For a thousand years before the Teuton appeared on the scene of
civilization, the sages had been teaching in the agora of Athens and
in the groves and gardens of its environs. There profound subjective
philosophies were imparted to eager seekers for truth, and in the
schools geometry, rhetoric, music, and gymnastics gave to the Attic
youth a culture more refined than was ever possessed by any other
people. The Athenians were familiar with a literature which, for
purity and elegance of style, was never surpassed. The Greeks believed
with Plato, that “rhythm and harmony find their way into the secret
places of the soul, on which they mightily fasten, bearing grace in
their movements, and making the soul graceful of him who is rightly
educated.” There temples rose with stately column and sculptured
frieze, and art fashioned marble in the images of the gods with a
transcendent skill that gave an enduring name to many of its devotees.
Meantime our ancestors were wandering westward through the forests of
Europe, or were dwelling for a time in thatched huts on some fertile
plain, or in some inviting glade or grove. But these children of the
forest, almost savages, possessed the genius of progress, a power
that turned to its own uses the civilization of the past, and almost
wholly determined the character of modern history. They highly esteemed
independence and honor. In their estimate of woman they stood above the
people of antiquity, and the home was held sacred. They possessed a
practical and earnest spirit, an inborn dislike for mere formalism, and
a regard for essentials that later developed in scientific discovery
and independence of thought. The Teuton had a nature in which ideas
took a firm root, and he had a profoundly religious spirit, impressible
by great religious truths. He listened to the rustle of the oak leaves
in his sacred groves, as did the Greeks at Dodona, and they whispered
to him of mysterious powers that manifested themselves through nature.
The scalds, the old Teutonic poets, sang in weird runic rhymes of the
valorous deeds of their ancestors.
How the Teutons hurled themselves against the barriers of the Roman
Empire, how they overran the fields of Italy, how they absorbed and
assimilated to their own nature what was best in the civilization of
the ancients, how they formed the nuclei of the modern nations, how
the renaissance of the ancient literature and art in Italy spread
over Western Europe and reached England, and later an offshoot was
transplanted to American soil—these and similar themes constitute some
of the most interesting portions of history. Not least important is
the fact that the Roman world gave the Teutons the religion of Christ,
that highest development of faith in things not seen, which, to the
mind of many a searcher in rational theology, is a necessary part of
a complete plan, to a belief in which we are led by a profoundly
contemplative view of nature and human life. We study the past to
know the present. Man finds himself only by a broad view of the world
and of history, together with a deep insight into his own being. Our
present institutions are understood better when viewed historically; in
the light of history our present opportunities and obligations assume
fuller significance.
* * * * *
By the mingling of two streams, one flowing from the sacred founts of
Greece and Rome, the other springing from among the rocks and pines of
the German forests, a current of civilization was formed which swept
onward and broadened into a placid and powerful river. Let us view the
character of the present period, and learn to value what has come down
to us from the past—our heritage of institutions and ideas, a heritage
derived from the two sources, Greco-Roman and Teutonic.
The independent, practical, investigating energy of the Teutonic
character has made this an age of scientific discovery and material
progress. The forces of nature are turned to man’s uses. Science
discovers and proclaims the laws of nature’s processes, and evolution
admits that, in view of every phenomenon, we are in the presence
of an inscrutable energy that orders and sustains all nature’s
manifestations. The ideas of the Christian religion, universally
received by the new peoples, in the course of centuries have forced
themselves in their full meaning upon the minds of men, and they
determine more than all else the altruistic spirit of the age.
Altruism is the soul of Christianity; it has become a forceful and
practical idea, and it promises greater changes in political and
social conditions than the world has ever seen. The religious revolt
of the sixteenth century is a Teutonic inheritance—a revolt which
transmitted some evils, but which abjured formalism and based merit
upon the essential, conscious attitude of man. If the impulse that grew
into the revolution of the eighteenth century and led to political
emancipation was not of Teutonic origin, it was received and cherished
everywhere by Teutonic peoples, and was carried by them to permanent
conclusions. The modern Teuton is found in his highest development in
the intelligent American of to-day. The ancient Teuton caught up the
torch of civilization, and in the fourteen centuries since has carried
it far. It is, perhaps, a return kindly made by fate that the light of
that torch was for many years a beacon to benighted Italy. The modern
Teuton extends to her the hand of enlightened sympathy, and remembers
in gratitude the great gift received from her in the early centuries.
