be arranged in a series of pictures. First picture: David and
Goliath--i. e., skill pitted against brute strength, or the deserved
punishment of a bully. Every boy takes comfort in this story. Second
picture: David and Jonathan, their arms twined about each other's neck,
a beautiful example of youthful friendship. Especially should the
unselfishness of Jonathan be noted. He, the Hebrew crown prince, so far
from being jealous of his rival, recognized the superior qualities of
the latter and served him with the most generous fidelity. Third
picture: David the harper, playing before the gloomy, moody king, whom
an evil spirit has possessed. It should be noted how difficult is the
task incumbent upon Jonathan of combining his duty to his father and his
affection for his friend. Yet he fails in neither. Fourth picture:
David's loyalty manifest. He has the monarch in his power in the camp,
in the cave, and proves that there is no evil intention in his mind. The
words of Saul are very touching, "Is it thy voice I hear, my son David?"
Fifth picture: the battle, the tragical end of Saul and Jonathan. The
dirge of David floats above the field: "The beauty of Israel is slain
upon the high places. How are the mighty fallen!" etc. A second series
of pictures now begins. David is crowned king, first by his clansmen,
then by the united tribes. David, while besieging Bethlehem, is athirst
and there is no water. Three of his soldiers cut their way to the well
near the gate, which is guarded by the enemy, and bring back a cup of
water. He refuses it, saying: "It is not water, but the blood of the men
who have risked their lives for me." Omitting the story of Bathsheba, we
come next to the rebellion of Absalom. The incidents of this rebellion
may be depicted as follows: First, Absalom in his radiant beauty at the
feast of the sheep-shearer. Next, Absalom at the gate playing the
demagogue, secretly inciting the people to revolt. Next, David ascending
Mount Olivet weeping, the base Shimei, going along a parallel ridge,
flinging stones at the king and reviling him. David remarks: "If my own
son seek my life, how shall I be angry with this Benjamite?" Next, the
death of Absalom in the wood. Finally, David at the gate receiving the
news of Absalom's death, and breaking forth into the piercing cry: "O my
son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom! would God I had died for thee! O
Absalom, my son, my son!" It is the story of a rebellious and undutiful
child, and illustrates by contrast the unfathomable depth of a father's
love, of a love that yearns even over the wicked, over the lost.
The points of the stories included in the David cycle are: skill and
courage triumphant over brute strength, unselfish friendship, loyalty, a
leader's generosity toward his followers, and parental love. The
arrangement of the words in the lament of David for his son deserves to
be specially noted. It corresponds to and vividly describes the rhythmic
movements of the emotions excited by great sorrow. From the life of
Solomon we select only the judgment, related in I Kings, iii. We may
compare with it a similar story, showing, however, interesting
variations, in the Jataka tales.
With this our selections from the Old Testament narrative come to an
end. The ideal types are exhausted, and the figures which now appear
upon the scene stand before us in the dry light of history.
From the New Testament we select for the primary course the story of the
Good Samaritan, as illustrative of true charity. Selected passages from
the Sermon on the Mount may also be explained and committed to memory.
The Beatitudes, however, and the parables lie outside our present
limits, presupposing as they do a depth of spiritual experience which is
lacking in children.
NOTE.--It should be remembered that the above selections have been
made with a view to their being included in a course of unsectarian
moral instruction. Such a course must not express the religious
tenets of any sect or denomination. Much that has here been
omitted, however, can be taught in the Sunday schools, the
existence of which alongside of the daily schools is, as I have
said, presupposed in these lectures. I have simply tried to cull
the moral meaning of the stories, leaving, as I believe, the way
open for divergent religious interpretations of the same stories.
But I realize that the religious teacher may claim the Bible wholly
for his own, and may not be willing to share even a part of its
treasure with the moral teacher. If this be so, then these
selections from the Bible, for the present, at all events, will
have to be omitted. They can, nevertheless, be used by judicious
parents, and some if not all of the suggestions they contain may
prove acceptable to teachers of Sunday schools.
FOOTNOTES:
[11] In his Introduction to Homer.
[12] I have taken the liberty of altering the language here and there,
for reasons that will be obvious in each case.
X
THE ODYSSEY AND THE ILIAD.
As we leave the field of biblical literature and turn to the classic
epic of Greece, a new scene spreads out before us, new forms and faces
crowd around us, we breathe a different atmosphere.
