The Moral Instruction of Children Part 8

We have then as ill.u.s.trations 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 rehea.r.s.es 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 a.s.sert 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 hards.h.i.+p 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 n.o.ble 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 s.h.i.+pwreck, 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 s.h.i.+p 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 Phaeacia, from which port without further misadventures he reaches Ithaca. The stay in the palace of the Phaeacian 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 pa.s.sed 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 Parna.s.sus'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 h.o.a.ry ocean reach the sh.o.r.e, 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 n.o.bly 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 G.o.ds 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 a.s.sembled thousands and ten thousands. Well might the h.e.l.lenic 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 s.p.a.ce at my command to attempt a minute a.n.a.lysis of the Iliad, and shall content myself with mentioning the main significant points. The Iliad is full of the noises of war, the hurtling of arrows, the flas.h.i.+ng of swords, the sounding of spears on metal s.h.i.+elds, the groans of the dying, "whose eyes black darkness covers." The chief virtues ill.u.s.trated 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 pa.s.sage 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 ill.u.s.trative of friends.h.i.+p, tell the story of Achilles's grief for Patroclus, how he lies p.r.o.ne upon the ground, strewing his head with dust; how he follows the body lamenting; how he declares that though the dead forget their dead in Hades, even there he would not forget his dear comrade. Next tell of the slaying of Hector, and how Achilles honors the suppliant Priam and restores to him the body of his son. It is the memory of his own aged father, which the sight of Priam recalls, that melts Achilles's heart, and they weep together, each for his own dead. Finally, note the tribute paid to Hector's delicate chivalry in the lament of Helen.[15]

FOOTNOTES:

[13] See Jebb's Introduction to Homer.

[14] The quotations are taken from Bryant's translation of the Odyssey.

[15] In connection with the Homeric poems selections from Greek mythology may be used, such as the story of Hercules, of Theseus, of Perseus, the story of the Argonauts, and others. These, too, breathe the spirit of adventure and ill.u.s.trate the virtues of courage, perseverance amid difficulties, chivalry, etc.

GRAMMAR COURSE.

LESSONS ON DUTY.

XI.

THE DUTY OF ACQUIRING KNOWLEDGE.

In setting out on a new path it is well to determine beforehand the goal we hope to reach. We are about to begin the discussion of the grammar course, which is intended for children between twelve and fifteen years of age, and accordingly ask: What result can we expect to attain? One thing is certain, we must continue to grade our teaching, to adapt each successive step to the capacities of the pupils, to keep pace with their mental development.

The due gradation of moral teaching is all-important. Whether the gradations we propose are correct is, of course, a matter for discussion; but, at all events, a point will be gained if we shall have brought home forcibly to teachers the necessity of a graded, of a progressive system.

In the primary course we have set before the pupils examples of good and bad conduct, with a view to training their powers of moral perception.

We are now ready to advance from percepts to concepts. We have endeavored to cultivate the faculty of observation, we can now attempt the higher task of generalization. In the primary course we have tried to make the pupils perceive moral distinctions; in the grammar course we shall try to make them reason about moral distinctions, help them to gain notions of duty, to arrive at principles or maxims of good conduct.

The grammar course, therefore, will consist in the main of lessons on duty.

What has just been said, however, requires further explanation to prevent misapprehension. I have remarked that the pupil is now to reach out toward concepts of duty, and to establish for himself maxims or principles of conduct. But of what nature shall these maxims be? The philosopher Kant has proposed the following maxim: "So act that the maxim underlying thy action may justify itself to thy mind as a universal law of conduct." According to him, the note of universality is the distinctive characteristic of all ethical conduct. The school of Bentham proposes a different maxim: "So act that the result of thy action shall tend to insure the greatest happiness of the greatest number." Theologians tell us so to act that our will may harmonize with the will of G.o.d. But pupils of the grammar grade are not ripe to understand such metaphysical and theological propositions. And, moreover, as was pointed out in our first lecture, it would be a grave injustice to teach in schools supported by all ethical first principles which are accepted only by some. We are not concerned with first principles. We exclude the discussion of them, be they philosophical or theological, from the school. But there are certain secondary principles, certain more concrete rules of behavior, which nevertheless possess the character of generalizations, and these will suffice for our purpose. And with respect to these there is really no difference of opinion among the different schools and sects, and on them as a foundation we can build.

It is our business to discover such secondary principles, and in our instruction to lead the pupil to the recognition of them. The nature of the formulas of duty which we have in mind--formulas which shall express the generalized moral experience of civilized mankind, will appear more plainly if we examine the processes by which we arrive at them. An example will best elucidate: Suppose that I am asked to give a lesson on the duty of truthfulness. At the stage which we have now reached it will not be enough merely to emphasize the general commandment against lying.