And we inherit from the ancients, those master minds that were the
authors of great conceptions when the world was young. Greece was
the Shakespeare of the ancient world. It transmuted all that it had
received from the nations of the Orient into forms of surpassing
genius, even as the great master of the Elizabethan period of our era
turned all that he touched into precious metal. When the world was
crude, and there were no great originals to imitate, it meant much to
create, and create so perfectly that many of the results have ever
since been ideals for all peoples. Phidias and Apelles, Pericles and
Demosthenes, Homer and Euripides, Herodotus and Xenophon, Aristides,
Socrates and Plato and Aristotle—artists, statesmen, orators, poets,
historians, men great and just, philosophers! Can we wonder that the
glory of their names increases with time? They were men whom no truly
independent worker ever surpassed. No wonder the soil of Greece is
sacred, and that men of to-day go back in imagination across the chasm
of ages and visit it with reverential spirit. No wonder we still go to
the original sources for culture and inspiration. No wonder the great
and noble men of Greece are still among the best examples for the
instruction of youth. The pass at Thermopylæ, where perished the three
hundred, the Parthenon, are hallowed by sacred memories. The Greeks
had a marvellous love for nature. They saw it instinct with life, and
in fancy beheld some personal power moving in the zephyr, or flowing
with the river, or dwelling in the growing tree. Their mythology has
become the handmaid of literature. Parnassus, Apollo and the Sacred
Nine command almost a belief with our reverence. If the seats on the
sacred mount are already filled with the great men of the past, at
least we can sit at their feet. The study of the humanities has a
peculiar value, because it develops distinctively human possibilities.
Thought and language are mysteriously connected. One of the most
noted philologists of the age claims that thought without language
is impossible. The use of language helps to develop concepts. Fine
literature, with its thoughts, its beauty of expression, constructs,
as it were, the best channels for original expression. Art strives for
perfection, cultivates ideals, refines and ennobles. It creates an
understanding of all the ideals that may be included in the categories
of the True, the Beautiful, and the Good; hence the interpretation of
the aphorism of Goethe, “The beautiful is greater than the good, for it
includes the good and adds something to it.” Art gives strength to the
aspirations, and lends wings to the spirit. The study of the humanities
is a grand means of real development.
The present offers the student two sides of education—the modern and
the classic, the sciences and the humanities. Ever since the Baconian
method was given to the world the interest in science has steadily
increased, until now there is danger of neglecting the classic side.
Each side of education has its value; either alone makes a one-sided
man; let neither be neglected.
In this country to-day the student moves in the vanguard of progress;
he is heir to all that is best in the past, and his heritage makes for
him opportunities full of promise.
All the soul growth of our ancestors modifies the mechanism of our
intellectual processes, and gives us minds that fall into rhythm
with the march of ideas. We profit by all the past has done; the
active factors in this age of freedom—intellectual, spiritual, and
political—are multiplied by millions, and each profits by the efforts
of all. Intellectual acquirement is a duty; to be ignorant is to be
behind the spirit of the time. There are problems yet to be solved;
there are duties to ourselves and the age. Every individual tendency,
fitness, and inclination can be met by the diversity of occupations,
of knowledge, and of fields of investigation. Men of moral stamina
are still needed to stand for all that is best. New ideals are to be
created that shall typify an age which yet lacks poetic expression.
When we consider the evolution of man and of institutions, we see that
we are very far from perfection, and that each period of history is a
period of development. We read of the brutal traits of our ancestors,
their ignorance, and their superstition, and we can still discover
the same tendencies, only more refined and better controlled. Along
the avenue of progress we march toward the high destiny of the race.
Evolution is the law both of Spencer and of Hegel. Every struggle of an
earnest soul gives impetus to the movement.