The poems of Homer among the Greeks occupied a place in many respects
similar to that of the Bible among the Hebrews. At Athens there was a
special ordinance that the Homeric poems should be recited once every
fourth year at the great Panathenaic festival. On this occasion the
rhapsode, standing on an elevated platform, arrayed in rich robes, with
a golden wreath about his head, addressed an audience of many thousands.
The poems were made the subject of mystical, allegorical, and
rationalistic interpretation, precisely as was the case with the text of
the Bible. As late as the first century of our era, the first book
placed in the hands of children, the book from which they learned to
read and write, was Homer. Xenophon in the Symposium has one of the
guests say: "My father, anxious that I should become a good man, made me
learn all the poems of Homer, and now I could repeat the whole Iliad
and Odyssey by heart."[13]
We shall not go quite to the same length as Xenophon. We should hardly
think it sufficient in order to make a good man of a boy to place Homer
in his hands. But we do believe that the knowledge of the Homeric poems,
introduced at the right time and in the right way, will contribute to
such a result.
Let us, however, examine more closely in what the value of these poems
consists.
Ulysses is the hero of the Odyssey, Achilles of the Iliad. Ulysses is
pre-eminently the type of resourceful intelligence, Achilles of valor.
In what way will these types appeal to our pupils? As the boy develops
beyond the early period of childhood, there shows itself in him a spirit
of adventure. This has been noticed by all careful educators. Now, there
is a marked difference between the spirit of adventure and the spirit of
play. Play consists in the free exercise of our faculties. Its
characteristic mark is the absence of taxing effort. The child is said
to be at play when it frolics in the grass, when it leaps or runs a
race, or when it imitates the doings of its elders. As soon, however, as
the exertion required in carrying on a game becomes appreciable, the
game is converted into a task and loses its charm. The spirit of
adventure, on the contrary, is called forth by obstacles; it delights in
the prospect of difficulties to be overcome; it is the sign of a fresh
and apparently boundless energy, which has not yet been taught its
limitations by the rough contact with realities. The spirit of adventure
begins to develop in children when the home life no longer entirely
contents them, when they wish to be freed from the constraint of
dependence on others, when it seems to them as if the whole world lay
open to them and they could dare and do almost anything. It is at this
time that children love to read tales of travel, and especially tales of
the sea, of shipwreck, and hair-breadth escapes, of monsters slain by
dauntless heroes, of rescue and victory, no matter how improbable or
impossible the means. Now success in such adventures depends largely on
courage. And it is good for children to have examples even of physical
courage set before them, provided it be not brutal. The craven heart
ought to be despised. Mere good intentions ought not to count. Unless
one has the resolute will, the fearless soul, that can face difficulties
and danger without flinching, he will never be able to do a man's work
in the world. This lesson should be imprinted early. A second
prerequisite of success is presence of mind, or what has been called
above resourceful intelligence. And this quality is closely allied with
the former. Presence of mind is the result of bravery. The mind will act
even in perilous situations if it be not paralyzed by fear. It is fear
that causes the wheels of thought to stop. If one can only keep off the
clog of fear, the mind will go on revolving and often find a way of
escape where there seemed none. Be not a coward, be brave and
clear-headed in the midst of peril--these are lessons the force of which
is appreciated by the growing pupil. The Iliad and Odyssey teach them on
every page.
Bravery and presence of mind, it is true, are commonly regarded as
worldly, rather than as, in the strict sense, moral qualities. However
that may be--and I, for one, am inclined to rank true courage and true
presence of mind among the highest manifestations of the moral
nature--these qualities when they show themselves in the young soon
exert a favorable influence on the whole character, and serve especially
to transform the attitude of the child toward its parents. Hitherto the
young child has been content to be the mere recipient of favors; as soon
as the new consciousness of strength, the new sense of independence and
manliness has developed, the son begins to feel that he would like to
give to his parents as well as to receive from them; to be of use to his
father, and to confer benefits, as far as he is able, in the shape of
substantial services. These remarks will find their application in the
analysis of the Odyssey, which we shall presently attempt.
