perfectly hopeless one.

Let me add that it is one thing to say that he who will not work shall not eat, and a very different thing to say that he who works shall enjoy what he has produced. The former statement merely signifies that he who will not contribute his share toward sustaining and improving human society is not entitled to any part in the advantages of the social order, though the charity of his fellow-men may grant him, under certain conditions and in the hope of changing his disposition, what he is not entitled to as of right. But the question what the share of the laborer ought to be is one that can not be settled in the rough-and-ready manner above suggested, and the considerations involved are, in truth, far too numerous and complex to be introduced at this stage. The whole question will be reopened later on. For the present it must suffice to state certain purely moral considerations on which the right of property may be made to rest. The following are the ideas which I should seek to develop: Property is justified by its uses. Its uses are to support the existence and promote the mental and moral growth of man. The physical life itself depends on property. Even in a communistic state the food any one eats must be his property in the sense that every one else is debarred from using it. The moral life of men depends on property. The moral life is rooted in the institution of the family, and the family could not exist without a separate domicile of its own and the means of providing for its dependent members. The independence and the growth of the intellect depend on property. In short, property is an indispensable adjunct of personality. This I take to be its moral basis. What I here indicate, however, is an ideal right which the existing state of society by no means reflects. By what methods we may best approach this ideal, whether by maintaining and improving the system of private property in land or by state ownership, whether by capitalistic or socialistic production, etc., are questions of means, not of ends, and raise problems in social science with which here we have not to deal.

Question—If the present social arrangements are not morally satisfactory, if e. g., certain persons possess property to which on moral grounds they are not entitled, should not the commandment against stealing be suspended so far as they are concerned? The present system of rights, imperfect as it is, is the result of social evolution, and denotes the high-water mark of the average ethical consciousness of the world up to date. Respect for the existing system of rights, however, imperfect as it is, is the prime condition of obtaining a better system.

4. Respect the mental liberty of others. Upon this rule of justice is founded the right to freedom of speech, freedom of the press, and what is called the freedom of conscience. Point out the limitations of these various rights which follow from the fact of their universality.

5. Respect the reputation of your fellow-men. Refrain from backbiting and slander. Bridle your tongue. This undoubtedly is a rule of justice. "Who steals my purse steals trash," etc. The respect of our fellow-men is in itself a source of happiness and a moral prop, and, besides, the greatest help in achieving the legitimate purposes of life. He who has the confidence of others has wings to bear him along. He who is suspected for any reason, true or false, strikes against invisible barriers at every step. Nothing is so sensitive as character—a mere breath may tarnish it. It is therefore the gravest kind of injury to our neighbors to disseminate damaging rumors, to throw out dark hints and suggestions with respect to them, to impugn their motives. But is it not a duty to denounce evil and evil-doers and to put the innocent on their guard against wolves in sheep's clothing? Yes, if we are sure that our own motives are perfectly disinterested, that we are not in the least prompted by personal spite or prejudice. For if we dislike a person, as every one knows, we can not judge him fairly, we are prone to attribute to him all manner of evil qualities and evil intents which exist only in our own jaundiced imagination. Very often a person against whom we had at first conceived a distinct dislike proves on nearer acquaintance to be one whom we can esteem and even love. We should be warned by such experiences to hold our judgments in suspense, and not to allow injurious words to pass the lips. The vast moral importance of being able to hold one's tongue, the golden resources of silence, should be emphasized by the teacher.

A series of lessons on good manners may be introduced at this point. The ceremonies of social intercourse, the various forms in which refined people show their deference for each other, the rule not to obtrude self in conversation, and the like, are so many illustrations of the respect which we owe to the personality of our fellow-men. Good manners are the æsthetic counterpart of good morals, and the connection between the two can easily be made plain.

6. Speak the truth. Inward truthfulness is a self-regarding duty; social truthfulness is a form of justice. Words represent facts. The words we speak to our neighbor are used by him as building-stones in the architecture of his daily conduct. We have no right to defeat the purposes of his life, to weaken the dwelling he is erecting, by supplying him with worthless building material.

Upon exactly the same ground is based the duty of keeping one's promises, viz., that our fellow-men build on our promises. Promises made in a legal form are called contracts and can be enforced. Promises not made in legal form are equally binding from a moral point of view. It should be borne in mind, however, that conditional promises are canceled when the stipulated conditions do not occur, and, furthermore, that there are certain tacit conditions implied in all promises whatsoever. A person who has promised to visit a friend on a certain day and dies in the interval is not supposed to have broken his promise; nor if any one makes a similar promise and a heavy snowstorm should block the roads or if he should be confined to his bed by sickness is he likely to be accused of breaking his promise. The physical possibility of fulfilling them is a tacit condition in all promises. It is also a tacit condition in all promises that it shall be morally possible or consistent with morality to keep them. A young man who has promised to join a gang of burglars in an attack on a bank and who repents at the last moment is morally justified in refusing to keep his pledge. His crime consisted in having made the promise in the first place, not in refusing to fulfill it at the last moment. A person, however, who promises to pay usurious interest on a loan of money and who then takes advantage of the laws against usury to escape payment is a double-dyed rogue, for his intention is to cheat, and he uses the cloak of virtue as a screen in order to cheat with impunity. Let the teacher discuss the casuistical question whether it is right to keep a promise made to robbers—e. g., if we should fall into the hands of brigands, and they should make it a condition of our release that we shall not betray their hiding-place.

Justice is based on positive respect for the individuality of others, but its commands may all be expressed in the negative form: Do not kill, do not infringe the liberty, the property of others, do not slander, do not lie, etc. It is often held, however, that there is a positive as well as a negative side to justice, and the two sides are respectively expressed in the formulas: Neminem laede and suum cuique—Hurt no one and give every one his due. Of positive or distributive justice we meet with such examples as the following: In awarding a prize the jury is bound in justice to give the award in favor of the most deserving competitor. The head of a department in filling a vacancy is bound in justice to avoid favoritism, to promote that one of his subordinates who deserves promotion, etc. But it seems to me that this distinction is unimportant. Give to each one his due is tantamount to Do not deprive any one of what is due him. If the prize or the place belongs to A we should, by withholding it from him, invade the rights of A as much as if we took money out of his purse. The commands are negative, but the virtue implied is positive enough, because it depends on positive respect for human nature. Do not infringe upon the sacred territory of another's personality is the rule of justice in all cases.