* * * * *
A Shakespeare, reared on the steppes of Central Asia, among the Tartar
hordes of Genghis Khan, would have been a savage—a poetic savage,
perhaps, but still a savage—bloodthirsty, restless, and wild. Born of
a primitive race, in some sunny clime, he would have looked dreamily
upon the world and life, somewhat as an animal of the forest; he would
have fed on the spontaneous products of nature, and have reposed under
the shadow of his palm tree. Shakespeare of England, by a long process
of education, gained the ideas of his age and the culture of the great
civilizations of the past. His education and the forceful ideas of a
period of thought and reformation and investigation stimulated the
distinctively human intelligence, and awakened subjective analysis
and poetic fancy, and he made true pictures of human character, world
types, in history, tragedy, and comedy. Education enables man to
begin real life where the previous age left off. It is an inherited
capital. Ideas, fancies, principles, laws, discoveries, experience from
failures, which were the work of centuries, are furnished ready at
hand as tools for the intellectual workman. The present is understood
in the light of history; the methods of investigating nature are
transmitted. The growth of the race is epitomized in the individual.
Let us look at the sphere of education. Here is the world of infinite
variety, form, and color. The savage looks upon it with superstitious
wonder, and, perhaps, with a kind of sensuous enjoyment. He knows not
how to wield nature to practical ends. But the book of science is
opened to him through education. He learns the secrets of nature’s
laboratory and, as with magic wand, he marshals the atoms and
causes new forms of matter to appear for his uses. He learns the
manifestations and transmutations of nature’s forces, and he trains
them to obey his will and do his work. He observes how, under the
influence of a distinct order of forces, organic forms rise on the
face of nature and develop into higher and higher classes, and,
incidentally, he learns the uses of vegetable products. He knows the
laws of number; commodities, structures, and forces are quantitatively
estimated, and material progress becomes possible. He traces the
history of nations and understands the problems of the present. He
catches the inspiration of the geniuses of literature, and he rises to
a level with the great minds of the earth; he becomes a creature of
ideas, sentiments, aspirations, and ideals, instead of remaining a mere
animal. He learns the languages of cultured peoples, and gets at their
inner life; learns their concepts, the polish of their expression,
and becomes more enlightened and refined. He studies the subjective
side of man, that which is a mirror of all that is objective, and he
understands his own powers and possibilities, and the laws of human
growth. He studies philosophy, and he stands face to face with the
ultimate conceptions of creation and gains a basis for his thought
and conduct. This is a practical view, and pertains to the making of
a useful and strong man—master over the forces of nature, able to use
ideas for practical ends, and capable of continuous growth.
But knowledge as such, and its use for manhood and happiness, are often
underestimated. To know the processes and history of inorganic nature,
to trace the growth of worlds and know their movements, and number the
starry hosts, to study the structure and development of all organic
life, to know the infallible laws of mathematics, to live amid the
deeds of men of all ages, to imbibe their richest thoughts, to stand in
presence of the problems of the infinite, make a mere animal man almost
a god, direct him toward the realization of the great possibilities
of his being. Imagine a man born in a desert land, and shut in by
the walls of a tent from the glories of nature. Imagine him to have
matured in body with no thought or language other than pertaining to
the needs of physical existence. Imagine him, since we may imagine
the impossible, to have a fully developed power for intellectual
grasp and emotional life. Then open up to him the beauty of the
forest, the poetry of the sea, the grandeur of the mountains, and the
sublimity of the starry heavens; let him read the secrets of nature;
present to him the writings of men whose lives have been enriched by
their own labor, and whose faces radiate an almost divine expression
born of good thoughts; reveal to him the glowing concepts that find
expression through the chisel or brush of the artist, and give him a
view from the summit of philosophy. Would he not look upon nature as
a marvellous temple of infinite proportions, adorned with priceless
gems and frescoed with master hand? Would he not regard art and thought
as divinely inspired? And this picture is hardly overdrawn; such a
contrast, only less in degree, lies between the vicious, ignorant
boor, given to animal pleasures, and the scholar. Learning draws aside
the tent folds and reveals the wonders of the temple. Man must have
enjoyment; if not intellectual, then it will be sensuous and degrading.
