Achilles took on Agamemnon, for depriving him of his mistress, Briseis,
while engaged in the siege of Troy—with the long train of evils which
followed. The admirers of Homer have pretended to discover in the work
the most profound art in the construction of the poem, and have hence
deduced rules for the formation of the epic poem; but nothing is more
clear than that, in the simple lines of Homer, the poet had no other
guide than a profound knowledge of human nature and human sympathies;
and that he only sought to operate on these by telling a plain story,
in the most simple, yet effective manner. The absence of all art is
one of the chief characteristics of the Iliad;—its naturalness is the
great secret of its power.
That this poem is the greatest of human productions—a point often
assumed—is by no means to be received as true. It strikes us with
wonder, when we consider the age in which it was composed, and we
feel that Homer was indeed one of the great lights of the world. The
following passage, one of the finest in the Iliad, is full of truth,
nature and pathos—and it shows that the heroes of Troy, nearly three
thousand years ago, had the same feelings and sympathies as those which
beat in the bosoms of our time; yet we can point to a great number of
passages in modern poems, far, very far superior to this. The scene
represents Priam—who has come to the Greek camp for the purpose of
redeeming the body of his son Hector—as addressing the chieftain,
Achilles:
“Think, O Achilles, semblance of the gods!
On thy own father, full of days like me,
And trembling on the gloomy verge of life:
Some neighbor chief, it may be, even now,
Oppresses him, and there is none at hand,
No friend to succor him in his distress;
Yet doubtless, hearing that Achilles lives,
He still rejoices, hoping day by day,
That one day he shall see the face again
Of his own son from distant Troy returned.
But me no comfort cheers, whose bravest sons,
So late the flower of Ilium, all are slain.
When Greece came hither, I had fifty sons;
Nineteen were children of one bed; the rest
Born of my concubines. A numerous house!
But fiery Mars hath thinned it. One I had,
One, more than all my sons, the strength of Troy,
Whom standing for his country thou hast slain,—
Hector. His body to redeem I come;
Into Achia’s fleet bringing myself
Ransom inestimable to thy tent.
Rev’rence the gods, Achilles! recollect
Thy father; for his sake compassion show
To me, more pitiable still, who draw
Home to my lips (humiliation yet
Unseen on earth) his hand who slew my son!
“So saying, he awakened in his soul regret
Of his own sire; softly he placed his hand
On Priam’s hand, and pushed him gently away.
Remembrance melted both. Rolling before
Achilles feet, Priam his son deplored,
Wide slaughtering Hector, and Achilles wept
By turns his father, and by turns his friend
Patroclus: sounds of sorrow filled the tent.”
Beside the Iliad, another epic, divided into twenty-four books, and
entitled the Odyssey, with a number of smaller pieces, are attributed
to Homer, and doubtless upon good and substantial grounds. The Odyssey
is a tale of adventures, like Robinson Crusoe, and Sinbad the Sailor,
heightened by an object, and dignified by a moral far above these
works. It tells us what befel Ulysses, in returning from the siege of
Troy to his home in Greece; and is wrought up with wonderful powers
of invention and fancy. It is esteemed inferior, on the whole, to the
Iliad, and an eminent critic has said, that, in the former, Homer
appears like the rising, and in the latter, like the setting sun.
[Illustration]
[Footnote 15: These Marbles consist of a large collection of busts,
statues, altars, inscriptions, mutilated figures, &c., formed by Thomas
Howard, Earl of Arundel, in the early part of the seventeenth century,
and presented to the University of Oxford, by Henry Howard, the earl’s
grandson. They were obtained in various parts of Greece; many are of
great antiquity and of great value, as well for the light they shed
upon history as upon the arts, customs, and manners of past ages.]
[Illustration]
CONFUCIUS.
