The Moral Instruction of Children

VIII.

SUPPLEMENTARY REMARKS ON FABLES

Apart from the collection which figures under the name of Æsop, there are other fables, notably the so-called Jātaka tales, which deserve attention. The Jātaka tales contain deep truths, and are calculated to impress lessons of great moral beauty. The tale of the Merchant of Seri, who gave up all that he had in exchange for a golden dish, embodies much the same idea as the parable of the Priceless Pearl, in the New Testament. The tale of the Measures of Rice illustrates the importance of a true estimate of values. The tale of the Banyan Deer, which offered its life to save a roe and her young, illustrates self-sacrifice of the noblest sort. The Kulāvaka-Jātaka contains the thought that a forgiving spirit toward one's enemies disarms even the evil-minded. The tale of the Partridge, the Monkey, and the Elephant teaches that the best seats belong not to the nobles or the priests, to the rich or the learned, not even to the most pious, but that reverence and service and respect and civility are to be paid according to age, and for the aged the best seat, the best water, the best rice, are to be reserved. The tale of Nanda, or the Buried Gold, is a rebuke to that base insolence which vulgar natures often exhibit when they possess a temporary advantage. The tale of the Sandy Road is one of the finest in the collection. It pictures to us a caravan wandering through the desert under the starlight. The guide, whose duty it was to pilot them through this sea of sand, has, it appears, fallen asleep at his post from excessive weariness, and at dawn the travelers discover that they have gone astray, and that far and wide no water is in sight wherewith to quench their burning thirst. At this moment, however, the leader espies a small tuft of grass on the face of the desert, and, reasoning that water must be flowing somewhere underneath, inspires his exhausted followers to new exertions. A hole sixty feet deep is dug under his direction, but at length they come upon hard rock, and can dig no farther. But even then he does not yield to despair. Leaping down, he applies his ear to the rock. Surely, it is water that he hears gurgling underneath! One more effort, he cries, and we are saved! But of all his followers one only had strength or courage enough left to obey. This one strikes a heavy blow, the rock is split open, and lo! the living water gushes upward in a flood. The lesson is that of perseverance and presence of mind in desperate circumstances. The tale entitled Holding to the Truth narrates the sad fate of a merchant who suffered himself to be deceived by a mirage into the belief that water was near, and emptied the jars which he carried with him in order to reach the pleasant land the sooner. The Jātaka entitled On True Divinity contains a very beautiful story about three brothers, the Sun prince, the Moon prince, and the future Buddha or Bodisat. The king, their father, expelled the Moon prince and the future Buddha in order to secure the succession to the Sun prince alone. But the Sun prince could not bear to be separated from his brothers, and secretly followed them into exile. They journeyed together until they came to a certain lake. This lake was inhabited by an evil spirit, to whom power had been given to destroy all who entered his territory unless they could redeem their lives by answering the question, "What is truly divine?" So the Sun prince was asked first, and he answered, "The sun and the moon and the gods are divine." But that not being the correct answer, the evil spirit seized and imprisoned him in his cave. Then the Moon prince was asked, and he answered, "The far-spreading sky is called divine." But he, too, was carried away to the same place to be destroyed. Then the future Buddha was asked, and he answered: "Give ear, then, attentively, and hear what divine nature is;" and he uttered the words —

And when the evil spirit heard these words, he bowed, and said: "I will give up to you one of your brothers." Then the future Buddha said, "Give me the life of my brother, the Sun prince, for it is on his account that we have been driven away from our home and thrust into exile." The evil spirit was overcome by this act of generosity, and said, "Verily, O teacher, thou not only knowest what is divine, but hast acted divinely." And he gave him the life of both his brothers, the Sun prince as well as the Moon prince.

I could not resist the temptation of relating a few of these tales. They are, as every one must admit, nobly conceived, lofty in meaning, and many a helpful sermon might be preached from them as texts. But, of course, not all are fit to be used in a primary course. Some of them are, some are not. The teacher will have no difficulty in making the right selection. To the former class belongs also No. 28 of the collection,10 which is excellently adapted to impress the lesson of kindness to animals. Long ago the Buddha came to life in the shape of a powerful bull. His master, a Brahman, asserted that this bull of his could move a hundred loaded carts ranged in a row and bound together. Being challenged to prove his assertion, he bathed the bull, gave him scented rice, hung a garland of flowers around his neck, and yoked him to the first cart. Then he raised his whip and called out, "Gee up, you brute. Drag them along, you wretch!" The bull said to himself, "He calls me wretch; I am no wretch." And keeping his forelegs as firm as steel, he stood perfectly still. Thereupon the Brahman, his master, was compelled to pay a forfeit of a thousand pieces of gold because he had not made good his boast. After a while the bull said to the Brahman, who seemed very much dispirited: "Brahman, I have lived a long time in your house. Have I ever broken any pots, or have I rubbed against the walls, or have I made the walks around the premises unclean?" "Never, my dear," said the Brahman. "Then why did you call me wretch? But if you will never call me wretch again, you shall have two thousand pieces for the one thousand you have lost." The Brahman, hearing this, called his neighbors together, set up one hundred loaded carts as before, then seated himself on the pole, stroked the bull on the back, and called out, "Gee up, my beauty! Drag them along, my beauty!" And the bull, with a mighty effort, dragged along the whole hundred carts, heavily loaded though they were. The bystanders were greatly astonished, and the Brahman received two thousand pieces on account of the wonderful feat performed by the bull.