Charity.—How shall we distinguish charity from justice? It is said that every one is justified in claiming from others what belongs to him as a matter of right, but that no one can exact charity. The characteristic mark of charity is supposed to be that it is freely given. But if I happen to be rich and can afford to supply the need of another am I not morally bound to do so, and has not my indigent neighbor a real claim upon me? Again, it has been said that the term justice is applied to claims which are capable of being formulated in general rules and imposed alike on all men in their dealings with one another, while in the case of charity both the measure and the object of it are to be freely determined by each one. We are free, according to this view, to decide whether a claim upon us exists or not; but, the claim once having been admitted, it is as binding upon us as any of the demands of justice. But, while this is true, I hold that nevertheless there exists a clear distinction between the virtues of justice and charity. We owe justice to our equals, charity to our inferiors. The word "inferior" is to be understood in a carefully limited sense. An employer owes his workmen, as a matter of justice, the wages he has agreed to pay. Though they may be socially his inferiors, in regard to this transaction they are his equals. They have agreed to render him certain services and he has agreed to return them an equivalent.

Justice says Do not hinder the development of others; Charity says Assist the development of others. The application of the rule of charity will make its meaning clear.

1. Justice says do not destroy life; Charity says save life. Rescue from the flames the inmates of a burning house; leap into the waves to save a drowning fellow-creature. Such persons are dependent on your help. They are therefore with respect to you in an inferior position.

Discuss with the class the limitations of this duty. I am not bound to jump into the water, for instance, when I see a person drowning unless I can swim. In fact, it would be culpable foolhardiness in me to do so. Discuss the following casuistical case: A child is lying on the railroad track and a locomotive is rapidly approaching. Am I bound to make the attempt to draw it away from the track? Does it make any difference whether I am single or the father of a family and have others dependent on me? In general, the attempt to save should not be made unless there is a distinct chance of succeeding without the sacrifice of one's own life; but we are justified in taking great risks, and courage and self-reliance are evinced in the degree of risk we are willing to take. There are cases, however, in which the deliberate sacrifice of one life for another is in the highest degree praiseworthy when, namely, the life to be saved is regarded as far more precious than our own. Instance the soldier who intercepts the thrust which is aimed at the life of his general. Instance the parent who in the Johnstown flood was seen to push his child to a place of safety and was then swept away by the current.

2. Assist the needy. This may be done by giving bread to the hungry, clothing to the naked, shelter to the homeless, by caring for the sick, advancing loans to those who are struggling toward self-support, etc. The rule of charity is based on respect for the personality of others. We are required to assist those who are too weak to hold their own, with a view of putting them on their feet again. The aim of all charity should be to make those who are dependent on it independent of it. From this point of view all mere almsgiving, all that so-called charity which only serves to make the dependent classes more dependent, stands condemned. But the true test of charity, upon which the greatest stress should be laid, is to be found in the way it reacts upon the charitable themselves. Right relations, whatever their nature, are always mutually beneficial. Does the deed of charity react beneficially on the doer? is the test question to be asked in every instance. Take the case of a person who gives large sums to the poor in the hope of seeing his name favorably mentioned in the newspapers. The motive in this case is vanity, and the effect of this spurious sort of charity is to increase the vanity of the donor. The reaction upon him, therefore, is morally harmful. Again, take the case of a person who gives capriciously, at the bidding of impulse, without considering whether his gifts are likely to be of lasting benefit to the recipients. He is confirmed in his habit of yielding to impulse, and the reaction is likewise morally injurious. On the other hand, the retroactive effects of true charity are most beneficial. In the first place, a reaction will take place in the direction of greater simplicity in our own lives. A person can not be seriously and deeply interested in the condition of the poor, can not truly realize the hardships which they suffer, without being moved to cut off superfluous expenditure. Secondly, true charity will teach us to enter into the problems of others, often so unlike our own; to put ourselves in their places; to consider how we should act in their circumstances; to fight their battles for them; and by this means our moral experience will be enlarged, and from being one, we become, as it were, many men. True charity will also draw closer the bond of fellowship between the poor and us, for we shall often discover virtues in them which we do not possess ourselves; and sometimes, at least, we shall have occasion to look up with a kind of awe to those whom we are aiding. In connection with the discussion of charity, let the teacher relate the biographies of John Howard, Sister Dora, Florence Nightingale, Elizabeth Fry, and others, who have been distinguished for their devotion to the suffering.

3. Cheer up the sad. Explain that a bright smile may often have the value of an act of charity. In general, emphasize the duty of suppressing irritability, ill humor, and moodiness, and of contributing to the sunshine of our households.[19]

4. Console the bereaved. The afflicted are for the moment weak and dependent; it is the office of loving charity to make them independent. Here the same train of reasoning is applicable as above in the case of the poor. It serves no useful purpose merely to sit down by the side of the sorrowful and to weep with them. They do need sympathy, but they also need, at least after the first paroxysms of grief have subsided, to be roused.

The true cure for suffering is action. Those who suffer need to be nerved to action; they need to be shown, above all, the new duties which their situation entails. He who can point out to them the way of duty, and can give them of his own strength to walk in that way, is their best friend—he is the true consoler.

5. I have yet to speak of mental charity and of moral charity. Mental charity is practiced by the wise teacher, who puts his pupils on the road to knowledge, who helps them to discover their true vocation, and who, when they are involved in doubt and difficulty, succeeds in giving them the clew by which they can find an exit into mental clearness and light.

6. Moral charity is practiced by those who bend down to the sinful and the fallen, and awaken in them a new hope and trust in the good and in themselves. The charity which effects moral regeneration is perhaps the highest type of all, and of this I know no more fitting nor more sublime example than the dealing of Jesus with the outcasts of society.

Note.—Without attempting to forestall further philosophical analysis, we may perhaps assume, as a working hypothesis, as a provisional principle of deduction in ethics, the principle of organization. The individual is an organ of humanity. It is his duty to discharge, as perfectly as possible, his special functions; hence the need of insisting on respect for individuality throughout. Even the self-regarding duties would have no meaning were not the complex whole in view, in the economy of which each member is required to perform his part. As in every organism, so in this, each separate organ serves, and is served in turn by all the others, and can attain its highest development only through this constant interaction. To complete the thought, it would be necessary to add that certain organs are more closely connected than others, and form lesser organisms within and subservient to the whole. This, however, is merely thrown out as a suggestion addressed to the student of ethics.