This greatest of Chinese philosophers was born in the petty kingdom
of Lú, now the province of Shántung, in the year 549 B. C.—the same
year that Cyrus became king of the Medes and Persians. The Chinese,
in their embellishments of his history, tell us that his birth was
attended with heavenly music, filling the air; that two dragons were
seen winding over the roof; that five old men appeared at the door,
and after consulting together, suddenly vanished; and that a unicorn
brought to his mother a tablet in his mouth. It is also related that
when he was born, five characters were seen on his breast, declaring
him to be “the maker of a rule for settling the world.” These and other
marvels are a part of the established biography of the philosopher, as
received by the Chinese.
The father of Confucius, who was a magistrate of the district where he
lived, died when the son was but three years old. The latter was poor
and unknown during his youth—though his gravity and attention to study
attracted the attention of his townsmen. When he approached manhood, he
was esteemed remarkable for his wisdom, and equal to the learned men of
the country in his knowledge of antiquity.
At the age of seventeen he received an appointment as clerk in the
grain department of the government; and so attentive was he in his
trust, as, two years after, to be advanced to the general supervision
of the fields and parks, and the breeding of cattle. About this time
he was married, and two years after, his only son was born. Upon this
occasion, Lord Cháu the governor of Lú, sent him two carp as a present,
and accordingly Confucius named his son Lí or Carp. His humor went even
farther, and he gave the boy the additional title of Piyü, or Uncle
Fish.
At the age of twenty-four, Confucius lost his mother, whom he buried in
the same grave with his father, who had been dead some time. He then
resigned his office, that he might mourn three years for his mother,
according to the ancient custom of the country. This practice had
fallen into neglect, and, consequently, the example of Confucius, in
following the holy custom of the fathers of the country, gained him
great renown for his piety. His reputation was thus extended, and his
example began to be followed.
The three years of his mourning were not lost—for he then devoted
himself to study. He diligently examined the books of the old authors,
seeking to discover the means by which the ancient kings and sages
sought to attain the perfection of morals. The result was, a conviction
that the social virtues were best cultivated by an observance of the
ancient usages of the country; and accordingly he resolved to devote
his life to them, and to their permanent establishment in China. This
great work he accomplished; and if we consider the effect he has
produced on the most populous nation of the globe, and during a space
of nearly two thousand years, we shall perceive the mighty consequence
of his labors. The actual amount of influence he has exercised, perhaps
exceeds that of any other human being, save Aristotle alone.
Appearing to have a clear view of his great work, Confucius entered
upon it with systematic diligence. He resolved to establish schools
where his philosophy should be taught to pupils who would go forth and
spread his doctrines through the empire. He also proposed to write a
series of books, setting forth his views. All these things he lived to
accomplish.
The greater part of the life of Confucius was passed in travelling,
visiting the courts of the petty princes, whose states then constituted
the empire under the sovereign of the Chán dynasty. This course was,
as might be expected, fruitless in reforming these states, but it
diffused a general knowledge of himself and his doctrines, and procured
him scholars. The prince of Tsí was the first who invited him to his
court, and received him with distinction. This potentate heard him with
pleasure, and applauded his maxims; but, to the chagrin of Confucius,
he continued to live in luxury, and to allow his ministers to oppress
his subjects and abuse their power. He, however, offered him for his
maintenance the revenue of a considerable city, which the philosopher
thought proper to decline, alleging that he had done nothing to merit
such a recompense. After sojourning a year in Tsí, and seeing that his
discourse produced no effect to reform the abuses and evils of the
country, he left it, and visited some of the principal cities of China.
On the road between Tsí and Chin, he fell into a difficulty. The prince
of Wú having attacked Chin, the lord of Tsú came to his relief, and
sent an invitation to Confucius to join him; but the other party,
fearing that he would do them a disservice, sent people to intercept
him. They surrounded him in the wilderness, and would have starved him
to death, had not a friend come to his relief, after a detention of
seven days. After this narrow escape, he returned home and the prince
of Lú gave him a carriage, two horses and a servant, with which he set
off for King-yang, the capital of the empire. Here he passed his time
in observing the forms of government, the condition of the people and
their manners, and how the rites and ceremonies of the ancient kings
were regarded. He held several interviews with the ministers of the
court, was permitted to visit the emperor’s ancestral hall, and other
sacred places, and had access to the archives of the kingdom, from
which he was allowed to take extracts.