Here is an enjoyment that does not pall, a stimulus that does not
react, a gratification that ennobles.
Moreover, education trains the powers through knowledge. The power
to observe accurately the world of beauty and wonder; the power to
recombine and modify in infinite kaleidoscopic forms the percepts
and images of the mind, making possible all progress; the power to
elaborate, verify, and generalize; the power to feel the greatness of
truth, the rhythms and harmonies of the world and the beauty of its
forms; the power to perceive and feel the right; the power to guide
one’s self in pursuit of the best—these are worth more than mere
practical acquisitions and mere knowledge, for they make possible all
acquisition and growth and enjoyment.
The thoughtless person who argues against education little knows
how much he and all men are indebted to it. The demand for general
intelligence is increasing, and the capabilities of the race for
knowledge are greater with each educated generation. Earnest men are
endeavoring to make a degree of culture almost universal, as is shown
by the “Chautauqua Scheme” and the plan of “University Extension.”
Education adheres less rigidly to the old lines, and men can gain a
more purely English training, including scientific preparation for
industrial and commercial pursuits. These schemes are useful because
they tend to popularize education, and they reach a class which would
not be reached by the usual courses of study.
But there is danger of departing from the ideal type of
education—education for general training and knowledge and manhood. Not
that traditional courses must be rigidly adhered to, for a new field
of learning has been opened in which may be acquired a knowledge of
material nature. But, in the zeal for the modern side of education,
there is danger of neglecting the ancient, the classic side, the
humanities. Language and literature, history and philosophy and art,
since they train expression and cultivate ideals, and teach the motives
of men and the nature and destiny of the human race, since they deal
with the spiritual more than with the material, since they belong
exclusively to man, since they stimulate the activity of divine powers
and instincts, since they are peculiarly useful as mental gymnastics,
since they are culturing and refining—they still have and always will
have a high value in ideal education. The ancient side and the modern
side should fairly share the honors in a college course.
The arguments for so-called practical education are fallacious,
whenever the nature, time, and possibilities of the pupil will enable
him to develop anything more than the bread-winning capabilities.
When one knows the pure mathematics, his knowledge can be applied
in the art of bookkeeping with a minimum effort. Bookkeeping is a
mere incident in the line of mathematical work. A year in a school of
general education, even to the prospective clerk or merchant, should be
worth ten times as much as a year spent in the practice of mechanical
processes. United States history is valuable to an American youth, but,
while with one view America is in the forefront of progress, there is
another view in which our century of history is only an incident in the
march of events. The present can be understood only historically, and
the elements of our civilization should be known in the light of the
world’s history.
Not only should we adhere to our faith in university education, but we
can find reasons for raising the standard of a part of university work.
Even now, no student should receive a professional degree who has not
previously obtained at least a complete high-school education; and the
time may come when, in all institutions, at least two years of college
life will be required as a basis for a doctor’s or a lawyer’s degree.
Graduate courses have become a prominent feature of many American
universities, and year by year larger numbers of students seek higher
degrees. As the race advances, the preparation for active life will
necessarily enlarge.
* * * * *
Many know but little of the forces that move the world. Material
progress does not make the spirit of the age, but the spirit of the age
makes material progress. The outward works of man are a result of the
promptings of the inner spirit. It is the spirit of a nation that wins
battles, the spirit of a nation that makes inventions. Take away ideals
and the world would be inert. It is spirit that makes the difference
between the American soldier fighting for his liberty and the Hessian
hireling or the old Italian _condottieri_ who played at war for the
highest bidder. Here is the difference between a slave and a freeman,
between the oppressed of old countries and the free American.
Ideas move the world. It is related that in the second Messenian war
the Spartans, obeying the Delphic oracle, sent to Athens for a leader,
and the Athenians in contempt sent them a lame schoolmaster. But the
schoolmaster had within him the spirit of song, and he so inspired the
Spartans that they finally gained the victory. In the contests with
England, during the time of the Edwards, the national spirit of Wales
was aroused and sustained by the songs of her bards. The Marseillaise
Hymn helped to keep alive the fire on the altar of French liberty. It
is only as man has hope, aspirations, courage, that he acts, and, in
order to progress, he must act towards ideals. The mind imagines higher
things to be attained, and endeavor follows.
