It has been remarked by Coleridge, that all men are born disciples either of Plato or Aristotle: by which he means that these two great men are the leaders in the two kinds of philosophy which govern the thinking world,—the one looking into the soul, as the great well of truth; the other, studying the outward world, and building up its system upon facts collected by observation. The truth is doubtless to be found by compounding the two systems.
Plato was born at Athens, in May, 429 B. C. He was the son of Ariston and Perectonia. His original name was Aristocles, and it has been conjectured that he received that of Plato, from the largeness of his shoulders: this, however, is improbable, as Plato was then a common name at Athens. Being one of the descendants of Codrus, and the offspring of a noble, illustrious, and opulent family, he was educated with the utmost care; his body was formed and invigorated with gymnastic exercises, and his mind was cultivated and trained by the study of poetry and of geometry; from which two sources he doubtless derived that acuteness of judgment and warmth of imagination, which stamped him as at once the most subtle and flowery writer of antiquity.
He first began his literary career by writing poems and tragedies; but he was disgusted with his own productions, when, at the age of twenty, he was introduced into the society of Socrates, and was qualified to examine, with critical accuracy, the merit of his compositions, and compare them with those of his poetical predecessors. He, therefore, committed them to the flames. During eight years he continued to be one of the pupils of Socrates; and though he was prevented by indisposition from attending the philosopher's last moments, he collected, from the conversation of those that were present, and from his own accurate observations, very minute and circumstantial accounts, which exhibit the concern and sensibility of the pupil, and the firmness, virtue, and elevated moral sentiments of the dying philosopher.
After the death of Socrates Plato retired from Athens, and, with a view to emerge his stores of knowledge, he began to travel over different countries. He visited Megara, Thebes, and Elis, where he met with the kindest reception from his fellow-disciples, whom the violent death of their master had likewise removed from Attica. He afterwards visited Magna Græcia, attracted by the fame of the Pythagorean philosophy, and by the learning, abilities, and reputation of its professors, Philolaus, Archytas, and Eurytus. He then passed into Sicily, and examined the eruptions of Etna. He visited Egypt, where the mathematician Theodorus, then flourished, and where he knew that the tenets of the Pythagorean philosophy had been fostered.
When he had finished his travels, Plato retired to the groves of Academus, in the neighborhood of Athens, and established a school there; his lectures were soon attended by a crowd of learned, noble, and illustrious pupils; and the philosopher, by refusing to have a share in the administration of political affairs, rendered his name more famous and his school more frequented. During forty years he presided at the head of the academy, and there he devoted his time to the instruction of his pupils, and composed those dialogues which have been the admiration of every succeeding age. His studies, however, were interrupted for a while, as he felt it proper to comply with the pressing invitations of Dionysius, of Syracuse, to visit him. The philosopher earnestly but vainly endeavored to persuade the tyrant to become the father of his people, and the friend of liberty.
In his dress, Plato was not ostentatious; his manners were elegant, but modest, simple, and without affectation. The great honors which were bestowed upon him, were not paid to his appearance, but to his wisdom and virtue. In attending the Olympian games, he once took lodgings with a family who were totally strangers to him. He ate and drank with them, and partook of their innocent pleasures and amusements; but though he told them his name was Plato, he did not speak of the employment he pursued at Athens, and never introduced the name of that great philosopher, whose doctrines he followed, and whose death and virtues were favorite topics of conversation in every part of Greece. When he returned to Athens, he was attended by the family which had so kindly entertained him; and, being familiar with the city, he was desired to show them the celebrated philosopher whose name he bore. Their surprise may be imagined, when he told them that he was the Plato whom they wished to behold.
In his diet he was moderate; and, indeed, to sobriety and temperance in the use of food, and abstinence from those indulgences which enfeeble the body and enervate the mind, some have attributed his preservation during a terrible pestilence which raged in Athens at the beginning of the Peloponnesian war. Plato was never subject to any long or lingering indisposition; and, though change of climate had enfeebled a constitution naturally strong and healthy, the philosopher lived to an advanced age, and was often heard to say, when his physicians advised him to leave his residence at Athens, where the air was impregnated by the pestilence, that he would not advance one single step to gain the top of Mount Athos, were he assured of attaining the longevity which the inhabitants of that mountain were said to enjoy. Plato died on his birth-day, in the eighty-first year of his age, about the year 348 B. C. His last moments were easy, and without pain; and, according to some authors, he expired in the midst of an entertainment; but Cicero tells us that he died while in the act of writing.