The general commandment leaves in the pupil's mind a mult.i.tude of doubts unsolved. Shall I always tell the truth--that is to say, the whole truth, as I know it, and to everybody? Is it never right to withhold the truth, or even to say what is the contrary of true, as, e. g., to the sick or insane. Such questions as these are constantly being asked. What is needed is a rule of veracity which shall leave the general principle of truth-speaking unshaken, and shall yet cover all these exceptional cases. How to arrive at such a rule? I should go about it in the following manner, and the method here described is the one which is intended to be followed throughout the entire course of lessons on duty.

I should begin by presenting a concrete case. A certain child had broken a precious vase. When asked whether it had done so, it answered, "No."

How do you characterize such a statement? As a falsehood. The active partic.i.p.ation 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 cla.s.s. Upon the fulfillment of this condition the value of this sort of teaching entirely depends. The teacher then proceeds to a.n.a.lyze 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 circ.u.mstance 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 cla.s.s is asked to give instances tending to prove the insufficiency of the proposed formula. Before the days of Copernicus it was generally a.s.serted that the sun revolves around the earth. Should we be justified in setting down the many excellent persons who made such statements as liars? Yet their words did not correspond to the facts.

Very true; but they did not intend to deviate from the facts--they did not know better. Shall we then change the formula so as to read: Intend that thy words shall conform to the facts? But the phrase "correspond to the facts" needs to be made more explicit. Cases occur in which a statement does correspond to the facts, or, at least, seems to do so, and yet a contemptible falsehood is implied. The instance of the truant boy is in point who entered the school-building five minutes before the close of the exercises, and on being asked at home whether he had been at school, promptly answered "Yes"; and so he had been for five minutes.

But in this case the boy suppressed a part of the facts--and, moreover, the essential part--namely, that he had been absent from school for five hours and fifty-five minutes. Cases of mental reservation and the like fall under the same condemnation. The person who took an oath in court, using the words, "As truly as I stand on this stone," but who had previously filled his shoes with earth, suppressed the essential fact--viz., that he had filled his shoes with earth.

Shall we then formulate the rule in this wise: Intend to make thy words correspond to the essential facts? But even this will not entirely satisfy. For there are cases, surely, in which we deliberately frame our words in such a way that they shall not correspond to the essential facts--for instance, if we should meet a murderer who should ask us in which direction his intended victim had fled, or in the case of an insane person intent on suicide, or of the sick in extreme danger, whom the communication of bad news would kill. How can we justify such a procedure? We can justify it on the ground that language as a means of communication is intended to further the rational purposes of human life, and not conversely are the rational purposes of life to be sacrificed to any merely formal principle of truth-telling. A person who, like the murderer, is about to use the fact conveyed to him by my words as a weapon with which to kill a fellow-being has no right to be put in possession of the fact. An insane person, who can not use the truthful communications of others except for irrational ends, is also outside the pale of those to whom such tools can properly be intrusted.

And so are the sick, when so enfeebled that the shock of grief would destroy them. For the rational use of grief is to provoke in us a moral reaction, to rouse in us the strength to bear our heavy burdens, and, in bearing, to learn invaluable moral lessons. But those who are physically too weak to rally from the first shock of grief are unable to secure this result, and they must therefore be cla.s.sed, 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 s.h.i.+eld them.

Pain and suffering we must be willing both to endure and also to inflict upon those whom we love best, if necessary. Reason can and should triumph over pain. But when the reasoning faculty is impaired, or when the body is too weak to respond to the call of reason, the obligation of truth-_telling_ ceases. I am not unaware that this is a dangerous doctrine to teach. I should always take the greatest pains to impress upon my pupils that the irrational condition, which alone justifies the withholding of the truth, must be so obvious that there can be no mistake about it, as in the case of the murderer who, with knife in hand, pursues his victim, or of the insane, or of the sick, in regard to whom the physician positively declares that the shock of bad news would endanger life. But I do think that we are bound to face these exceptional cases, and to discuss them with our pupils. For the latter know as well as we that in certain exceptional situations the best men do not tell the truth, that in such situations no one tells the truth, except he be a moral fanatic. And unless these exceptional cases are clearly marked off and explained and justified, the general authority of truth will be shaken, or at least the obligation of veracity will become very much confused in the pupil's mind. In my opinion, the confusion which does exist on this subject is largely due to a failure to distinguish between inward truthfulness and truthfulness as reflected in speech. The law of inward truthfulness tolerates no exceptions. We should always, and as far as possible, be absolutely truthful, in our thinking, in our estimates, in our judgments. But language is a mere vehicle for the communication of thoughts and facts to others, and in communicating thoughts and facts we _are_ bound to consider in how far others are fit to receive them. Shall we then formulate the rule of veracity thus: Intend to communicate the essential facts to those who are capable of making a rational use of them. I think that some such formula as this might answer. I am not disposed to stickle for this particular phraseology. But the formula as stated ill.u.s.trates 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 p.r.o.nounce their verdict on fine questions of right and wrong often has in it something almost startling to older persons, whose contact with the world has reconciled them to a somewhat less exacting standard.

