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Title: The Moral Instruction of Children
Author: Adler, Felix, 1851-1933
Language: English
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International Education Series
EDITED BY
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New York: D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, 1, 3, & 5 Bond Street.
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 [Greek: nous], 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 Jataka 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 Jataka 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 Jataka tales, which deserve
attention. The Jataka 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 Kulavaka-Jataka 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
Jataka 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 Jataka 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 Jataka 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 Jataka 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 Jataka 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 Jataka 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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