The works of Plato are numerous; with the exception of twelve letters, they are all written in the form of dialogue, in which Socrates is the principal interlocutor. Thus he always speaks by the mouth of others, and the philosopher has nowhere made mention of himself, except once in his dialogue entitled Phædon, and another time in his Apology for Socrates. His writings were so celebrated, and his opinions so respected, that he was called divine; and for the elegance, melody, and sweetness of his expressions, he was distinguished by the appellation of the Athenian bee. His style, however, though commended and admired by the most refined critics among the ancients, has not escaped the censure of some of the moderns. It is obvious that the philosopher cannot escape ridicule, who supposes that fire is a pyramid tied to the earth by numbers; that the world is a figure consisting of twelve pentagons; and who, to prove the metempsychosis and the immortality of the soul, asserts that the dead are born from the living, and the living from the dead. The speculative mind of Plato was employed in examining things divine and human; and he attempted to ascertain and fix not only the practical doctrines of morals and politics but the more subtle and abstruse theory of mystical theogony—the origin of the gods, or divine power. His philosophy was universally received and adopted in ancient times, and it has not only governed the opinions of the speculative part of mankind, but it continues still to influence the reasoning, and to divide the sentiments of the moderns.
In his system of philosophy, he followed the physics of Heraclitus, the metaphysical opinions of Pythagoras, and the morals of Socrates. He maintained the existence of two beings—one self-existent, and the other formed by the hand of a pre-existent, creative god and man. The world, he maintained, was created by that self-existent cause, from the rude, undigested mass of matter which had existed from all eternity, and which had ever been animated by an irregular principle of motion. The origin of evil could not be traced under the government of a deity, without admitting a stubborn intractability and wildness congenial to matter; and from these, consequently, could be demonstrated the deviations from the laws of nature, and from thence, the extravagant passions and appetites of men.
From materials like these were formed the four elements, and the beautiful structure of the heavens and the earth; and into the active but irrational principle of matter, the divinity infused a rational soul. The souls of men were formed from the remainder of the rational soul of the world, which had previously given existence to the invisible gods and demons. The philosopher, therefore, supported the doctrine of ideal forms, and the pre-existence of the human mind, which he considered as emanations of the Deity, and which can never remain satisfied with objects or things unworthy of their divine original. Men could perceive, with their corporeal senses, the types of immutable things, and the fluctuating objects of the material world; but the sudden changes to which these are continually liable, create innumerable disorders, and hence arise deception, and, in short, all the errors of human life. Yet, in whatever situation man may be, he is still an object of divine concern, and, to recommend himself to the favor of the pre-existent cause, he must comply with the purposes of his creation, and, by proper care and diligence, he can recover those immaculate powers with which he was naturally endowed.
All science the philosopher made to consist in reminiscence—in recalling the nature, forms, and proportions, of those perfect and immutable essences, with which the human mind had been conversant. From observations like these, the summit of felicity might be attained by removing from the material, and approaching nearer to the intellectual world; by curbing and governing the passions, which were ever agitated and inflamed by real or imaginary objects.
The passions were divided into two classes: the first consisted of the irascible passions, which originated in pride or resentment, and were seated in the breast; the other, founded on the love of pleasure, was the concupiscible part of the soul, seated in the inferior parts of the body. These different orders induced the philosopher to compare the soul to a small republic, of which the reasoning and judging powers were stationed in the head, as in a firm citadel, and of which the senses were the guards and servants. By the irascible part of the soul, men asserted their dignity, repelled injuries, and scorned danger and the concupiscible part provided the support and the necessities of the body, and, when governed with propriety, gave rise to temperance. Justice was produced by the regular dominion of reason, and by the submission of the passions; and prudence arose from the strength, acuteness, and perfection of the soul, without which other virtues could not exist.
But amidst all this, wisdom was not easily attained; at their creation all minds were not endowed with the same excellence; the bodies which they animated on earth, were not always in harmony with the divine emanation; some might be too weak, others too strong. On the first years of a man's life depended his future character; an effeminate and licentious education seemed calculated to destroy the purposes of the divinity, while the contrary produced different effects, and tended to cultivate and improve the reasoning and judging faculty, and to produce wisdom and virtue.