One object in the visit of Confucius to the capital, was to see
Láutsz’, the founder of the Táu sect, or Rationalists, who lived in
a retired place, some distance from court. This old philosopher,
accustomed to visits from men of all ranks, received Confucius and his
disciples with indifference. He was reclining on an elevated platform,
and hearing that his visitor had come to hear from his own mouth an
exposition of his tenets, and to ask him about _propriety_, he roused
himself to receive him. “I have heard speak of you,” says he, “and I
know your reputation. I am told that you talk only of the ancients,
and discourse only upon what they taught. Now, of what use is it to
endeavor to revive the memory of men of whom no trace remains on the
earth? The sage ought to interest himself with the times in which he
lives, and regard present circumstances; if they are favorable, he
will improve them; but if, on the contrary, they are unfavorable, he
will retire and wait tranquilly, without grieving at what others do.
He who possesses a treasure, will try to have everybody know it; he
will preserve it against the day of need; this you will do if you are a
sage. It seems, judging by your conduct, that you have some ostentation
in your plans of instruction and that you are proud. Correct these
faults, and purify your heart from all love of pleasure; you will, in
this way, be much more useful than seeking to know what the ancients
said.”
Láutsz’ also observed, “A discreet merchant keeps his affairs to
himself as if he knew nothing; an excellent man, although highly
intelligent, demeans himself like an ignorant man.” Confucius remarked
to his disciples, “I have seen Láutsz’; have I not seen something
like a dragon?” On leaving him, Láutsz’ said, “I have heard that
the rich dismiss their friends with a present, and the benevolent
send away people with a word of advice; whoever is talented, and
prying into everything, will run himself into danger, because he
loves to satirize and slander men; and he who wishes to thoroughly
understand recondite things will jeopard his safety, because he loves
to publish the failings of men.” Confucius replied, “I respectfully
receive your instructions,” and thus left him. Láutsz’ advice seemed
directed against a too inquisitive philosophy, and meddling too much
in the affairs of the world; he was rather of the Budhistic school of
quietists, while Confucius wished men to endeavor to make each other
better.
Confucius, like Aristotle and other masters, used to teach his
disciples while walking with them, deriving instruction from what they
saw. Once, while walking with them by the bank of a stream, he stopped
from time to time to look very intently at the water, until their
attention was excited, and they were induced to ask him the reason of
his conduct. He replied, “The running of water in its bed is a very
simple thing, the reason of which everybody knows. I was, however,
rather making a comparison in my own mind between the running of water
and doctrine. The water, I reflected, runs unceasingly, by day and by
night, until it is lost in the bosom of the mighty deep. Since the days
of Yáu and Shun, the pure doctrine has uninterruptedly descended to us:
let us in our turn transmit it to those who come after us, that they,
from our example, may give it to their descendants to the end of time.
Do not imitate those isolated men, (referring to Láutsz’,) who are
wise only for themselves. To communicate the knowledge and virtue we
possess, to others, will never impoverish ourselves. This is one of the
reflections I would make upon the running of water.”
This peripatetic habit, and the aptitude for drawing instruction from
whatever would furnish instruction, was usual with the philosopher,
and he seldom omitted to improve an occasion. Once, when walking in
the fields, he perceived a fowler, who, having drawn in his nets,
distributed the birds he had taken into different cages. On coming up
to him to ascertain what he had caught, Confucius attentively remarked
the vain efforts of the captive birds to regain their liberty, until
his disciples gathered round him, when he addressed the fowler,—“I do
not see any old birds here; where have you put them?” “The old birds,”
said he, “are too wary to be caught; they are on the look-out, and if
they see a net or a cage, far from falling into the snare, they escape,
and never return. Those young ones which are in company with them,
likewise escape, but such only as separate into a flock by themselves,
and rashly approach, are the birds I catch. If perchance I catch an old
bird, it is because he follows the young ones.”