Natural features of sea or forest or mountain or desert have something
to do with the character and ideas of a people; so, also, the material
wealth in lands and buildings. But to understand the great movements
of history, we must look at the great psychical factors. Our heritage
of ideas, our love of liberty, our Puritan standards, our hatred of
tyranny, our independence of spirit, are strong characteristics that
make us a distinctive and progressive people. It was an idea that gave
England her Magna Charta; an idea that made us a free and independent
nation; an idea that preserved our Union.
A man makes a labor-saving invention, and the ease and luxury of
physical living are increased, and men bless the inventor and proclaim
that the practical man alone is of use to the world. Another gives to
the world a thought—a great work of art, a song, or a philosophy—and it
takes possession of men and becomes an incentive to noble living, and
the race has truly progressed. Let the spirit that possesses our people
die out and all material prosperity would perish.
In primitive times, when men lived in caves, and, as Charles Lamb
humorously says, went to bed early because they had nothing else
to do, and grumbled at each other, and, in the absence of candles,
were obliged to feel of their comrades’ faces to catch the smile of
appreciation at their jokes—then, if a great man had a thought, he
related it to his neighbor, and his neighbor told it to a friend, and
it did good. Later, a great man had a thought, and he wrought it out
laboriously on a parchment and loaned it to his neighbor, and he sent
it to a friend, and many came, sometimes from far, to read it, and it
did more good. In our age a great man had a thought and he printed
it in a book, and thousands read it, and it was translated into many
tongues, and his words became household words, and the race had taken
a step forward. The world advances more rapidly to-day because ideas
spread with such facility.
What is called contemptuously “book learning,” the education of young
men in the schools, helps to preserve, increase, make useful, and
transmit all the discoveries and the best thoughts of past generations.
The student is likely to be a man of ideas, of ideals, and hence he is
the great power of the world.
The man of affairs says to the ideal man: There is nothing of value but
railroads, houses, inventions, and creature comforts. Of what use are
your history, poetry, philosophy, and stuff? The scholar replies: Every
man contributes something to the common good. I am improved by your
practical view and skill, and you are unconsciously benefited by my
ideas. You live, without knowing it, in an atmosphere of ideas, and the
practical men of to-day breathe it in and are inspired and stimulated
by it. Without the atmosphere of ideas, your inventions and material
progress would not be.
The culture of the ancients directly encourages ideal standards. It was
a happy thought of the Greek that personified principles and ideas,
that created muses to preside over the forms of literature. Let us
deify our best ideals and set up altars for their worship.
Men laugh at the nonsense of poetry and ideal standards, but thoughtful
men pity them. I remember listening some years since to a prominent
lecturer in a large town. He began with a prelude, in which with
masterly strokes he pictured the admirable location of the city, its
relation to the environing regions, the whole country, and the world,
its probable growth, its material promise, and its opportunity for
social, intellectual, and moral development, and he pointed to the
picture as an inspiration for young men. Then he entered upon his main
theme, “Proofs of Immortality.” As with dramatic distinctness he made
one point after another, he held his vast audience breathless and
spellbound. The next morning I took up my paper at the breakfast table
and noted the glaring headlines and details of robberies, murders,
and domestic scandals, while, in an obscure corner, expressed in a
contemptuous manner, were a dozen lines upon the magnificent oratory
and supreme themes of the evening before. Is there not room for the
scholar with his ideals?