Plato was the first who supported the immortality of the soul upon arguments solid and permanent, deduced from truth and experience. He did not imagine that the diseases and death of the body could injure the principle of life, and destroy the soul, which, of itself, was of divine origin, and of an incorrupted and immutable essence, which, though inherent for a while in matter, could not lose that power which was the emanation of God. From doctrines like these, the great founder of Platonism concluded that there might exist in the world a community of men, whose passions could be governed with moderation, and who, from knowing the evils and miseries which arise from ill conduct, might aspire to excellence, and attain that perfection which can be derived from a proper exercise of the rational and moral powers. To illustrate this more fully, the philosopher wrote a book, well known by the name of the "Republic of Plato," in which he explains, with acuteness, judgment, and elegance, the rise and revolution of civil society; and so respected was his opinion as a legislator, that his scholars were employed in regulating the republics of Arcadia.
It was a characteristic of Plato's mind, that he united a subtle intellect to a glowing fancy. As an illustration of his style, we may mention the passage in which he shows the operation of the three principles in the human being—mind, soul, and body—or the three powers of intellect, spirit, and matter. It occurs in the dialogue of Phædrus, where he endeavors to illustrate the doctrine that the mind or reason should be the governing faculty.
The soul is here compared to a chariot, drawn by a pair of winged steeds, one of which is well-bred and well-trained, and the other quite the contrary. The quiet horse, the Will, is obedient to the rein, and strives to draw its wilder yoke-fellow, the Appetite, along with it, and to induce it to listen to the voice of the charioteer, Reason. But they have a great deal of trouble with the restive horse, and the whole object of the journey seems to be lost, if this is permitted to have its way. In this allegory, it is shown that the object of Reason, in exacting obedience, is not merely that discipline and subordination which constitute the virtues of man, but to keep the mind in a state to rise to the contemplation and enjoyment of great and eternal truths. In other words, a man must be in a moral state, before he can place himself in a religious state, so as to enjoy the summum bonum, or greatest good. What, then, is this greatest good? or, in the language of Plato, its idea?—for, with him, idea and essence are synonymous. This is God—not his image, but his nature, which is the sovereign good. Thus the greatest happiness of man was placed by Plato in a mysterious union of the soul with this source of goodness. How near an approach to Christian communion with God, is this?
However fantastic many of the details of Plato's system may seem, and however illusory its whole machinery must appear, when viewed in the light of modern criticism, one thing is to be observed,—that the great results of his philosophy are true. He struggled through the thick mists of his age, and discovered the eternal existence of Deity; he perceived and established, on grounds not to be controverted, the immortality of the soul. He placed true happiness where philosophy and religion place it—in the ascendency of the spirit over the body—the subjugation of the passions to the dominion of reason and virtue. It appears that the germs of these great truths had already manifested themselves in the minds of Pythagoras, Socrates, and others; and Plato borrowed from them many of his noble ideas. But he systematized what they had left in a crude state; he gave a more clear and distinct utterance to what his great master, Socrates, had dimly conceived, and ineffectually struggled to announce. He reached the highest point, in the search after divine knowledge which has ever been attained, without the direct aid of inspiration. In the gradual development of God's will to man, he was one of the great instruments. Yet, in reviewing his works, we see how imperfect was still his knowledge of things divine, and what fearful shadows would rest upon the world, if Plato were our only guide. How dark, uncertain, mysterious, would be the ways of God—the destinies of man—if left where the philosopher left them!
Solon, one of the seven wise men of Greece, was born at Salamis, 637 B. C. and educated at Athens. His father was one of the descendants of king Codrus, and, by his mother's side, he reckoned among his relations the celebrated Pisistratus. After he had devoted part of his time to philosophical and political studies, Solon travelled over the greatest part of Greece; but at his return home he was distressed at beholding the dissensions among his countrymen.