The 30th Jātaka corresponds to the fable of the Ox and the Calf in the Æsop collection. The 33d, like the fable of the Bundle of Sticks, teaches the lesson of unity, but in a form a little nearer to the understanding of children. Long ago, when Brahmadatta was reigning in Benares, the future Buddha came to life as a quail. At that time there was a fowler who used to go to the place where the quails dwelt and imitate their cry; and when they had assembled, he would throw his net over them. But the Buddha said to the quails: "In future, as soon as he has thrown the net over us, let each thrust his head through a mesh of the net, then all lift it together, carry it off to some bush, and escape from underneath it." And they did so and were saved. But one day a quail trod unawares on the head of another, and a disgraceful quarrel ensued. The next time the fowler threw his net over them, each of the quails pretended that the others were leaving him to bear the greatest strain, and cried out, "You others begin, and then I will help." The consequence was that no one began, and the net was not raised, and the fowler bagged them all. The 26th Jātaka enforces the truth that evil communications corrupt good manners, and contains more particularly a warning against listening to the conversation of wicked people. Thus much concerning the Jātaka tales.

There exists also a collection of Hindu fairy tales and fables, gathered from oral tradition by M. Frere, and published under the title of Old Deccan Days. A few of these are very charming, and well adapted for our purpose. For example, the fable of King Lion and the Sly Little Jackals. The story is told with delightful naïveté. Singh-Rajah, the lion-king, is very hungry. He has already devoured all the jackals of the forest, and only a young married couple, who are extremely fond of each other, remain. The little jackal-wife is terribly frightened when she hears in their immediate vicinity the roar of Singh-Rajah. But the young husband tries to comfort her, and to save their lives he hits on the following expedient: He makes her go with him straight to the cave of the terrible lion. Singh-Rajah no sooner sees them than he exclaims: "It is well you have arrived at last. Come here quickly, so that I may eat you." The husband says: "Yes, your Majesty, we are entirely ready to do as you bid us, and, in fact, we should have come long ago, as in duty bound, to satisfy your royal appetite, but there is another Singh-Rajah mightier than you in the forest, who would not let us come." "What!" says the lion, "another Singh-Rajah mightier than I! That is impossible." "Oh! but it is a fact," say the young couple in a breath; "and he is really much more terrible than you are." "Show him to me, then," says Singh-Rajah, "and I will prove to you that what you say is false – that there is no one to be compared with me in might." So the little jackals ran on together ahead of the lion, until they reached a deep well. "He is in there," they said, pointing to the well. The lion looked down angrily and saw his own image, the image of an angry lion glaring back at him. He shook his mane; the other did the same. Singh-Rajah thereupon, unable to contain himself, leaped down to fight his competitor, and, of course, was drowned. The fable clothes in childlike language the moral that anger is blind, and that the objects which excite our anger are often merely the outward reflections of our own passions. In the fable of the Brahman, the Tiger, and the Six Judges, we have a lesson against ingratitude, and also against useless destruction of animal life. In the fable of the Camel and the Jackal, the latter does not appear in the same favorable light as above. The jackal and the camel were good friends. One day the jackal said to his companion: "I know of a field of sugar-cane on the other side of the river, and near by there are plenty of crabs and small fishes. The crabs and fishes will do for me, while you can make a fine dinner off the sugar-cane. If there were only a way of getting across!" The camel offered to swim across, taking the jackal on his back, and in this way they reached the opposite bank. The jackal ate greedily, and had soon finished his meal; thereupon he began to run up and down, and to exercise his voice, screaming lustily. The camel begged him to desist, but in vain. Presently the cries of the jackal roused the villagers. They came with sticks and cudgels and cruelly beat the camel, and drove him out of the field before he had had time to eat more than a few mouthfuls. When the men were gone at last, the jackal said, "Let us now go home." "Very well," said the camel, "climb on my back." When they were midway between the two banks, the camel said to the jackal: "Why did you make such a noise and spoil my dinner, bringing on those cruel men, who beat me so that every bone in my body aches? Did I not beg you to stop?" "Oh," said the jackal, "I meant no harm. I was only singing a bit. I always sing after dinner, just for amusement." They had by this time reached the place where the water was deepest. "Well," said the camel, "I also like innocent amusements. For instance, it is my custom to lie on my back after dinner and to stretch myself a bit." With that he turned over, and the jackal fell into the stream. He swallowed pailfuls of water, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that he succeeded in reaching the bank. He had received a salutary lesson on the subject of inconsiderate selfishness – a fault very common with children, which such a story as this may help to correct.

