FOOTNOTES:

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 thejudgment, related in I Kings, iii. We may compare with it a similar story, showing, however, interesting variations, in the Jātaka tales.

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:[11]In his Introduction to Homer.[12]I have taken the liberty of altering the language here and there, for reasons that will be obvious in each case.

[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.

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 nowI 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 ofdifficulties 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 oftenfind 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 advanceupon 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 shoreHe sat and sorrowed. And oft in tearsAnd sighs and vain repinings passed the hours,Gazing with wet eyes on the barren deep."[14]

"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 shamelesslyconsume 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 yetThe nobly born Ulysses shall escapeThe doom of death and come to us again."

"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 passagein 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.

"AloneThe daughter of Alcinous kept her place,For Pallas gave her courage and forbadeHer limb to tremble. So she waited there."

"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 beneathThe lofty roof of that magnanimous kingA glory shone as of the summer moons."

"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 maidsHad seen him bathed, and had anointed himWith 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, stoodBeside 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 landRemember thou hast owed thy life to me.'"

"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 wifeAnd honored her as nowhere else on earthIs any woman honored who bears chargeOver a husband's household. From their heartsHer children pay her reverence, and the kingAnd all the people, for they look on herAs if she were a goddess. When she goesAbroad into the streets, all welcome herWith acclamations. Never does she failIn wise discernment, but decides disputesKindly and justly between man and man.And if thou gain her favor there is hopeThat thou mayst see thy friends once more."

"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 thefilial conductof 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 heartSank as she heard. Long time she could not speak;Her eyes were filled with tears, and her clear voiceWas 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 boyUnused to hardship and unskilled to dealWith strangers. More I sorrow for his sakeThan for his father's. I am filled with fear."

"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 boyUnused to hardship and unskilled to dealWith strangers. More I sorrow for his sakeThan for his father's. I am filled with fear."

"... 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 beencompleted, 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 hispresence of mindamid 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 connectionmay 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 theveneration 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 ofhis 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 deathCame suddenly as he had seenUlysses, absent now for twenty years."

"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, tossedby 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 mightAnd valor dost possess thy wife again.And nobly minded is thy blameless queen,The daughter of Icarius, faithfullyRemembering him to whom she gave her trothWhile yet a virgin. Never shall the fameOf his great valor perish, and the godsThemselves shall frame, for those who dwell on earth,Sweet strains in praise of sage Penelope."

"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 contentmyself 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 thetribute 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.

[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.

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 themreason 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 willsuffice 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 preciousvase. 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 thefacts" 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 intendedto 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-tellingceases. 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 alonejustifies 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 wearebound 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. Iam 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 callAnschauung, 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 repeatthemselves 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 ofmoral 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 isto 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 forknowledge, 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 roomseemed. 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 ignorantperson 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.

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 underany 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 thereare 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-strickensinner 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 thesweetest, 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 referin extensoto 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 humansacrifices, 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 exceptionalcases, 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. Youngpeople 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 condemnedas 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.

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