All now fixed their eyes upon him as a deliverer, and he was unanimously elected archon. He might have become absolute, but he refused the dangerous office of king of Athens, and, in the capacity of lawgiver, he began to make a reform in every department of the government. The complaints of the poorer citizens found redress; all debts were remitted, and no one was permitted to seize the person of his debtor, if he was unable to make payment. After he had established the most salutary regulations in the state, and bound the Athenians by a solemn oath that they would faithfully observe his laws for the space of one hundred years, Solon resigned the office of legislator, and removed himself from Athens. He visited Egypt, and the court of Crœsus,14 king of Lydia—celebrated for his wealth, and the vanity of desiring to be esteemed the happiest of mankind. He here declared to the monarch that an Athenian, who had always seen his country flourish—who had virtuous children, and who fell in defence of his native land, had a happier career than the proudest emperor on the globe.
After ten years' absence, Solon returned to Athens; but he had the mortification to find the greatest part of his regulations disregarded, through the factious spirit of his countrymen and the usurpation of Pisistratus. Not to be longer a spectator of the divisions that reigned in his country, he retired to Cyprus, where he died at the court of king Philocyprus, in the eightieth year of his age. The laws of Solon became established in Athens, and their salutary consequences can be discovered in the length of time they were in force in the republic. For above four hundred years they flourished in full vigor, and Cicero, who was himself a witness of their benign influence, passes the highest encomiums upon the legislator, whose superior wisdom framed such a code of regulations.
It was the intention of Solon to protect the poorer citizens; and by dividing the whole body of the Athenians into four classes, three of which were permitted to discharge the most important offices and magistracies of the state, and the last to give their opinion in the assemblies, but not have a share in the distinctions and honors of their superiors; the legislator gave the populace a privilege, which, though at first small and inconsiderable, soon rendered them masters of the republic, and of all the affairs of government. He made a reformation in the Areopagus, increased the authority of the members, and permitted them yearly to inquire how every citizen maintained himself, and to punish such as lived in idleness, and were not employed in some honorable and lucrative profession. He also regulated the Prytaneum, and fixed the number of its judges to four hundred.
The sanguinary laws of Draco were all cancelled except that against murder; and the punishment denounced against every offender was proportioned to his crime; but Solon made no law against parricide or sacrilege. The former of these crimes, he said, was too horrible to human nature for a man to be guilty of it, and the latter could never be committed, because the history of Athens had never furnished a single instance. Such as had died in the service of their country, were buried with great pomp, and their families were maintained at the public expense; but such as had squandered away their estates, such as refused to bear arms in defence of their country, or paid no attention to the infirmity and distress of their parents, were branded with infamy. The laws of marriage were newly regulated; it became an union of affection and tenderness, and no longer a mercenary contract. To speak with ill language against the dead, as well as against the living, was made a crime; for the legislator wished that the character of his fellow-citizens should be freed from the aspersions of malevolence and envy. A person that had no children was permitted to dispose of his estates as he pleased; females were not allowed to be extravagant in their dress or expenses; licentiousness was punished; and those accustomed to abandoned society, were deprived of the privilege of addressing the public assemblies. These celebrated laws were engraved on several tables; and that they might be better known and more familiar to the Athenians, they were written in verse.
If we consider the time in which Solon lived, we shall see occasion to regard him as a man of extraordinary wisdom and virtue. Nearly all the systems of government around him were despotic. That government should be instituted and conducted for the benefit of the governed; and that the people are the proper depositories of power—principles recognised in his institutions—were truths so deeply hidden from mankind, as to demand an intellect of the highest order for their discovery.
Nor are his virtues and humanity less conspicuous than his sagacity. While repealing the bloody code of Draco, he substituted mild and equitable laws; he shunned the harsh and savage system of Lycurgus, which sacrificed all the best feelings of the heart, and the most refined pleasures of life, in order to sustain the martial character of the state; and while he sought to soften the manners, he strove to exalt the standard of public and private virtue, not only by his laws, but by his conversation and example. He was thus, not only the benefactor of Athens and of Greece, but—as one of the great instruments of civilization throughout the world, and especially as one of the leaders in the establishment of free government—mankind at large owe him a lasting debt of gratitude.