The Odyssey is a tale of the sea. Ulysses is the type of sagacity, as
well as of bravery, his mind teems with inventions. In the boy
Telemachus we behold a son struggling to cut loose from his mother's
leading-strings, and laudably ambitious to be of use to his parents. In
the Odyssey we gain a distinct advance upon the moral results obtained
from the study of the biblical stories. In the Bible it is chiefly the
love of parents for their children which is dwelt upon, in the Odyssey
the devotion of children to their parents; and this, of course, marks a
later stage. In the Odyssey, too, the conjugal relation comes into the
foreground. In the Bible, the love of the husband for his wife is
repeatedly touched upon. But the love of the wife for the husband is not
equally emphasized, and the relations between the two do not receive
particular attention. The joint authority of both parents over their
children is the predominant fact, the delicate bonds of feeling which
subsist between the parents themselves are not in view. And this again
corresponds to the earlier stage of childhood. The young child perceives
the joint love which father and mother bear toward it, and feels the
joint authority which they exercise over it. But as the child grows up,
its eyes are opened to perceive more clearly the love which the parents
bear to one another, and its affection for both is fed and the desire to
serve them is strengthened by this new insight. Thus it is in the
Odyssey. The yearning of Ulysses for his wife, the fidelity of Penelope
during twenty years of separation, are the leading theme of the
narrative, and the effect of this love upon their son is apparent
throughout the poem.
Let us now consider the ethical elements of the Odyssey in some detail,
arranging them under separate heads.
1. _Conjugal affection._ Ulysses has been for seven years a prisoner in
the cave of Calypso. The nymph of the golden hair offers him the gift of
immortality if he will consent to be her husband, but he is proof
against her blandishments, and asks for nothing but to be dismissed, so
that he may see his dear home and hold his own true wife once more in
his arms.
"Apart upon the shore
He sat and sorrowed. And oft in tears
And sighs and vain repinings passed the hours,
Gazing with wet eyes on the barren deep."[14]
I would remark that, as the poem is too long to be read through
entirely, and as there are passages in it which should be omitted, it is
advisable for the teacher to narrate the story, quoting, however, such
passages as give point to the narrative or have a special beauty of
their own. Read the description of Calypso's cave v, 73, ff. Penelope
meantime is patiently awaiting her husband's return. Read the passages
which describe her great beauty, especially that lovely word-picture in
which she is described as standing by a tall column in the hall, a maid
on either side, a veil hiding her lustrous face, while she addresses the
suitors. The noblest princes of Ithaca and the surrounding isles entreat
her hand in marriage, and, thinking that Ulysses will never return, hold
high revels in his house, and shamelessly consume his wealth. Read the
passage ii, 116-160, describing Penelope's device to put off the
suitors, and at the same time to avert the danger which would have
threatened her son in case she had openly broken with the chiefs. The
love of Penelope is further set vividly before us by many delicate
touches. Every stranger who arrives in Ithaca is hospitably entertained
by the queen, and loaded with gifts, in the hope that he may bring her
some news of her absent lord, and often she is deceived by wretches who
speculate on her credulous grief. See the passage xiv, 155. During the
day she is busy with her household cares, overseeing her maids, and
seeking to divert her mind by busy occupation; but at night the silence
and the solitude become intolerable, and she weeps her eyes out on her
lonely couch. How the love of Penelope influences her boy, who was a
mere babe when his father left for Troy, how the whole atmosphere of the
house is charged with the sense of expectancy of the master's return, is
shown in the passage ii, 439, where Telemachus says:
"Nurse, let sweet wine be drawn into my jars,
The finest next to that which thou dost keep,
Expecting our unhappy lord, if yet
The nobly born Ulysses shall escape
The doom of death and come to us again."
The best cheer, the finest wine, the best of everything is kept ready
against the father's home-coming, which may be looked for any day, if
haply he has escaped the doom of death. There is one passage in which
we might suspect that the poet has intended to show the hardening effect
of grief on Penelope's character, xv, 479. Penelope does not speak to
her old servants any more; she passes them by without a word, apparently
without seeing them. She does not attend to their wants as she used to
do, and they, in turn, do not dare to address her. But we may forgive
this seeming indifference inasmuch as it only shows how completely she
is absorbed by her sorrow.
A companion picture to the love of Ulysses and Penelope is to be found
in the conjugal relation of Alcinous, king of Phaeacia, and his wife
Arete, as described in the sixth book and the following. This whole
episode is incomparably beautiful. Was there ever a more perfect
embodiment of girlish grace and modesty, coupled with sweetest
frankness, than Nausicaa? And what a series of lovely pictures is made
to pass in quick succession before our eyes as we read the story! First,
Nausicaa, moved by the desire to prepare her wedding garments against
her unknown lover's coming, not ashamed to acknowledge the motive to her
own pure heart, but veiling it discreetly before her mother; then the
band of maidens setting out upon their picnic party, Nausicaa holding
the reins; next the washing of the garments, the bath, the game of ball,
the sudden appearance of Ulysses, the flight of her companions, the
brave girl being left to keep her place alone, with a courage born of
pity for the stranger, and of virtuous womanhood.