The Duty of Gratitude.—Upon this subject much might be said, did not the fact that the time at our command is nearly exhausted warn us to use even greater brevity than heretofore in dealing with the topics that remain. To bring out the right relations between benefactor and beneficiary, let the teacher put the question, Why is it wrong to cast up the benefits we have conferred to the one who has received them? And why, on the other hand, is it so base in the latter to show himself ungrateful. The reason is to be found in the respect due to the personality of others, to which we have so often alluded. Kant says that every human being is to be treated as an end in himself, and not merely as a means or a tool. In effect, the person who ignores benefits says to his benefactor: You are my tool. It is unnecessary for me to recognize your services, because you are not an independent person to be respected, but a creature to be made use of at pleasure. Ingratitude is a slur on the moral personality of others. On the other hand, he who casts up benefits practically says you have forfeited your independence through the favors you have accepted. I have made your personality tributary to mine.

An excellent rule is that of Seneca. The benefactor should immediately forget what he has given; the beneficiary should always remember what he has received. True gratitude is based on the sense of our moral fellowship with others. The gifts received and returned are mere tokens of this noble relationship (as all gifts should be). You have just given to me. I will presently give to you twice as much again, or half as much, it matters not which, when occasion arises. We will further each other's aims as best we can, for the ends of each are sacred to the other.

Duties to Servants.—Having spoken of the duties which we owe to all men, I may here refer to certain special duties, such as the duties toward servants. These may also be introduced in connection with the duties of the family, after the filial and fraternal duties have been considered. I have space only to mention the following points:

1. Servants are laborers. The same respect is due to them as to all other laborers.

2. They are not only laborers, but in a special sense helpers. They are members of the household in a subordinate capacity, and in many cases identify themselves closely with the interests of the family. They are, as it were, lay brothers and lay sisters of the family. From these considerations may be deduced the duties which we owe toward servants.

Duties with regard to Animals.—I can not admit that we have duties toward animals. We can not very well speak of duties toward creatures on which we in part subsist; but there are duties with respect to animals. Man is a rational being, and as such takes a natural delight in that orderly arrangement and interdependence of parts which are the visible counterpart of the rational principle in his own nature. We ought not to step on or heedlessly crush under our feet even a single flower. Much less should we ruthlessly destroy the more perfect organism which we see in animals. Add to this that animals are sentient creatures, and that the useless infliction of pain tends to develop cruelty in us. As a practical means of fostering kindness toward animals, I suggest the following: Get your pupils interested in the habits of animals. Familiarity in this case will breed sympathy. Speak of the building instincts of bees; of the curious structures raised by those wonderful engineers, the beavers. Give prominence to the love for their young by which the brute creation is brought into closer connection with the human family. Mention especially the fidelity which some animals show toward man (the saving of human lives by St. Bernard dogs, etc.), and the uses which we derive from the various members of the animal creation. As to the fact that we use animals for our sustenance, the highest point of view to take, I think, is this, that man is, so to speak, the crucible in which all the utilities of nature are refined to higher spiritual uses. Man puts the whole of nature under contribution to serve his purposes. He takes trees from the forest in order to build his house, and to fashion the table at which he takes his meals; he brings up metal from the depths of the earth and converts it into tools; he takes clay and forms it into vessels. He also is permitted to pluck flowers wherewith to garnish his feasts, and to make them the tokens of his love; and in the same manner he may actually absorb the life of the lower animals, in order to transform and transfigure it, as it were, into that higher life which is possible only in human society. But it follows that he is a mere parasite and an interloper in nature, unless he actually leads the truly human life.

FOOTNOTE:

[19] For the teacher I add point 4. The duties mentioned under 5 and 6 may be practiced in a simple way by the young in the form of aiding their backward schoolmates, and observing the right attitude toward those of their companions who are in disgrace.

XV. THE ELEMENTS OF CIVIC DUTY.

It should be the aim of the school not only to connect the system of school duties with the duties of the previous period, but also to prepare the pupils morally for the period which follows. The school is the intermediate link between life in the family and life in society and the state. The course of moral instruction, therefore, culminates for the present in the chapter on civic duties. Needless to say that at this stage the subject can be considered in its elements only.

The claims of the state upon the moral attachment of the citizen can hardly be presented too warmly. Life in the state as well as in the family is indispensable to the full development of character. Man, in his progress from childhood to old age, passes successively through ever-widening circles of duty, and new moral horizons open upon him as he grows out of one into the other. One of the largest of these circles, and, in respect to moral opportunities, one of the richest and most glorious, is the state. It may be said that the whole state exists ideally in every true citizen, or, what amounts to the same, that the true citizen embraces the interests of the state, as if they were his own, and acts from the point of view of the total body politic. Increased breadth of view and elevation of purpose are the moral benefits which accrue to every one who even honestly attempts to be a citizen in this sense.

Much attention is paid in some schools to the machinery of our government. The pupils are expected to learn the exact functions of mayors, city councils, and legislative bodies, the provisions relative to the election of the President, etc. But while these things ought to be known, they relate, after all, only to the externals of government; and it is far more important to familiarize the pupils with the animating spirit of political institutions, with the great ideas which underlie the state. There are especially three political ideas to which I should give prominence; these are, the idea of the supremacy of the law; the true idea of punishment; and the idea of nationality. After we have instilled these ideas, it will be time enough to dwell with greater particularity on the machinery by which it is sought to carry them into effect.

What method shall we use for instilling these ideas? The same which modern pedagogy applies in every branch of instruction. The rule is, Proceed from the known to the unknown; in introducing a new notion, connect it with some analogous notion already in the pupil's possession. The school offers excellent opportunities for developing the two ideas of law and punishment. In every school there exists a body of rules and regulations, or school laws. It should be made plain to the scholars that these laws are enacted for their own good. The government of the school should be made to rest as far as possible on the consent and co-operation of the governed. That school which does not secure on the part of the scholars a willing acceptance of the system of restraints which is necessary for the good of the whole, is a failure. In such an institution the law-abiding spirit can never be fostered.