* * * * *
Rudyard Kipling, that Englishman in a strange oriental garb, visited
one of the great and prosperous cities of our country. He was met by
a committee of citizens and shown the glory of the town. They gave
him the height of their blocks, the cost of their palace hotels,
and the extent of their stockyards, expecting him to express wonder
and admiration. He surprised them by exclaiming, “Gentlemen, are
these things so? Then, indeed, I am sorry for you;” and he called
them barbarians, savages, because they gloried in their material
possessions, and said nothing of the morals of the city, nothing of her
great men, nothing of her government, her charities, and her art. He
called them barbarians because they valued their adornments, not for
the art in them, but for their cost in dollars. A lecturer not long
ago said derisively that of all the Athenians who listened with rapt
attention to the orations of Demosthenes, probably not one had a pin or
a button for his cloak. It would be a curious problem to weigh a few
orations of Demosthenes against pins and buttons. It is said of men of
olden time that they conspired to build themselves up into heaven by
using materials of earth, and began to erect a lofty tower, but the
Almighty, seeing the futility of their endeavor, thwarted their attempt
at its inception, and thus showed that men could never ascend to the
heavens by any material means. It is a wonderful invention, but no
flying machine will ever give wings to the spirit. There is a material
and a spiritual side to the world, and the spiritual can never be
enhanced by the material. The lower animals, through their instincts,
perform material feats often surpassing the skill of man. For his
purpose the beaver can build a better dam than man; no skill of man can
make honey for the bee. That which distinguishes man is his manhood,
his thought, his ideals, his spirituality.
There is a glory of the present and a glory of the past. The glory
of the past was its literature, its art, its examples of greatness.
Let us retain the glory of the ancient civilization and add to it the
marvellous scientific and practical spirit of the present. Then shall
we have a civilization surpassing any previous one. Let us not only
tunnel our mountains for outlets to our great transcontinental railway
systems, but let us also find among our mountain ranges, and domes, and
cañons, some sacred grottoes. Let us not only explore our peaks for
gold and silver, but find some Parnassus, sacred to the Muses, whom we
shall learn to invoke not in vain.
* * * * *
Shall we venture to characterize the American student of the near
future? He will hardly be a recluse, nor will he wholly neglect the
body for the culture of the mind. He will be a man of the world, a man
of business; on the one hand, not disregarding the uses of wealth,
and, on the other, not finding material possessions and sensuous
enjoyment the better part of life. He will be an influence in politics
and in the solution of all social problems. His ideals will be viewed
somewhat in the light of their practicality. He will know the laws
of mental growth in order to use them, and will find the avenues of
approach to men’s motives. His religion will add more of work to
faith. He will secure a high growth of self by regarding the welfare
of others, instead of worshipping exclusively at the shrine of his own
development. The scientific knowledge of nature’s materials and forces,
and the skill to use them, will invite a large class of minds. In
brief, the coming student will take on more of the traits of the ideal
man of affairs.
But, while we may not expect a revival of the almost romantic life
of the early literary clubs of London, there will be many a group
devoted to the enjoyment of thought and beauty in literature. If
no Socrates shall walk the streets proclaiming his wisdom on the
corners, at imminent risk from cable cars and policemen, there will be
a philosophy, disseminated through the press of the coming century,
which will still strive to reach beyond the processes of nature to the
unknown cause, will reëxamine those conceptions of the Absolute, which
are thought to stand the test when applied to explain the problems of
human life. If no Diogenes shall be found with his lantern at noontide,
seeking, as it were, in a microscopic way, the honest man which the
brilliant luminary failed to reveal, many a one, living courageously
his principles and convictions, will endeavor by precept and example
to make an age of honest men who will find the golden rule in the
necessities of human intercourse, as well as in the concepts of ethics
and the teaching of religion.
The student owes much to the world. The ideal scholar is too
intelligent to be prejudiced, one-sided, or superstitious. He should
avoid the path of the political demagogue. He should know the force of
ideas and the value of ideals; he should be too wise to fall into the
slough of pure materialism.
The literature of the future will not try the bold, metaphorical
flights of Shakespeare, but there will be a literature that will show
the poetry of the new ideas. Whatever philosophy finally becomes the
prevalent one, there are certain transcendental conceptions, from
which the human mind cannot escape, that will still inspire poetry.
There must always be men who will open their eyes to the wonders
of the world and of human existence—who must know that any, the
commonest, substance is a mystery, the key to which would unlock the
secrets of the universe. The beauty of the starry heavens will ever be
transcendent; every natural scene and object remains a surpassing work
of art; life is filled with tragedy and comedy, and the possibilities
of human existence are as sublime as the eternal heights and depths.
