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vice driving in front, with virtue following behind!" The sage saw at once that he had been placed in a false position, and determined upon seeking some other refuge.

It was whilst travelling towards the South, on the borders of the principality of Sung, that one day, being weary, he dismounted from his chariot and seated himself in the shade of a wide-spreading tree. In order to pass the time profitably, he began to explain to his disciples the origin and intention of the various rites. Whilst so occupied, an officer of high military rank, in the service of the Prince of Sung, passed by. He no sooner saw Confucius, towards whom he entertained an intense dislike, than he drew his sword and rushed towards him, with the intention of killing him. Fortunately the philosopher caught sight of him in time, and, retaining his presence of mind, effected his escape. His companions were panic-stricken, and impatient of their master's calmness, less perhaps on his account than on their own, urged him to greater speed. "Why should I hasten?" replied Confucius; "if Heaven protects me, why need I care for this man's anger?" This answer did not reassure his friends; perhaps they felt themselves unworthy of participation in Heaven's favour, for they dispersed and fled. Left to himself, and driven from the right road, Confucius directed his

steps to the capital of the state of Ching, which he reached so utterly exhausted that he was obliged to sit down on a stone outside the city gates. Here he was seen by some of the inhabitants, who informed one of his disciples, who had arrived before him, that a man of noble and majestic mien was sitting outside the city, so travel-stained and weary that he looked like a tired dog who had lost his master. On this description being repeated to Confucius by the disciple, who, suspecting the stranger could be no other than his master, had at once hastened to him, he was greatly amused, and declared that, whatever exaggeration there might be with respect to the manner in which he was described, there could be no doubt as to the truth of that portion of it which declared him to be like a homeless and tired dog.

Four years after his departure from Loo, the prince died, and it seemed at first as if his great wish to return was to be gratified. But his patience had yet to be tried by many more weary years of exile.

A year later, when travelling with some of his disciples in what is now the eastern portion of Honan, their supplies having fallen short, he and his companions were reduced to the last extremity for want of food. When those around him gave way to murmurs and lamentations, Confucius remained unmoved, and even played on the lute and sang, as was his

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habit under more favourable circumstances. Instead of encouraging, this gave great offence to his fellowsufferers. One of them, indeed, could not refrain from upbraiding him, and asking whether it could possibly be right for any one to play and sing when those around him were dying of hunger. "Know you not," replied the sage, "that music is the means which the superior man employs to keep down the cravings of his animal nature when they strive to obtain a mastery over him?" Another proof of the high estimation in which music was held by him.

It has already been shown how music, as the second of the six liberal arts, had been studied and reduced to a system in the early days of the empire. But in the time of Confucius it was supposed to have greatly deteriorated from the state of perfection to which it had been brought in the halcyon days of the immortal Shun, when the sweetness of its notes gave harmonious indication of the gentle and benign disposition of the ruler, and of the happiness and content of the people over whom he ruled. It was supposed to have become harsher in proportion as the empire had been weakened by internal discord; and a relish for these ruder strains was regarded by Confucius as a certain indication of the moral declension of the national character. Hence it was that it became a cherished object with him to re-establish a

taste for those pure and lofty strains which had set a stamp upon the music of the golden age. According to his theory, the extension of such a taste would not only indicate an unmistakable advance in moral culture, but would be one of the surest methods to produce it. "It is impossible," he once said, "for a vicious man to be a good musician."

It is doubtful whether the experiences of the age in which we live would lead to the same conclusion. He continued to move about from state to state until, some four years after his departure from Wei, we find him at the capital of the principality of Tsoo, which now forms part of Hoo-pih, where he attracted the favourable notice of the sovereign, and it was, again, only through the intervention of his ministers that he was prevented from giving him the government of a large district. "How," said they, "can it be safe for you to place a man in a prominent position who has amongst his disciples three such men as Tsze-kung, Yen-hwui, and Tsze-loo? There is not an officer in your Majesty's dominions capable of competing with them. With the aid of such men as these is it likely he will employ his power for no other purpose than to benefit the state of Tsoo? Do not forget how Woo and Wan, although they were but the heirs of some hundred le, were able to make themselves masters of the empire. Let your Majesty

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be warned." The prince had not the courage to act in opposition to this advice, and on his death, which took place within the same year, Confucius decided upon leaving Tsoo and returning to Wei.

In the mean time, great changes had taken place in that state. Its prince had died four years before, soon after the departure of Confucius, and the succession had devolved on his grandson, his son having been put on one side in consequence of an attempt made upon the life of his mother, the infamous Nantsze. An internecine struggle was the consequence, but though many tempting offers were made to induce Confucius to take a part in it, he steadily refused to do so, and he continued for nearly six years without official employment, or taking any active part in public affairs.

His previous wanderings had not been without their use. We have passed over the details connected with many of them, in order to avoid the frequent repetition of all but similar incidents: the same dangers and fatigues; receptions at various minor courts; and conversations in which the same ideas are repeated in almost identical words a narrative, in fact, made tedious by its monotony. It is sufficient to know that, during the whole period of his exile, his zeal never flagged, and that, in whatever circumstances he might be placed, he exhibited