As to the modern fables, I fear they will yield us but a scanty harvest. The fables of La Fontaine, where they depart from Æsopian originals, are hardly suitable for children, and those of the German poet Gellert impress me, on the whole, in the same way, though a few of them may be added to our stock. For instance, the fable of the Greenfinch and the Nightingale. These two birds occupy the same cage before the window of Damon's house. Presently the voice of the nightingale is heard, and then ceases. The father leads his little boy before the cage and asks him which of the two he believes to have been the sweet musician, the brightly colored greenfinch or the outwardly unattractive nightingale. The child immediately points to the former, and is then instructed as to his error. The lesson, of course, is that fine clothes and real worth do not always go together. The fable of the Blind and the Lame Man teaches the advantages of co-operation. The Carriage Horse and the Cart Horse is a fable for the rich. Possibly the fable of the Peasant and his Son, which is directed against lies of exaggeration, may also be utilized, though I realize that there are objections to it.

IX.

STORIES FROM THE BIBLE

Introduction.– It will have been noticed that in choosing our illustrative material we have confined ourselves to what may be called classical literature. The German Märchen has lived in the traditions of the German people for centuries, and is as fresh to-day as Snow-white herself when she woke from her trance. The fables, as has been shown, have been adopted into the language and literature of Persia, of Arabia, of the nations of Europe, and are still found in the hands of our own children. Let us continue to pursue the same method of selection. Instead of relying on juvenile literature just produced, or attempting to write moralizing stories specially adapted for the purpose in hand, let us continue, without excluding invention altogether, to rely mainly on that which has stood the test of time. In the third part of our primary course we shall use selected stories from the classical literature of the Hebrews, and later on from that of Greece, particularly the Odyssey and the Iliad. The stories to which I refer possess a perennial vitality, an indestructible charm. I am, I trust, no blind worshiper of antiquity. The mere fact that a thing has existed for a thousand or two thousand years is not always proof that it is worth preserving. But the fact that after having been repeated for two thousand years a story still possesses a perfectly fresh attraction for the child of to-day, does indeed prove that there is in it something of imperishable worth. How is this unique charm of the classical literature to be explained? What quality exists in Homer, in the Bible, enabling them, despite the changes of taste and fashion, to hold their own? The novels of the last century are already antiquated; few care to read them. The poetry of the middle ages is enjoyed only by those who cultivate a special taste for it. Historical and scientific works hardly have time to leave an impression before new books appear to crowd them out. But a few great masterpieces have survived, and the truth and beauty of these the lapse of ages, it seems, has left unaltered. Mr. Jebb remarks11 that Homer aims at the lucid expression of primary motives, and refrains from multiplying individual traits which might interfere with their effect, and that this typical quality in Homer's portraiture has been one secret of its universal impressiveness. The Homeric outlines are in each case brilliantly distinct, while they leave to the reader a certain liberty of private conception, and he can fill them in so as to satisfy his own ideal. We may add that this is just as true of the Bible as of Homer. The biblical narrative, too, depicts a few essential traits of human nature, and refrains from multiplying minor traits which might interfere with the main effect. The Bible, too, draws its figures in outline, and leaves every age free to fill them in so as to satisfy its own ideal. Thus the biblical story, as conceived in the mind of Milton, reflects the Puritan ideal; the same story, narrated in a modern pulpit or Sunday-school, will inevitably reflect, to a greater or less degree, the modern humanitarian ideal, and this liberty of interpretation is one cause of the vitality of the Bible. But it may be asked further, How did Homer, how did the biblical writers, succeed in producing such universal types, in drawing their figures so correctly that, however the colors may thenceforth be varied, the outlines remain forever true? He who should attempt at the present day to give expression to the most universal traits of human nature, freed from the complex web of conditions, disengaged from the thousand-fold minor traits which modify the universal in particular instances, would find it difficult to avoid one or the other of two fatal errors. If he keeps his eyes fixed on the universal, he is in danger of producing a set of bloodless abstractions, pale shadows of reality, which will not live for a day, much less for a thousand years. If, on the other hand, he tries to keep close to reality he will probably produce more or less accurate copies of the types that surround him, but the danger will always be that the universal will be lost amid the particulars. By what quality in themselves or fortunate constellation of circumstances did Homer and the biblical writers succeed in avoiding both these errors, in creating types of the utmost universality and yet imparting to them the breath of life, the gait and accent of distinctive individuality? I imagine that they succeeded because they lived at a time when life was much less complex than it is at present, when the conversation, the manners, the thoughts, the motives of men were simple. They were enabled to individualize the universal because the most universal, the simplest motives, still formed the mainspring in the conduct of individuals. It was not necessary for them to enter into the barren region of abstraction and generalization to discover the universal. They pictured what they actually saw. The universal and the individual were still blended in that early dawn of human history.