"Alone
The daughter of Alcinous kept her place,
For Pallas gave her courage and forbade
Her limb to tremble. So she waited there."
Who that has inhaled the fragrance of her presence from these pages can
ever forget the white-armed Nausicaa! Then follows the picture of the
palace, a feast for the imagination, the most magnificent description, I
think, in the whole poem.
"For on every side beneath
The lofty roof of that magnanimous king
A glory shone as of the summer moons."
Read from l. 100-128, book vii. Next we witness the splendid hospitality
proffered to the stranger guest. For again and again in this poem the
noble sentiment is repeated, that the stranger and the poor are sent
from Jove. Then we see Ulysses engaged in the games, outdoing the rest,
or standing aside and watching "the twinkle of the dancer's feet." The
language, too, used on these occasions is strikingly noble, so courteous
and well-chosen, so simple and dignified, conveying rich meanings in the
fewest possible words. What can be finer, e. g., than Nausicaa's
farewell to Ulysses?
"Now, when the maids
Had seen him bathed, and had anointed him
With oil, and put his sumptuous mantle on,
And tunic, forth he issued from the bath,
And came to those who sat before their wine.
Nausicaa, goddess-like in beauty, stood
Beside a pillar of that noble roof,
And, looking on Ulysses as he passed,
Admired, and said to him in winged words--
'Stranger, farewell, and in thy native land
Remember thou hast owed thy life to me.'"
Nausicaa, it is evident, loves Ulysses; she stands beside a pillar, a
favorite attitude for beautiful women with Homer, and as Ulysses passes,
she addresses to him those few words so fraught with tenderness and
renunciation. Ulysses's own speech to Arete, too, is a model of
simplicity and dignity, possessing, it seems to me, something of the
same quality which we admire in the speeches of Othello. But throughout
this narrative, pre-eminent above all the other figures in it is the
figure of the queen herself, of Arete. Such a daughter as Nausicaa could
only come from such a mother. To her Ulysses is advised to address his
supplication. She is the wise matron, the peace-maker who composes the
angry feuds of the men. And she possesses the whole heart and devotion
of her husband.
"Her Alcinous made his wife
And honored her as nowhere else on earth
Is any woman honored who bears charge
Over a husband's household. From their hearts
Her children pay her reverence, and the king
And all the people, for they look on her
As if she were a goddess. When she goes
Abroad into the streets, all welcome her
With acclamations. Never does she fail
In wise discernment, but decides disputes
Kindly and justly between man and man.
And if thou gain her favor there is hope
That thou mayst see thy friends once more."
We have then as illustrations of conjugal fidelity: the main picture,
Ulysses and Penelope; the companion picture, Alcinous and Arete; and, as
a foil to set off both, there looms up every now and then in the course
of the poem, that unhappy pair, Agamemnon and Clytemnestra, the latter,
the type of conjugal infidelity, from which the soul of Homer revolts.
This foil is very skillfully used. At the very end of the poem, when
everything is hastening toward a happy consummation, Ulysses having
slain the suitors and being about to be reunited with his wife, we are
introduced into the world of shades, where the ghost of Agamemnon once
more rehearses the story of Clytemnestra's treachery. At that moment the
spirits of the suitors come flying down to Hades, and the happier
destiny of Ulysses is thus brought into clearer relief by contrast.
The next ethical element of which I have to speak is the _filial
conduct_ of Telemachus. In him the spirit of adventure has developed
into a desire to help his father. In the early part of the poem he
announces that he is now a child no longer. He begins to assert
authority. And yet in his home he continues to be treated as a child.
The suitors laugh at him, his own mother can not bear to think that he
should go out into the wide world alone, and the news of his departure
is accordingly concealed from her. Very fine are the words in which her
mother's love expresses itself when she discovers his absence:
"And her knees failed her and her heart
Sank as she heard. Long time she could not speak;
Her eyes were filled with tears, and her clear voice
Was choked; yet, finding words at length, she said:
'O herald! wherefore should my son have gone?'
"... Now, my son,
My best beloved, goes to sea--a boy
Unused to hardship and unskilled to deal
With strangers. More I sorrow for his sake
Than for his father's. I am filled with fear."