But here a caution is necessary. Some children seem to be too fond of casuistry. They take an intellectual pleasure in drawing fine distinctions, and questions of conscience are apt to become to them mere matter of mental gymnastics. Such a tendency must be sternly repressed whenever it shows itself. In fact, reasoning about moral principles is always attended with a certain peril. After all, the actual morality of the world depends largely on the moral habits which mankind have formed in the course of many ages, and which are transmitted from generation to generation. Now a habit acts a good deal like an instinct. Its force depends upon what has been called unconscious cerebration. As soon as we stop to reason about our habits, their hold on us is weakened, we hesitate, we become uncertain, the interference of the mind acts like a brake. It is for this reason that throughout the primary course, we have confined ourselves to what the Germans call _Anschauung_, the close observation of examples with a view of provoking imitation or repugnance, and thus strengthening the force of habit. Why, then, introduce a.n.a.lysis 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 a.n.a.lysis, too, becomes necessary at this stage. And why? Because habits are always specialized. A person governed by habits falls into a certain routine, and moves along easily and safely as long as the conditions repeat themselves to which his habits are adjusted. But when confronted by a totally new set of conditions, he is often quite lost and helpless.

Just as a person who is solely guided by common sense in the ordinary affairs of life, is apt to be stranded when compelled to face circ.u.mstances 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 a.n.a.lysis 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 a.s.sumed, and its obligation acknowledged at the outset. The only object of the a.n.a.lysis is to discern more exactly what is meant by lying, to define the rule of veracity with greater precision and circ.u.mspectness, so that we may be enabled to fulfill the commandment more perfectly. It is implied in what I have said that the teacher should not treat of moral problems as if he were dealing with problems in arithmetic. The best thing he can do for his pupils--better than any particular lesson he can teach--will be to communicate to them the spirit of moral earnestness. And this spirit he can not communicate unless he be full of it himself. The teacher should consecrate himself to his task; he should be penetrated by a sense of the lofty character of the subject which he teaches. Even a certain attention to externals is not superfluous. The lessons, in the case of the younger children, may be accompanied by song; the room in which the cla.s.ses 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 cla.s.s. 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 ill.u.s.trations, 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 cla.s.sification of duties. It was there stated that the life of man from childhood upward, may be divided into periods, that each period has its special duties, and that there is in each some one central duty around which the others may be grouped. During the school age the paramount duty of the pupil is to study. We shall therefore begin with the duties which are connected with the pursuit of knowledge. We shall then take up the duties which relate to the physical life and the feelings; next, the duties which arise in the family; after that the duties which we owe to all men; and lastly we will consider in an elementary way the civic duties.

_The Duty of acquiring Knowledge._--In starting the discussion of any particular set of duties, it is advisable, as has been said, to present some concrete case, and biographical or historical examples are particularly useful. I have sometimes begun the lesson on the duty of acquiring knowledge by telling the story of Cleanthes and that of Hillel. Cleanthes, a poor boy, was anxious to attend the school of Zeno.

But he was compelled to work for his bread, and could not spend his days in study as he longed to do. He was, however, so eager to learn that he found a way of doing his work by night. He helped a gardener to water his plants, and also engaged to grind corn on a hand-mill for a certain woman. Now the neighbors, who knew that he was poor, and who never saw him go to work, were puzzled to think how he obtained the means to live.

They suspected him of stealing, and he was called before the Judge to explain. The Judge addressed him severely, and commanded him to tell the truth. Cleanthes requested that the gardener and the woman might be sent for, and they testified that he had been in the habit of working for them by night. The Judge was touched by his great zeal for knowledge, acquitted him of the charge, and offered him a gift of money. But Zeno would not permit him to take the gift. Cleanthes became the best pupil of Zeno, and grew up to be a very wise and learned man, indeed one of the most famous philosophers of the Stoic school. The story of Hillel runs as follows: There was once a poor lad named Hillel. His parents were dead, and he had neither relatives nor friends. He was anxious to go to school, but, though he worked hard, he did not earn enough to pay the tuition fee exacted at the door. So he decided to save money by spending only half his earnings for food. He ate little, and that little was of poor quality, but he was perfectly happy, because with what he laid aside he could now pay the door-keeper and find a place inside, where he might listen and learn. This he did for some time, but one day he was so unlucky as to lose his situation. He had now no money left to buy bread, but he hardly thought of that, so much was he grieved at the thought that he should never get back to his beloved school. He begged the door-keeper to let him in, but the surly man refused to do so. In his despair a happy thought occurred to him. He had noticed a skylight on the roof. He climbed up to this, and to his delight found that through a crack he could hear all that was said inside. So he sat there and listened, and did not notice that evening was coming on, and that the snow was beginning to fall. Next morning when the teachers and pupils a.s.sembled as usual, every one remarked how dark the room seemed.

The sun too was s.h.i.+ning 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.