Such conceptions beget a poetry which rises to a faith above reason;
that instinctively looks upon the fact of creation and of existence as
sublime and full of promise, and clings to a belief, however vague, in
the ultimate grand outcome for the individual. The right view of the
world is essentially poetic, and the truest poetry includes faith and
reverence. It is the privilege of the earnest and profound scholar to
know that literature refines, that philosophy ennobles, that religion
purifies, that ideals inspire, and that the world can be explained in
its highest meaning only by the conception of a personal God.
* * * * *
Notwithstanding its practical tendencies, this century is not wanting
in the highest literary power. It has given us the universal insight
and sympathy of Goethe, whose writings Carlyle describes as “A
Thousand-voiced Melody of Wisdom.” He thus continues, “So did Goethe
catch the Music of the Universe, and unfold it into clearness, and, in
authentic celestial tones, bring it home to the hearts of men.”
This century has revealed the grandeur of metaphysical thought through
Hegel, and found a wonderful expounder of science in Spencer. Each
an exponent of a great philosophy, both giants in mental grasp, they
greatly influence the thought of the age, and become co-workers in the
investigation of many-sided truth.
Next stands Carlyle, in the midst of this mechanical and seemingly
unpoetic age, and proclaims it an age of romance; in inspired words
teaches the beauty of the genuine, the sublimity of creation, the
grandeur of human life. Wordsworth, Nature’s priest, interprets her
forms and moods with finest insight, and finds them expressive of
divine thought. He looks quite through material forms and feels
“A sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things.”
Our own Emerson to this generation quaintly says, “Hitch your wagon to
a star,” and thousands strive to rise superior to occupation, rank, and
habit into the dignity of manhood—to rise above the clouds of sorrow
and disappointment, and bathe in the pure sunlight. The spiritual
beauty of his face, the calm dignity of his life will live in the
memory of men and add to the force of his writings.
Longfellow has said,
“Look, then, into thine heart, and write.”
Every aspiration, every care and sorrow, every mood and sentiment,
finds in him a true sympathy; he stands foremost, not as a genius of
the intellect, but as a genius of the heart. How often he enters our
homes, sits at our firesides, touches the sweetest, tenderest chords of
the lyre, awakens the purest aspirations of our being.
Then comes Dickens, and tells us that fiction may have a high and noble
mission; that it may teach love, benevolence, and charity; that it may
promote cheerfulness and contentment; that it may expose injustice and
defend truth and right.
All these, each a master in his field, are powerful in their influence;
but beyond this fact is the more significant one that they index some
of the better tendencies of the century. Never before were so many
fields of thought represented; never did any possess masters of greater
skill. We may hope that, even in the midst of this period of material
prosperity, invention, and scientific research, the spiritual side of
man’s nature will ultimately gain new strength, and thought a deeper
insight.
* * * * *
With our exact thought and practical energy, is there not danger of
losing all the romance which clothes human existence with beauty
and hope? The gods are banished from Olympus; Helicon is no longer
sacred to the Muses; Egeria has dissolved into a fountain of tears;
the Dryads have fled from the sacred oaks; the elves no longer flit
in the sunbeams; Odin lies buried beneath the ruins of Walhalla; “Pan
is dead.” That wealth of imagination which characterized the Greek,
enabled him to personify the powers that rolled in the flood or sighed
in the breeze, has passed away. We would turn Parnassus into a stone
quarry and hew the homes of the Dryads into merchantable lumber. The
spear of chivalry is broken in the lists by the implements of the
mechanic, the tourney is converted into a fair. Romance is for a time
clouded by the smoke of manufactories.
But a seer has arisen, who finds in remotest places and in humblest
life the essence of romance. Carlyle is our true poet and we do well to
comprehend his meaning. To his mind we have but to paint the meanest
object in its actual truth and the picture is a poem. Romance exists
in reality. “The thing that _is_, what can be _so_ wonderful?” “In our
own poor Nineteenth Century ... he has witnessed overhead the infinite
deep, with lesser and greater lights, bright-rolling, silent-beaming,
hurled forth by the hand of God; around him and under his feet the
wonderfullest earth, with her winter snow storms and summer spice airs,
and (unaccountablest of all) _himself_ standing there. He stood in the
lapse of Time; he saw eternity behind him and before him.” I cannot
lead you to the end of that wonderful passage, but it is worth the
devotion of solitude.