The play-ground, too, affords a preliminary training for future citizenship. On the play-ground the scholars learn to select and to obey their own leaders, to maintain the rules of the game, and to put down any infraction of them, whether in the shape of violence or fraud. They also learn to defer to the will of the majority—a most important lesson, especially in democratic communities—and to bear defeat good-humoredly.[20]

The true idea of punishment should be brought home to the scholars through the discipline of the school. The ends of punishment are the protection of the community and the reformation of the offender. Nowhere better than in the little commonwealth of the school can these moral aspects of punishment be impressed; nowhere better can the foundation be laid for the changes which are so urgently needed in the dealings of the state with the criminal class. Everything, of course, depends upon the character of the teacher. His reputation for strict justice, the moral earnestness he displays in dealing with offenses, his readiness to forbear and forgive upon the least sign of genuine repentance—these are the means by which he can instill right notions as to what discipline should be. It has been suggested that, when a particularly serious case of transgression occurs, the teacher can sometimes produce a profound moral effect on the class by submitting the case to them as a jury and asking for their verdict.

The idea of nationality I regard as fundamental in political ethics. There is such a thing as national character, national genius, or national individuality. When we think of the Greeks, we think of them as pre-eminent for their achievements in art and philosophy; of the Hebrews, as the people of the Bible; of the Romans, as the founders of jurisprudence, etc. And on turning to the modern nations we find that the talents of the English, the Germans, the French, the Italians, etc., are no less diversified. Morally speaking, it is the mission of each nation in correlation with others to contribute to the universal work of civilization its own peculiar gifts. The state may be regarded as that organization of the public life which is designed to develop the national individuality; to foster the national genius in whatever direction it may seek to express itself, whether in industry, art, literature, or science; to clarify its aims, and to raise it to the highest pitch of beneficent power.

Doubtless this idea, as stated, is too abstract to be grasped by the young; but it can be brought down to their level in a tangible way. For the national genius expresses itself in the national history, and more especially is it incorporated in those great leaders, who arise at critical periods to guide the national development into new channels. It is at this point that we realize anew the important support which the teaching of history may give to the moral teaching.[21] Thus the political history of the United States, if I may be permitted to use that as an illustration of my thought, may be divided into three great periods. The struggle with nature occupied the earliest period—that of colonization; in this period we see the American man engaged in subduing a continent. The struggle for political freedom fills the period of the Revolution. The struggle for a universal moral idea lends grandeur to our civil war. The story of these three great struggles should be related with such clearness that the idea which dominated each may stand out in relief, and with such fervor that the pupils may conceive a more ardent love for their country which, at the same time that it holds out immeasurable prospects for the future, already possesses such glorious traditions. There is, however, always a great danger that patriotism may degenerate into Chauvinism. Against this, universal history, when taught in the right spirit, is the best antidote. A knowledge of universal history is an admirable check on spurious patriotism. In teaching it, it is especially desirable that the contribution which each nation has made to the progress of the world be noted and emphasized. Let the teacher speak of the early development of the literature and of the inventive spirit of the despised Chinese; of the high civilization which once flourished on the banks of the Nile; of the immortal debt we owe to Greece and Rome and Judea. Let the young be made acquainted with the important services which Ireland rendered to European culture in the early part of the middle ages. Let them learn, however briefly, of the part which France played in the overthrow of feudalism, of the wealth of German science and literature and philosophy; let them know how much mankind owes to the Parliaments of England, and to the stout heart and strong sense which made parliaments possible. It is not by underrating others, but by duly estimating and appreciating their achievements, that we shall find ourselves challenged to bring forth what is best in ourselves.

There is still another reason why, especially in American schools, the teaching of universal history should receive far greater attention than hitherto has been accorded to it. The American people are imbued with the belief that they have a problem to solve for all mankind. They have set out to demonstrate in the face of doubt and adverse criticism the possibility of popular self-government. They have thus consecrated their national life to a sublime humanitarian idea. And the sense of this consecration, echoing in the utterances of many of their leading statesmen, has more or less permeated the whole people. But the mission thus assumed, like the burden on the shoulders of Christophorus, is becoming heavier at every step. The best citizens recognize that the problem of popular self-government, so far from being solved, is but beginning to disclose itself in all its vast complexity, and they realize more than ever how necessary it is to get every possible help from the example and experience of older nations. The political lessons of the past can not indeed be mastered in the public schools. But a preliminary interest in European history may be created, which will pave the way for profitable study later on.

Furthermore, the American people have extended a most liberal invitation to members of other nationalities (with few restrictions, and these of recent origin) to come and join in working out the destinies of the new continent. Not only is an asylum granted to the oppressed—this were the lesser boon—but the gates of citizenship have been opened wide to the new-comers. What does this mean, if not that the foreigners who come, unless indeed they belong to the weak and dependent classes, are wanted; and wanted not only in their capacity as workers to aid in developing the material resources of the country, but as citizens, to help in perfecting what is still imperfect, to assist in building up in time, on American soil, the true republic.

In return for this privilege the citizens of foreign birth owe it to their adopted country to place the best of their racial gifts at its service. Much that the citizens of foreign birth bring with them, indeed, will have to be eliminated, but, on the other hand, many of their traits will probably enter as constituent elements into the national character. The Anglo-Saxon race has now the lead, and will doubtless keep it. But in the melting-pot of the American commonwealths the elements of many diverse nationalities are being mixed anew, and a new nationality distinctively American is likely to be the final outcome of the process. Thus both the humanitarian ideal and the actual make-up of the people betray a cosmopolitan tendency, and it is this tendency which, more perhaps than anything else, gives to American political life its characteristic physiognomy. If this be so, if the foreign elements are so numerous and likely to be so influential, it is surely important that the foreign races, their character and their history, be studied and understood.

Besides explaining the political ideas, I should briefly describe the actual functions of government. Government protects the life and property of its citizens against foreign aggression and violence at home. Government maintains the binding force of contracts. Government reserves to itself the coinage of money, carries the mails, supports public education, etc. In a word, government assumes those functions which can be discharged more satisfactorily or more economically by the joint action of the community than if left to private individuals or corporations. But government also undertakes the duty of protecting the weaker classes against oppression by the stronger, as is shown by factory legislation in the interest of women and minors. How far this function may profitably be extended is open to discussion; but that it has been assumed in all civilized countries is a fact which should be noted.