14 Crœsus was the fifth and last of the Mermadæ, who reigned in Lydia, and during his time he passed for the richest of mankind. He was the first who made the Greeks of Asia tributary to the Lydians. His court was the asylum of learning; and Æsop, the famous fable-writer, among others, lived under his patronage. In a conversation with Solon, Crœsus wished to be thought the happiest of mankind; but the philosopher apprized him of his mistake, and gave the preference to poverty and domestic virtue. Crœsus undertook a war against Cyrus, the king of Persia, and marched to meet him with an army of 420,000 men, and 60,000 horse. After a reign of fourteen years he was defeated, B. C. 548; his capital was besieged, and he fell into the conqueror's hands, who ordered him to be burnt alive. The pile was already on fire, when Cyrus heard the conquered monarch exclaim, "Solon! Solon! Solon!" with lamentable energy. He asked him the reason of his exclamation, and Crœsus repeated the conversation he once had with Solon, on human happiness. Cyrus was moved at the recital; and, at the recollection of the inconstancy of human affairs, he ordered Crœsus to be taken from the burning pile, and he was afterwards one of his most intimate friends. The kingdom of Lydia became extinct in his person, and the power was transferred to Persia. Crœsus survived Cyrus. The manner of his death is unknown. He is celebrated for the immensely rich presents which he made to the temple of Delphi, from which he received an obscure and ambiguous oracle, which he interpreted in his favor, but which was fulfilled in the destruction of his empire.
This greatest of Chinese philosophers was born in the petty kingdom of Lú, now the province of Shántung, in the year 549 B. C.—the same year that Cyrus became king of the Medes and Persians. The Chinese, in their embellishments of his history, tell us that his birth was attended with heavenly music, filling the air; that two dragons were seen winding over the roof; that five old men appeared at the door, and after consulting together, suddenly vanished; and that a unicorn brought to his mother a tablet in his mouth. It is also related that when he was born, five characters were seen on his breast, declaring him to be "the maker of a rule for settling the world." These and other marvels are a part of the established biography of the philosopher, as received by the Chinese.
The father of Confucius, who was a magistrate of the district where he lived, died when the son was but three years old. The latter was poor and unknown during his youth—though his gravity and attention to study attracted the attention of his townsmen. When he approached manhood, he was esteemed remarkable for his wisdom, and equal to the learned men of the country in his knowledge of antiquity.
At the age of seventeen he received an appointment as clerk in the grain department of the government; and so attentive was he in his trust, as, two years after, to be advanced to the general supervision of the fields and parks, and the breeding of cattle. About this time he was married, and two years after, his only son was born. Upon this occasion, Lord Cháu the governor of Lú, sent him two carp as a present, and accordingly Confucius named his son Lí or Carp. His humor went even farther, and he gave the boy the additional title of Piyü, or Uncle Fish.
At the age of twenty-four, Confucius lost his mother, whom he buried in the same grave with his father, who had been dead some time. He then resigned his office, that he might mourn three years for his mother, according to the ancient custom of the country. This practice had fallen into neglect, and, consequently, the example of Confucius, in following the holy custom of the fathers of the country, gained him great renown for his piety. His reputation was thus extended, and his example began to be followed.
The three years of his mourning were not lost—for he then devoted himself to study. He diligently examined the books of the old authors, seeking to discover the means by which the ancient kings and sages sought to attain the perfection of morals. The result was, a conviction that the social virtues were best cultivated by an observance of the ancient usages of the country; and accordingly he resolved to devote his life to them, and to their permanent establishment in China. This great work he accomplished; and if we consider the effect he has produced on the most populous nation of the globe, and during a space of nearly two thousand years, we shall perceive the mighty consequence of his labors. The actual amount of influence he has exercised, perhaps exceeds that of any other human being, save Aristotle alone.
Appearing to have a clear view of his great work, Confucius entered upon it with systematic diligence. He resolved to establish schools where his philosophy should be taught to pupils who would go forth and spread his doctrines through the empire. He also proposed to write a series of books, setting forth his views. All these things he lived to accomplish.
The greater part of the life of Confucius was passed in travelling, visiting the courts of the petty princes, whose states then constituted the empire under the sovereign of the Chán dynasty. This course was, as might be expected, fruitless in reforming these states, but it diffused a general knowledge of himself and his doctrines, and procured him scholars. The prince of Tsí was the first who invited him to his court, and received him with distinction. This potentate heard him with pleasure, and applauded his maxims; but, to the chagrin of Confucius, he continued to live in luxury, and to allow his ministers to oppress his subjects and abuse their power. He, however, offered him for his maintenance the revenue of a considerable city, which the philosopher thought proper to decline, alleging that he had done nothing to merit such a recompense. After sojourning a year in Tsí, and seeing that his discourse produced no effect to reform the abuses and evils of the country, he left it, and visited some of the principal cities of China.