She lies outstretched upon the floor of her chamber overcome with grief
(iv, 910). Telemachus, however, has gone forth in search of his sire. He
finds a friend in Pisistratus, the son of Nestor, and the two youths
join company on the journey. They come to the court of Menelaus, King of
Sparta. There, as everywhere, Telemachus hears men speak of his great
father in terms of the highest admiration and praise, and the desire
mounts in his soul to do deeds worthy of such a parent. What better
stimulation can we offer to growing children than this recital of
Telemachus's development from boyhood into manhood? His reception at the
court of Menelaus affords an opportunity to dwell again upon the
generous and delicate hospitality of the ancient Greeks. First, the
guest is received at the gates; then conducted to the bath and anointed;
then, when he is seated on a silver or perchance a golden throne, a
handmaiden advances with a silver ewer and a golden jug to pour water on
his hands; then a noble banquet is set out for his delectation; and only
then, after all these rites of hospitality have been completed, is
inquiry made as to his name and his errand. "The stranger and the poor
are sent from Jove." The stranger and the poor were welcome in the
Grecian house. Telemachus returns to Ithaca, escapes the ambush which
the murderous suitors had set for him, and arrives just in time to help
his father in his last desperate struggle. It is he, Telemachus, who
conveys the weapons from the hall, he who pinions the treacherous
Melantheus and renders him harmless. He quits himself like a
man--discreet, able to keep his counsel, and brave and quick in the
moment of decisive action.
The third element which attracts our attention is the resourceful
intelligence of Ulysses, or his _presence of mind_ amid danger. This is
exhibited on many occasions; for instance, in the cave of Polyphemus;
where he saves his companions by concealing them in the fleece of the
giant's flock, and at the time of the great shipwreck, before he reaches
Phaeacia. His raft is shattered, and he is plunged into the sea. He
clings to one of the fragments of the wreck, but from this too is
dislodged. For two days and nights he struggles in the black, stormy
waters. At last he approaches the shore, but is nearly dashed to pieces
on the rocks. He swims again out to sea, until, finding himself opposite
the mouth of a river, he strikes out for this and lands in safety.
Pallas Athene has guided him. But Pallas Athene is only another name for
his own courage and presence of mind. In the same connection may be
related the story of Ulysses's escape from the Sirens and from the twin
perils of Scylla and Charybdis. The Sirens, with their bewitching songs,
seek to lure him and his companions to destruction. But he stops the
ears of his companions with wax so that they can not hear, and causes
himself to be bound with stout cords to the mast, so that, though he may
hear, he can not follow. There is an obvious lesson contained in this
allegory. When about to be exposed to temptation, if you know that you
are weak, do not even listen to the seductive voices. But no matter how
strong you believe yourself to be, at least give such pledges and place
yourself in such conditions that you may be prevented from yielding.
From the monster Charybdis, too, Ulysses escapes by extraordinary
presence of mind and courage. He leaps upward to catch the fig-tree in
the moment when his ship disappears beneath him in the whirlpool; then,
when it is cast up again, lets go his hold and is swept out into safe
waters.
The fourth ethical element which we select from the poem is the
_veneration shown to grandparents_. I have already remarked, in a former
lecture, that if parents wish to retain the reverence of their children
they can not do better than in their turn to show themselves reverent
toward their own aged and enfeebled parents. Of such conduct the Odyssey
offers us a number of choice examples. Thus Achilles, meeting Ulysses in
the realm of shades, says that the hardest part of his lot is to think
of his poor old father, who has no one now to defend him, and who,
being weak, is likely to be neglected and despised. If only he, the
strong son, could return to the light of day, how he would protect his
aged parent and insure him the respect due to his gray hairs! Penelope
is advised to send to Laertes, Telemachus's grandfather, to secure his
aid against the suitors. But with delicate consideration she keeps the
bad news from him, saying: "He has enough grief to bear on account of
the loss of his son Ulysses; let me not add to his burden." Again, how
beautiful is the account of the meeting of Laertes and Ulysses after the
return and triumph of the latter. On the farm, at some distance from the
town, Ulysses seeks his aged father. Laertes is busy digging. He, a
king, wears a peasant's rustic garb and lives a life of austere
self-denial, grieving night and day for his absent son. When Ulysses
mentions his name, Laertes at first does not believe. Then the hero
approaches the bent and decrepit old man, and becomes for the moment a
child again. He brings up recollections of his earliest boyhood; he
reminds his father of the garden-patch which he set aside for him long,
long ago; of the trees and vines which he gave him to plant; and then
the father realizes that the mighty man before him is indeed his son.