FOOTNOTES:

[20] Vide Dole, "The American Citizen."

[21] See remarks on this subject in the third lecture.

XVI. THE USE OF PROVERBS AND SPEECHES.

For the use of my classes I have made a collection of proverbs from the Bible, from Buddha's Dhammapada, from the Encheiridion of Epictetus, the Imitation of Christ, and other ancient and modern sources. Some of these belong to the advanced course, others can be used in the grammar course. I have time to mention only a few, in order to illustrate the method of using them.

The habit of committing proverbs or golden sayings to memory without a previous analysis of their meaning serves no good purpose whatever. Proverbs are the condensed expression of the moral experience of generations. The teacher should search out the experiences to which the proverbs refer. Proverbs may be compared to those delicate Eastern fabrics which can be folded up into the smallest compass, but which, when unfolded, are seen to cover a large space. The teacher should explore the territory covered by the proverb. Take, for example, such a saying as this, "Blessed be he who has the good eye." What is the good eye? The eye that sees the good in others. Is it easy to see the good in others? Yes, if we are fond of them; but if we are not, we are likely to see only the evil. But suppose there is no good to be seen, at least not on the surface; why, then the good eye is that which sees the good beneath the surface, which, like the divining-rod, shows where in human character gold lies buried, and helps us to penetrate to it. But even this does not exhaust the meaning of the proverb. The good eye is that which, as it were, sees the good into others, sends its good influence into them, makes them good by believing them to be so. The good eye is a creative eye. Or take the proverb, "A falsehood is like pebbles in the mouth." Why not say a falsehood is like a pebble? No, one falsehood is like many pebbles. For every falsehood tends to multiply itself, and each separate falsehood is like a pebble—not like bread, which we can assimilate, but like a stone, a foreign body, alien to our nature. Moreover, the proverb says, A falsehood is like pebbles in the mouth; which means that these stony falsehoods will choke us, choke the better life in us, unless we cast them out. Again, take such sayings as these from the Dhammapada: "As rain breaks through an ill-thatched house, passion will break through an unreflecting mind." Explain what kind of reflection is needed to keep off passion. "He who is well subdued may subdue others." Show what kind of self-control is meant, and in what sense others are to be subdued. "He who holds back anger like a rolling chariot, him I call a real driver; other people are but holding the reins." "Let a man overcome anger by love; let him overcome evil by good; let him overcome the greedy by liberality, the liar by truth." Describe the sort of brake by means of which the rolling chariot of anger may be checked in mid-course, and the efficacy of goodness in overcoming evil. From the Encheiridion it occurs to me to mention the saying, "Everything has two handles: the one by which it can be borne, the other by which it can not be borne." Epictetus himself gives an illustration: "If your brother acts unjustly toward you, do not lay hold of the act by that handle wherein he acts unjustly, for that is the handle by which it can not be borne; but lay hold of the other, that he is your brother, and you will lay hold of the thing by that handle by which it can be borne." There are also many other illustrations of this noble maxim. Disappointment has two handles, the one by which it can be borne, the other by which it can not. Affliction has two handles. Illustrate profusely; search out the meaning in detail.

There is a mine of practical wisdom in these sayings. There exist proverbs relating to all the various duties which have been discussed in our course; proverbs relating to the pursuit of knowledge; many and beautiful proverbs on the filial and fraternal duties, on courage, on humility, on the importance of keeping promises, on kindness to animals, on the moral end of civil society. Proverbs should be classified under their proper heads and used as occasion offers. Permit me, however, to add one word of caution. It is a mistake to teach too many proverbs at a time, to overload the pupil's mind with them. The proverbs selected should be brief, pithy, and profoundly significant. But there should not be too many at a time. It is better to return to the same proverb often, and to penetrate deeper into its meaning every time. The value of the proverbs is that they serve as pegs in the memory, to which long chains of moral reflection can be attached. They are guide-posts pointing with their short arms to the road of duty; they are voices of mankind uttering impressive warnings, and giving clear direction in moments when the promptings of self-interest or the mists of passion would be likely to lead us astray.

It may also be well to select a number of speeches which embody high moral sentiments, like some of the speeches of Isaiah, the speech of Socrates before his judges, and others, and, after having explained their meaning, to cause them to be recited by the pupils. Just as the delivery of patriotic speeches is found useful for inculcating patriotic sentiments, so such speeches as these will tend to quicken the moral sentiments. He who repeats the speech of another for the time being puts on the character of the other. The sentiments which are uttered by the lips live for the moment in the heart, and leave their mark there.

XVII. THE INDIVIDUALIZATION OF MORAL TEACHING.

This subject is of the greatest importance. It really requires extended and careful treatment, but a few hints must suffice. The teacher should remember that he is educating not boys and girls in general, but particular boys and girls, each of whom has particular faults needing to be corrected and actual or potential virtues to be developed and encouraged. Therefore a conscientious study of the character of the pupils is necessary. This constitutes an additional reason why moral instruction should be given in a daily school rather than in a Sunday school, the opportunities for the study of character being vastly better in the former than they can possibly be in the latter. The teacher who gives the moral lessons, in undertaking this study, should solicit the co-operation of all the other teachers of the school. He should request from time to time from each of his fellow-teachers reports stating the good and bad traits observed in each pupil, or rather the facts on which the various teachers base their estimates of the good and bad qualities of the scholars; for the opinions of teachers are sometimes unreliable, are sometimes discolored by prejudice, while facts tell their own story. These facts should be collated by the moral teacher, and, with them as a basis, he may endeavor to work out a kind of chart of the character of each of his pupils. It goes without saying, that he should also seek the co-operation of the parents, for the purpose of discovering what characteristic traits the pupil displays at home; and if the reputation which a pupil bears among his companions, can be ascertained without undue prying, this, too, will be found of use in forming an estimate of his disposition. The teacher who knows the special temptations of his pupils will have many opportunities, in the course of the moral lessons, to give them pertinent warnings and advice, without seeming to address them in particular or exposing their faults to the class. He will also be able to exercise a helpful surveillance over their conduct in school, and to become in private their friend and counselor. Moreover, the material thus collected will in time prove serviceable in helping us to a more exact knowledge of the different varieties of human character—a knowledge which would give to the art of ethical training something like a scientific basis.[22]

FOOTNOTE:

[22] See some remarks on types of character in my lecture on the Punishment of Children.