On the road between Tsí and Chin, he fell into a difficulty. The prince of Wú having attacked Chin, the lord of Tsú came to his relief, and sent an invitation to Confucius to join him; but the other party, fearing that he would do them a disservice, sent people to intercept him. They surrounded him in the wilderness, and would have starved him to death, had not a friend come to his relief, after a detention of seven days. After this narrow escape, he returned home and the prince of Lú gave him a carriage, two horses and a servant, with which he set off for King-yang, the capital of the empire. Here he passed his time in observing the forms of government, the condition of the people and their manners, and how the rites and ceremonies of the ancient kings were regarded. He held several interviews with the ministers of the court, was permitted to visit the emperor's ancestral hall, and other sacred places, and had access to the archives of the kingdom, from which he was allowed to take extracts.
One object in the visit of Confucius to the capital, was to see Láutsz', the founder of the Táu sect, or Rationalists, who lived in a retired place, some distance from court. This old philosopher, accustomed to visits from men of all ranks, received Confucius and his disciples with indifference. He was reclining on an elevated platform, and hearing that his visitor had come to hear from his own mouth an exposition of his tenets, and to ask him about propriety, he roused himself to receive him. "I have heard speak of you," says he, "and I know your reputation. I am told that you talk only of the ancients, and discourse only upon what they taught. Now, of what use is it to endeavor to revive the memory of men of whom no trace remains on the earth? The sage ought to interest himself with the times in which he lives, and regard present circumstances; if they are favorable, he will improve them; but if, on the contrary, they are unfavorable, he will retire and wait tranquilly, without grieving at what others do. He who possesses a treasure, will try to have everybody know it; he will preserve it against the day of need; this you will do if you are a sage. It seems, judging by your conduct, that you have some ostentation in your plans of instruction and that you are proud. Correct these faults, and purify your heart from all love of pleasure; you will, in this way, be much more useful than seeking to know what the ancients said."
Láutsz' also observed, "A discreet merchant keeps his affairs to himself as if he knew nothing; an excellent man, although highly intelligent, demeans himself like an ignorant man." Confucius remarked to his disciples, "I have seen Láutsz'; have I not seen something like a dragon?" On leaving him, Láutsz' said, "I have heard that the rich dismiss their friends with a present, and the benevolent send away people with a word of advice; whoever is talented, and prying into everything, will run himself into danger, because he loves to satirize and slander men; and he who wishes to thoroughly understand recondite things will jeopard his safety, because he loves to publish the failings of men." Confucius replied, "I respectfully receive your instructions," and thus left him. Láutsz' advice seemed directed against a too inquisitive philosophy, and meddling too much in the affairs of the world; he was rather of the Budhistic school of quietists, while Confucius wished men to endeavor to make each other better.
Confucius, like Aristotle and other masters, used to teach his disciples while walking with them, deriving instruction from what they saw. Once, while walking with them by the bank of a stream, he stopped from time to time to look very intently at the water, until their attention was excited, and they were induced to ask him the reason of his conduct. He replied, "The running of water in its bed is a very simple thing, the reason of which everybody knows. I was, however, rather making a comparison in my own mind between the running of water and doctrine. The water, I reflected, runs unceasingly, by day and by night, until it is lost in the bosom of the mighty deep. Since the days of Yáu and Shun, the pure doctrine has uninterruptedly descended to us: let us in our turn transmit it to those who come after us, that they, from our example, may give it to their descendants to the end of time. Do not imitate those isolated men, (referring to Láutsz',) who are wise only for themselves. To communicate the knowledge and virtue we possess, to others, will never impoverish ourselves. This is one of the reflections I would make upon the running of water."
This peripatetic habit, and the aptitude for drawing instruction from whatever would furnish instruction, was usual with the philosopher, and he seldom omitted to improve an occasion. Once, when walking in the fields, he perceived a fowler, who, having drawn in his nets, distributed the birds he had taken into different cages. On coming up to him to ascertain what he had caught, Confucius attentively remarked the vain efforts of the captive birds to regain their liberty, until his disciples gathered round him, when he addressed the fowler,—"I do not see any old birds here; where have you put them?" "The old birds," said he, "are too wary to be caught; they are on the look-out, and if they see a net or a cage, far from falling into the snare, they escape, and never return. Those young ones which are in company with them, likewise escape, but such only as separate into a flock by themselves, and rashly approach, are the birds I catch. If perchance I catch an old bird, it is because he follows the young ones."