“You have heard him,” said Confucius, turning to his disciples; “the
words of this fowler afford us matter for instruction. The young
birds escape the snare only when they keep with the old ones; the old
ones are taken when they follow the young. It is thus with mankind.
Presumption, hardihood, want of forethought, and inattention are the
principal reasons why young people are led astray. Inflated with their
small attainments, they have scarcely made a commencement in learning,
before they think they know everything; they have scarcely performed
a few virtuous acts, and straight they fancy themselves at the height
of wisdom. Under this false impression they doubt nothing; they rashly
undertake acts without consulting the aged and experienced, and thus,
securely following their own notions, they are misled, and fall into
the first snare laid for them. If you see an old man of sober years so
badly advised as to be taken with the giddiness of a youth, attached
to him, and thinking and acting with him, he is led astray by him, and
soon taken in the same snare. Do not forget the answer of the fowler,
but reflect on it occasionally.”
Having completed his observations at the capital, Confucius returned,
by the way of Tsí, to his native state of Lú, where he remained ten
years. His house now became a sort of lyceum, open to every one who
wished to receive instruction. His manner of teaching was to allow
his disciples or others to come and go when they pleased, asking
his opinion on such points, either in morals, politics, history, or
literature, as they wished to have explained. He gave them the liberty
of choosing their subject, and then he discoursed upon it. From these
conversations and detached expressions of the philosopher, treasured
up by his disciples, they afterwards composed Lun Yü, now one of the
Four Books. Confucius, it is said, numbered upwards of three thousand
disciples, or perhaps we ought to call them advocates or hearers
of his doctrine. They consisted of men of all ranks and ages, who
attended upon him when their duties or inclinations permitted, and
who materially assisted in diffusing a knowledge of his tenets over
the whole country. There were, however, a select few, who attached
themselves to his person, lived with him, and followed him wherever he
went; and to whom he entrusted the promulgation of his doctrines.
After several years of retirement, Confucius was called into public
life. The prince of Lú died, and his son, entertaining a great respect
for the philosopher, and esteem for his instructions, invited him to
court, in order to learn his doctrines more fully. After becoming well
acquainted with him, and reposing confidence in his integrity, the
young ruler committed the entire management of the state to him; and
the activity, courage, and disinterested conduct which he exhibited
in the exercise of his power, soon had the happiest effect upon the
country. By his wise rules and the authority of his example and his
maxims he soon reformed many vicious practices, and introduced
sobriety and order, in the place of waste and injustice. He occupied
himself with agriculture, and regulated the revenue and the manner of
receiving it; so that, in consequence of his measures, the productions
of the state were increased, the happiness of the people was extended,
and the revenue considerably augmented.
He carried his reforms into every department of justice, in which, soon
after he entered upon his duties as minister, he had an opportunity of
exhibiting his inflexibility. One of the most powerful nobles of the
state had screened himself from the just punishment due to his many
crimes, under the dread of his power and riches, and the number of his
retainers. Confucius caused him to be arrested, and gave order for his
trial; and when the overwhelming proofs brought forward had convinced
all of his guilt, he condemned him to lose his head, and presided
himself at the execution. This wholesome severity struck a dread into
other men of rank, and likewise obtained the plaudits of all men of
sense, as well as of the people, who saw in the minister a courageous
protector, ready to defend them against the tyranny of men in power.