RECAPITULATION.

Let us now briefly review the ground we have gone over in the present course. In the five introductory lectures we discussed the problem of unsectarian moral teaching, the efficient motives of good conduct, the opportunities of moral influence in schools, the classification of duties, and the moral status of the child on entering school.

In mapping out the primary course we assumed as a starting-point the idea that the child rapidly passes through the same stages of evolution through which the human race has passed, and hence we endeavored to select our material for successive epochs in the child's life from the literature of the corresponding epochs in the life of the race.

In regard to the method of instruction, we observed that in the fairy tales the moral element should be touched on incidentally; that in teaching the fables isolated moral qualities should be presented in such a way that the pupil may always thereafter be able to recognize them; while the stories display a number of moral qualities in combination and have the value of moral pictures.

In the primary course the object has been to train the moral perceptions; in the grammar course, to work out moral concepts and to formulate rules of conduct. The method of getting at these rules may again be described as follows: Begin with some concrete case, suggest a rule which apparently fits that case or really fits it, adduce other cases which the rule does not fit, change the rule, modify it as often as necessary, until it has been brought into such shape that it will fit every case you can think of.

In planning the lessons on duty which make up the subject matter of the grammar course, we took the ground that each period of life has its specific duties, that in each period there is one paramount duty around which the others may be grouped, and that each new system of duties should embrace and absorb the preceding one.

It remains for me to add that the illustrations which I have used in the grammar course are intended merely to serve as specimens, and by no means to exclude the use of different illustrative matter which the teacher may find more suitable. Furthermore, I desire to express the hope that it may be possible, without too much difficulty, to eliminate whatever subjective conceptions may be found to have crept into these lessons, and that, due deduction having been made, there may remain a substratum of objective truth which all can accept. It should be remembered that these lectures are not intended to take the place of a text-book, but to serve as a guide to the teacher in preparing his lessons.

I hope hereafter to continue the work which has thus been begun. In the advanced course, which is to follow the present one, we shall have to reconsider from a higher point of view many of the subjects already treated, and in addition to take up such topics as the ethics of the professions, the ethics of friendship, conjugal ethics, etc., which have here been omitted.

I shall also attempt to indicate the lines for a systematic study of biographies, and to lay out a course of selected readings from the best ethical literature of ancient and modern times.

APPENDIX. THE INFLUENCE OF MANUAL TRAINING ON CHARACTER.[23]

Manual training has recently been suggested as one of the means of combating the criminal tendency in the young, and this suggestion is being received with increasing favor. But until now the theory of manual training has hardly begun to be worked out. The confidence which is expressed in it is based, for the most part, on unclassified experience. But experience without theory is altogether insufficient. Theory, it is true, without experience is without feet to stand. But experience without the guiding and directing help of theory is without eyes to see. I shall now offer, in a somewhat tentative way, a few remarks intended to be a contribution to the philosophy of manual training as applied to the reformation of delinquent children. I shall confine myself, however, to one type of criminality in children—a not uncommon type—that of moral deterioration arising from weakness of the will.

In the first place, let us distinguish between feeling, desiring, and willing. A person who is without food feels hunger. A person who, being hungry, calls up in his mind images of food, will experience a desire. A person who adopts means to obtain food performs an act of the will. A Russian prisoner in Siberia who suffers from the restraints of confinement is in a state of feeling. The same person, when he recalls images of home and friends, is in a state of desire; but when he sets about adopting the means to effect his escape, concerts signals with his fellow-prisoners, undermines the walls of his dungeon, etc., he is performing acts of the will. Permit me to call particular attention to the fact that the will is characterized at its birth by the intellectual factor which enters into it; for the calculation of means to ends is an intellectual process, and every conscious act of volition involves such a process. If the will is thus characterized at its birth, we can at once anticipate the conclusion that any will will be strong in proportion as the intellectual factor in it predominates. It was said by one of the speakers that "an ounce of affection is better than a ton of intellect." Give me a proper mixture of the two. Give me at least an ounce of intellect together with an ounce of affection. There is great danger lest we exaggerate the importance of the emotions for morality. The opinion is widely entertained that good feeling, kind feeling, loving feeling, is the whole of morality, or, at least, the essential factor in it. But this opinion is surely erroneous. The will may be compared to the power which propels a ship through the waves. Feeling is the rudder. The intellect is the helmsman.

Let me give illustrations to bring into view the characteristics of a strong and of a weak will. Great inventors, great statesmen, great reformers, illustrate strength of will. We note in them especially tenacity of purpose and a marvelous faculty for adjusting and readjusting means to ends. Persons who are swayed by the sensual appetites illustrate weakness of will. We note in them vacillation of purpose, and the power of adjusting means to ends only in its rudimentary form. The ideas of virtue are complex. No one can illustrate virtue on a high plane unless he is capable of holding in mind long trains and complex groups of ideas. The lowest vices, on the other hand, are distinguished by the circumstance that the ends to which they look are simple, and the means employed often of the crudest kind. Thus, suppose that a person of weak will is hungry. He knows that gold will buy food. He adopts the readiest way to get gold. Incapable of that long and complex method of attaining his end, which is exhibited, for instance, by the farmer who breaks the soil, plants the corn, watches his crops, and systematizes his labors from the year's beginning to its end, he takes the shortest road toward the possession of gold—he stretches forth his hand and takes it where he finds it. The man of weak will, who has a grudge against his rival, is not capable of putting forth a sustained and complex series of efforts toward obtaining satisfaction, for instance, by laboring arduously to outstrip his rival. He is, furthermore, incapable of those larger considerations, those complex groups of ideas relating to society and its permanent interests, which check the angry passions in the educated. He gives free and immediate rein to the passion as it rises. He takes the readiest means of getting satisfaction: he draws the knife and kills. The man of weak will, who burns with sensual desire, assaults the object of his desire. The virtues depend in no small degree on the power of serial and complex thinking. Those vices which are due to weakness of will are characterized by the crudeness of the aim and the crudeness of the means.