"You have heard him," said Confucius, turning to his disciples; "the words of this fowler afford us matter for instruction. The young birds escape the snare only when they keep with the old ones; the old ones are taken when they follow the young. It is thus with mankind. Presumption, hardihood, want of forethought, and inattention are the principal reasons why young people are led astray. Inflated with their small attainments, they have scarcely made a commencement in learning, before they think they know everything; they have scarcely performed a few virtuous acts, and straight they fancy themselves at the height of wisdom. Under this false impression they doubt nothing; they rashly undertake acts without consulting the aged and experienced, and thus, securely following their own notions, they are misled, and fall into the first snare laid for them. If you see an old man of sober years so badly advised as to be taken with the giddiness of a youth, attached to him, and thinking and acting with him, he is led astray by him, and soon taken in the same snare. Do not forget the answer of the fowler, but reflect on it occasionally."
Having completed his observations at the capital, Confucius returned, by the way of Tsí, to his native state of Lú, where he remained ten years. His house now became a sort of lyceum, open to every one who wished to receive instruction. His manner of teaching was to allow his disciples or others to come and go when they pleased, asking his opinion on such points, either in morals, politics, history, or literature, as they wished to have explained. He gave them the liberty of choosing their subject, and then he discoursed upon it. From these conversations and detached expressions of the philosopher, treasured up by his disciples, they afterwards composed Lun Yü, now one of the Four Books. Confucius, it is said, numbered upwards of three thousand disciples, or perhaps we ought to call them advocates or hearers of his doctrine. They consisted of men of all ranks and ages, who attended upon him when their duties or inclinations permitted, and who materially assisted in diffusing a knowledge of his tenets over the whole country. There were, however, a select few, who attached themselves to his person, lived with him, and followed him wherever he went; and to whom he entrusted the promulgation of his doctrines.
After several years of retirement, Confucius was called into public life. The prince of Lú died, and his son, entertaining a great respect for the philosopher, and esteem for his instructions, invited him to court, in order to learn his doctrines more fully. After becoming well acquainted with him, and reposing confidence in his integrity, the young ruler committed the entire management of the state to him; and the activity, courage, and disinterested conduct which he exhibited in the exercise of his power, soon had the happiest effect upon the country. By his wise rules and the authority of his example and his maxims he soon reformed many vicious practices, and introduced sobriety and order, in the place of waste and injustice. He occupied himself with agriculture, and regulated the revenue and the manner of receiving it; so that, in consequence of his measures, the productions of the state were increased, the happiness of the people was extended, and the revenue considerably augmented.
He carried his reforms into every department of justice, in which, soon after he entered upon his duties as minister, he had an opportunity of exhibiting his inflexibility. One of the most powerful nobles of the state had screened himself from the just punishment due to his many crimes, under the dread of his power and riches, and the number of his retainers. Confucius caused him to be arrested, and gave order for his trial; and when the overwhelming proofs brought forward had convinced all of his guilt, he condemned him to lose his head, and presided himself at the execution. This wholesome severity struck a dread into other men of rank, and likewise obtained the plaudits of all men of sense, as well as of the people, who saw in the minister a courageous protector, ready to defend them against the tyranny of men in power.
These salutary reforms had not been long in operation, before the neighboring states took alarm at the rising prosperity of Lú; and the prince of Tsí, who had recently usurped the throne by assassinating its occupant, resolved to ruin the plans of Confucius. To this end he appointed an envoy to the young prince, with whose character he was well acquainted, desiring to renew the ancient league of friendship between the two countries. This envoy was charged with thirty-five horses, beautifully caparisoned, a large number of curious rarities, and twenty-four of the most accomplished courtesans he could procure in his dominions. The scheme succeeded; before these seductive damsels, the austere etiquette of the court of Lú soon gave way, and fetes, comedies, dances, and concerts, took the place of propriety and decorum. The presence of the sage soon became irksome to his master, and he at last forbid him to come into his sight, having become quite charmed with the fair enchantresses, and no longer able to endure the remonstrances of his minister.