These salutary reforms had not been long in operation, before the
neighboring states took alarm at the rising prosperity of Lú; and the
prince of Tsí, who had recently usurped the throne by assassinating
its occupant, resolved to ruin the plans of Confucius. To this end he
appointed an envoy to the young prince, with whose character he was
well acquainted, desiring to renew the ancient league of friendship
between the two countries. This envoy was charged with thirty-five
horses, beautifully caparisoned, a large number of curious rarities,
and twenty-four of the most accomplished courtesans he could procure in
his dominions. The scheme succeeded; before these seductive damsels,
the austere etiquette of the court of Lú soon gave way, and fetes,
comedies, dances, and concerts, took the place of propriety and
decorum. The presence of the sage soon became irksome to his master,
and he at last forbid him to come into his sight, having become quite
charmed with the fair enchantresses, and no longer able to endure the
remonstrances of his minister.
Confucius, thus disgraced in his own country, and now at the age of
fifty, left it, and retired to the kingdom of Wei, where he remained
more than ten years, without seeking to exercise any public office,
but principally occupied with completing his works, and instructing
his disciples in his doctrines. During his residence in Wei, he
frequently made excursions into other states, taking with him such of
his disciples as chose to accompany him. He was at times applauded
and esteemed, but quite as often was the object of persecution and
contempt. More than once his life was endangered. He compared himself
to a dog driven from his home: “I have the fidelity of that animal,
and I am treated like it. But what matters the ingratitude of men?
They cannot hinder me from doing all the good that is appointed me. If
my precepts are disregarded, I have the consolation in my own breast
of knowing that I have faithfully performed my duty.” He sometimes
spoke in a manner that showed his own impression to be that Heaven had
conferred on him a special commission to instruct the world. When an
attempt was made on his life, he said, “As Heaven has produced such a
degree of virtue in me, what can Hwántúi do to me?” On another occasion
of danger, he said, “If Heaven means not to obliterate this doctrine
from the earth, the men of Kwáng can do nothing to me.”
At the age of sixty-eight, after an absence of eighteen years,
Confucius returned to his native country, where he lived a life of
retirement, employed in putting the finishing hand to his works. In his
sixty-sixth year, his wife died, and his son, Piyü, mourned for her a
whole year; but one day overhearing his father say, “Ah! it is carried
too far;” he dried up his tears. Three years after this, this son also
died, leaving a son, Tsz’sz’, who afterwards emulated his grandfather’s
fame as a teacher, and became the author of the Chung Yung, or True
Medium. The next year, Yen Hwui, the favorite disciple of the sage,
died, whose loss he bitterly mourned, saying, “Heaven has destroyed me!
heaven has destroyed me!” He had great hopes of this pupil, and had
depended upon him to perpetuate his doctrines.
An anecdote is related of him about this time of life, which the
Chinese regard as highly creditable to their sage. Tsz’kung, one of his
disciples, was much surprised one morning to meet his master at the
door, dressed with much elegance and nicety. On asking him where he was
going, Confucius, with a sigh, replied, “I am going to court, and that
too, without being invited. I have not been able to resist a feeling
which possesses me to make a last effort to bring a just punishment
upon Chin Chen, the usurper of the throne of Tsí. I am prepared by
purification and fasting, for this audience, so that if I fail, I shall
not have to accuse myself.” On presenting himself, he was received with
respect, and immediately admitted to an audience; and the prince of Lú
asked him what important affair had called him from his retirement.
Confucius, replied: “Sire, that which I have to communicate, alike
concerns all kings. The perfidious Chin Chen has imbued his hands in
the blood of his legitimate sovereign, Kien. You are a prince; your
state borders upon Tsí; Kien was your ally, and originally of the same
race as yourself. Any one of these reasons is sufficient to authorize
you to declare war against Chin Chen, and all of them combined make
it your duty to take up arms. Assemble your forces and march to
exterminate a monster whom the earth upholds with regret. This crime
is such that it cannot be pardoned, and, in punishing it, you will at
once avenge an outrage against heaven, from which every king derives
his power; against royalty, which has been profaned by this perfidy;
against a parent, to whom you are allied by ties of blood, alliance and
friendship.”