To strengthen the will, therefore, it is necessary to give to the person of weak will the power to think connectedly, and especially to reach an end by long and complex trains of means.

Let us pause here for a moment to elucidate this point by briefly considering a type of criminality which is familiar to all guardians of delinquent children. This type is marked by a group of salient traits, which may be roughly described as follows: Mental incoherency is the first. The thoughts of the child are, as it were, slippery, tending to glide past one another without mutual attachments. A second trait is indolence. A third, deficiency in the sense of shame; to which may be added that the severest punishments fail to act as deterrents.

Mental incoherency is the leading trait, and supplies the key for the understanding of the others. Lack of connectedness between ideas is the radical defect. Each idea, as it rises, becomes an impulse, and takes effect to the full limit of its suggestions. A kind thought rises in the mind of such a child, and issues in a demonstrative impulse of affection. Shortly after, a cruel thought may rise in the mind of the same child; and the cruel thought will, in like manner, take effect in a cruel act. Children answering to this type are alternately kind, affectionate, and cruel. The child's indolence is due to the same cause—lack of connectedness between ideas. It is incapable of sustained effort, because every task implies the ability to pass from one idea to related ideas. The child is deficient in shame, because the sense of shame depends on a vivid realization of the idea of self. The idea of self, however, is a complex idea, which is not distinctly and clearly present to such a child. Lastly, the most severe punishments fail to act as deterrents for the same reason. The two impressions left in the mind, "I did a wrong," "I suffered a pain," lie apart. The memory of one does not excite the recollection of the other. The thought of the wrong does not lift permanently into consciousness the thought of the pain which followed. The punishment, as we say, is quickly forgotten. If, therefore, we wish to remedy a deep-seated defect of this kind, if we wish to cure a weak will, in such and all similar cases we must seek to establish a closer connection between the child's ideas.

The question may now be asked, Why should we not utilize to this end the ordinary studies of the school curriculum—history, geography, arithmetic, etc.? All of these branches exercise and develop the faculty of serial and complex thinking. Any sum in multiplication gives a training of this kind. Let the task be to multiply a multiplicand of four figures by a multiplier of three. First the child must multiply every figure in the multiplicand by the units of the multiplier and write down the result; then by the tens, and then by the hundreds, and combine these results. Here is a lesson in combination, in serial, and, for a young child, somewhat complex thinking. Let the task be to bound the State of New York. The child must see the mental picture of the State in its relation to other States and parts of States, to lakes and rivers and mountains—a complex group of ideas. Or, let it be required to give a brief account of the American Revolution. Here is a whole series of events, each depending on the preceding ones. Why, then, may we not content ourselves with utilizing the ordinary studies of the school curriculum? There are two reasons.

First, because history, geography, and arithmetic are not, as a rule, interesting to young children, especially not to young children of the class with which we are now dealing. These listless minds are not easily roused to an interest in abstractions. Secondly, it is a notorious fact that intellectual culture, pure and simple, is quite consistent with weakness of the will. A person may have very high intellectual attainments, and yet be morally deficient. I need hardly warn my reflective hearers that, when emphasizing the importance for the will of intellectual culture, I had in mind the intellectual process as applied to acts. To cultivate the intellect in its own sphere of contemplation and abstraction, apart from action, may leave the will precisely as feeble as it was before.

And now, all that has been said thus far converges upon the point that has been in view from the beginning—the importance of manual training as an element in disciplining the will. Manual training fulfills the conditions I have just alluded to. It is interesting to the young, as history, geography, and arithmetic often are not. Precisely those pupils who take the least interest or show the least aptitude for literary study are often the most proficient in the workshop and the modeling-room. Nature has not left these neglected children without beautiful compensations. If they are deficient in intellectual power, they are all the more capable of being developed on their active side. Thus, manual training fulfills the one essential condition—it is interesting. It also fulfills the second. By manual training we cultivate the intellect in close connection with action. Manual training consists of a series of actions which are controlled by the mind, and which react on it. Let the task assigned be, for instance, the making of a wooden box. The first point to be gained is to attract the attention of the pupil to the task. A wooden box is interesting to a child, hence this first point will be gained. Lethargy is overcome, attention is aroused. Next, it is important to keep the attention fixed on the task: thus only can tenacity of purpose be cultivated. Manual training enables us to keep the attention of the child fixed upon the object of study, because the latter is concrete. Furthermore, the variety of occupations which enter into the making of the box constantly refreshes this interest after it has once been started. The wood must be sawed to line. The boards must be carefully planed and smoothed. The joints must be accurately worked out and fitted. The lid must be attached with hinges. The box must be painted or varnished. Here is a sequence of means leading to an end, a series of operations all pointing to a final object to be gained, to be created. Again, each of these means becomes in turn and for the time being a secondary end; and the pupil thus learns, in an elementary way, the lesson of subordinating minor ends to a major end. And, when finally the task is done, when the box stands before the boy's eyes a complete whole, a serviceable thing, sightly to the eyes, well adapted to its uses, with what a glow of triumph does he contemplate his work! The pleasure of achievement now comes in to crown his labor; and this sense of achievement, in connection with the work done, leaves in his mind a pleasant after-taste, which will stimulate him to similar work in the future. The child that has once acquired, in connection with the making of a box, the habits just described, has begun to master the secret of a strong will, and will be able to apply the same habits in other directions and on other occasions.

Or let the task be an artistic one. And let me here say that manual training is incomplete unless it covers art training. Many otherwise excellent and interesting experiments in manual training fail to give satisfaction because they do not include this element. The useful must flower into the beautiful, to be in the highest sense useful. Nor is it necessary to remind those who have given attention to the subject of education how important is the influence of the beautiful is in refining the sentiments and elevating the nature of the young. Let the task, then, be to model a leaf, a vase, a hand, a head. Here again we behold the same advantages as in the making of the box. The object is concrete, and therefore suitable for minds incapable of grasping abstractions. The object can be constantly kept before the pupil's eyes. There is gradual approximation toward completeness, and at last that glow of triumph! What child is not happy if he has produced something tangible, something that is the outgrowth of his own activity, especially if it be something which is charming to every beholder?