Confucius, thus disgraced in his own country, and now at the age of fifty, left it, and retired to the kingdom of Wei, where he remained more than ten years, without seeking to exercise any public office, but principally occupied with completing his works, and instructing his disciples in his doctrines. During his residence in Wei, he frequently made excursions into other states, taking with him such of his disciples as chose to accompany him. He was at times applauded and esteemed, but quite as often was the object of persecution and contempt. More than once his life was endangered. He compared himself to a dog driven from his home: "I have the fidelity of that animal, and I am treated like it. But what matters the ingratitude of men? They cannot hinder me from doing all the good that is appointed me. If my precepts are disregarded, I have the consolation in my own breast of knowing that I have faithfully performed my duty." He sometimes spoke in a manner that showed his own impression to be that Heaven had conferred on him a special commission to instruct the world. When an attempt was made on his life, he said, "As Heaven has produced such a degree of virtue in me, what can Hwántúi do to me?" On another occasion of danger, he said, "If Heaven means not to obliterate this doctrine from the earth, the men of Kwáng can do nothing to me."
At the age of sixty-eight, after an absence of eighteen years, Confucius returned to his native country, where he lived a life of retirement, employed in putting the finishing hand to his works. In his sixty-sixth year, his wife died, and his son, Piyü, mourned for her a whole year; but one day overhearing his father say, "Ah! it is carried too far;" he dried up his tears. Three years after this, this son also died, leaving a son, Tsz'sz', who afterwards emulated his grandfather's fame as a teacher, and became the author of the Chung Yung, or True Medium. The next year, Yen Hwui, the favorite disciple of the sage, died, whose loss he bitterly mourned, saying, "Heaven has destroyed me! heaven has destroyed me!" He had great hopes of this pupil, and had depended upon him to perpetuate his doctrines.
An anecdote is related of him about this time of life, which the Chinese regard as highly creditable to their sage. Tsz'kung, one of his disciples, was much surprised one morning to meet his master at the door, dressed with much elegance and nicety. On asking him where he was going, Confucius, with a sigh, replied, "I am going to court, and that too, without being invited. I have not been able to resist a feeling which possesses me to make a last effort to bring a just punishment upon Chin Chen, the usurper of the throne of Tsí. I am prepared by purification and fasting, for this audience, so that if I fail, I shall not have to accuse myself." On presenting himself, he was received with respect, and immediately admitted to an audience; and the prince of Lú asked him what important affair had called him from his retirement. Confucius, replied: "Sire, that which I have to communicate, alike concerns all kings. The perfidious Chin Chen has imbued his hands in the blood of his legitimate sovereign, Kien. You are a prince; your state borders upon Tsí; Kien was your ally, and originally of the same race as yourself. Any one of these reasons is sufficient to authorize you to declare war against Chin Chen, and all of them combined make it your duty to take up arms. Assemble your forces and march to exterminate a monster whom the earth upholds with regret. This crime is such that it cannot be pardoned, and, in punishing it, you will at once avenge an outrage against heaven, from which every king derives his power; against royalty, which has been profaned by this perfidy; against a parent, to whom you are allied by ties of blood, alliance and friendship."
The prince, convinced of the criminality of Chin Chen, applauded the just indignation which inspired the heart of Confucius, but suggested that before he entered upon such an enterprise, it would be best to confer with his ministers. "Sire," said the philosopher, "I have acquitted myself of a duty in laying this case before you; but it will be useless to insist upon it before your ministers, whom I know are disinclined to enter into my views. Reflect, I pray you, as a sovereign, upon what I now propose, and consult only with yourself as to its execution. Your servants are not sovereigns, and have no other than their own ends to gain, to which they sometimes sacrifice the good of their master and the glory of the state. I have no other end in view than to support the cause of justice; and I conjure you, by the sacred names of justice and good order, to go and exterminate this miscreant from the earth, and, by restoring the throne of Tsí to its rightful owner, to exhibit to the world your justice, and strike a salutary terror into the hearts of all who may wish to imitate this successful villany." On leaving, the prince said to Confucius, "I will think seriously on what you have said, and, if it be possible, will carry it into execution."