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