And now let me briefly summarize certain conclusions to which reflection has led me in regard to the subject of manual training in reformatory institutions. Manual training should be introduced into every reformatory. In New York city we have tested a system of work-shop lessons for children between six and fourteen. There is, I am persuaded, no reason why manual training should not be applied to the youngest children in reformatories. Manual training should always include art training. The labor of the children of reformatories should never be let to contractors. I heartily agree with what was said on that subject this morning. The pupils of reformatories should never make heads of pins or the ninetieth fraction of a shoe. Let there be no machine work. Let the pupils turn out complete articles, for only thus can the full intellectual and moral benefits of manual training be reaped. Agriculture, wherever the opportunities are favorable, offers, on the whole, the same advantages as manual training, and should be employed if possible, in connection with it.

I have thus far attempted to show how the will can be made strong. But a strong will is not necessarily a good will. It is true, there are influences in manual training, as it has been described, which are favorable to a virtuous disposition. Squareness in things is not without relation to squareness in action and in thinking. A child that has learned to be exact—that is, truthful—in his work will be predisposed to be scrupulous and truthful in his speech, in his thought, in his acts. The refining and elevating influence of artistic work I have already mentioned. But, along with and over and above all these influences, I need hardly say to you that, in the remarks which I have offered this evening, I have all along taken for granted the continued application of those tried and excellent methods which prevail in our best reformatories. I have taken for granted that isolation from society, which shuts out temptation; that routine of institutional life, which induces regularity of habit; that strict surveillance of the whole body of inmates and of every individual, which prevents excesses of the passions, and therefore starves them into disuse. I have taken for granted the cultivation of the emotions, the importance of which I am the last to undervalue. I have taken for granted the influence of good example, good literature, good music, poetry, and religion. All I have intended to urge is that between good feeling and the realization of good feeling there exists, in persons whose will-power is weak, a hiatus, and that manual training is admirably adapted to fill that hiatus.

There is another advantage to be noted in connection with manual training—namely, that it develops the property sense. What, after all, apart from artificial social convention, is the foundation of the right of property? On what basis does it rest? I have a proprietary right in my own thoughts. I have a right to follow my tastes in the adornment of my person and my house. I have a right to the whole sphere of my individuality, my selfhood; and I have a right in things so far as I use them to express my personality. The child that has made a wooden box has put a part of himself into the making of that box—his thought, his patience, his skill, his toil—and therefore the child feels that that box is in a certain sense his own. And as only those who have the sense of ownership are likely to respect the right of ownership in others, we may by manual training cultivate the property sense of the child; and this, in the case of the delinquent child, it will be admitted, is no small advantage.

I have confined myself till now to speaking of the importance of manual training in its influence on the character of delinquent children. I wish to add a few words touching the influence of manual training on character in general, and its importance for children of all classes of society. I need not here speak of the value of manual training to the artisan class. That has been amply demonstrated of late by the many technical and art schools which the leading manufacturing nations of Europe have established and are establishing. I need not speak of the value of manual training to the future surgeon, dentist, scientist, and to all those who require deftness of hand in the pursuit of their vocations. But I do wish to speak of the value of manual training to the future lawyer and clergyman, and to all those who will perhaps never be called upon to labor with their hands. Precisely because they will not labor with their hands is manual training so important for them—in the interest of an all-round culture—in order that they may not be entirely crippled on one side of their nature. The Greek legend says that the giant Antæus was invincible so long as his feet were planted on the solid earth. We need to have a care that our civilization shall remain planted on the solid earth. There is danger lest it may be developed too much into the air—that we may become too much separated from those primal sources of strength from which mankind has always drawn its vitality. The English nobility have deliberately adopted hunting as their favorite pastime. They follow as a matter of physical exercise, in order to keep up their physical strength, a pursuit which the savage man followed from necessity. The introduction of athletics in colleges is a move in the same direction. But it is not sufficient to maintain our physical strength, our brute strength, the strength of limb and muscle. We must also preserve that spiritualized strength which we call skill—the tool-using faculty, the power of impressing on matter the stamp of mind. And the more machinery takes the place of human labor, the more necessary will it be to resort to manual training as a means of keeping up skill, precisely as we have resorted to athletics as a means of keeping up strength.

There is one word more I have to say in closing. Twenty-five years ago, as the recent memories of Gettysburg recall to us, we fought to keep this people a united nation. Then was State arrayed against State. To-day class is beginning to be arrayed against class. The danger is not yet imminent, but it is sufficiently great to give us thought. The chief source of the danger, I think, lies in this, that the two classes of society have become so widely separated by difference of interests and pursuits that they no longer fully understand one another, and misunderstanding is the fruitful source of hatred and dissension. This must not continue. The manual laborer must have time and opportunity for intellectual improvement. The intellectual classes, on the other hand, must learn manual labor; and this they can best do in early youth, in the school, before the differentiation of pursuits has yet begun. Our common schools are rightly so named. The justification of their support by the State is not, I think, as is sometimes argued, that the State should give a sufficient education to each voter to enable him at least to read the ballot which he deposits. This is but a poor equipment for citizenship at best. The justification for the existence of our common schools lies rather in the bond of common feeling which they create between the different classes of society. And it is this bond of common feeling woven in childhood that has kept and must keep us a united people. Let manual training, therefore, be introduced into the common schools; let the son of the rich man learn, side by side with the son of the poor man, to labor with his hands; let him thus practically learn to respect labor; let him learn to understand what the dignity of manual labor really means, and the two classes of society, united at the root, will never thereafter entirely grow asunder.

A short time ago I spent an afternoon with a poet whose fame is familiar to all. There was present in the company a gentleman of large means, who, in the course of conversation, descanted upon the merits of the protective system, and spoke in glowing terms of the growth of the industries of his State and of the immense wealth which is being accumulated in its large cities. The aged poet turned to him, and said: "That is all very well. I like your industries and your factories and your wealth; but, tell me, do they turn out men down your way?" That is the question which we are bound to consider. Is this civilization of ours turning out men—manly men and womanly women? Now, it is a cheering and encouraging thought that technical labor, which is the source of our material aggrandizement, may also become, when employed in the education of the young, the means of enlarging their manhood, quickening their intellect, and strengthening their character.

THE END.

FOOTNOTE:

[23] An address delivered before the National Conference of Charities and Correction, at Buffalo, July, 1888.

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