We have left the superstitions of the past, but the beauty of mythology
is transmuted into the glory of truth. In the valley of Chamounix,
Coleridge sang for us a grander hymn than any ancient epic, Wordsworth
has read the promise of immortality in a humble flower, science reveals
to us the sublimity of creation. Romance has not passed away; if we
will but look nature becomes transparent and we see through to Nature’s
God.
* * * * *
Many good men fear the results of independent thought and scientific
research, but such fear is the outgrowth of narrow views. Every pioneer
in an unexplored field should be welcomed. The Darwins and the Spencers
are doing a grand work. Only the widest investigation can possibly
affirm the truth of any belief. Let men doubt their instincts and go
forth to seek a foundation for truth. Let them trace the evolution of
organized being from the simplest elements. Let them resolve the sun
and planets and all the wonderful manifestations of force into nebulæ
and heat. Let investigation seek every nook and corner penetrable by
human knowledge. All this will but show the processes and the wonders
of creation without revealing the cause or end.
The intellect of man, for a time divorced from the warm instincts of
his being, sent forth into chill and rayless regions of discovery,
having performed its mission, will return and speak to the human soul
in startling, welcome accents: Far and wide I have sought a basis
for truth and found it not. Any philosophy that recognizes no God
is false. Search your inner consciousness. You are yourself God’s
highest expression of truth. You see beauty in the flower, glory in the
heavens. You have human love and sympathy, divine aspirations. Life to
you is nothing without aim and hope. Trust your higher instincts.
The ancient Romans read omens in the flight of birds, and ordered great
events by these supposed revelations of the deities. In our day, a
Bryant has watched by fountain and grove for the revelations of God,
and has read in the flight of a “Waterfowl” a deeper augury than any
ancient priest, for it relates not to political events, but to an
eternal truth, implanted in the breast and confirming the hope of man.
“There is a power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—
The desert and illimitable air—
Lone wandering but not lost.
“Thou’rt gone, the abyss of Heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou hast given,
And shall not soon depart.
“He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.”
The student is asked to take a view from the height to which he has
already attained, and catch a glimpse here and there of the world, of
history, and of the meaning of human life. The fuller significance
of what appears in the fair field of learning will come with maturer
years. It is not enough for the student to enjoy selfishly his
knowledge and power; he should be a mediator between his capabilities
and his opportunities. It is one thing to have power, another to use
it. The mighty engine may have within it the potency of great work,
but it may stand idle forever unless the proper means are employed to
utilize it. Let the student convert his power into active energy,
and study the best ways of making it tell for the highest usefulness.
Education but prepares to enter the great school of life, and that
school should be a means of continuous development towards greater
power and higher character, and knowledge and usefulness. Progress
is the condition of life; to stand still is to decay. One with a
progressive spirit gains a little day by day and year by year, and
in the sum of years there will be a large aggregate. Employ well the
differentials of time, then integrate, and what is the result?
An old and honored college instructor was accustomed to say, “Education
is valuable, but good character is indispensable,” and the force of
this truth grows upon me with every year of experience. I well remember
a sermon by Henry Ward Beecher upon the theme “Upbuilding,” in which
he spent two hours in an earnest and eloquent appeal, especially to
the young, to thrust down the lower nature and cultivate the nobler
instincts, and thus evolve to higher planes.
Happy is he who can keep the buoyancy and freshness and hope of early
years. The “vision splendid,” which appears to the eye of youth, too
often may “fade into the light of common day.” Too often Wordsworth’s
lines become a prophecy, but let them be a warning:
“Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight,
And custom lie upon thee with a weight,
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life.”
Age should be the time of rich fruition. Not long since the Rev.
William R. Alger, on his visit to Denver, after an absence of a dozen
years, addressed a congregation of his old friends, and among other
things he spoke of his impressions when he first approached these
grand mountains. It was at set of sun, and, as he looked away over the
plains, he beheld on an elevation a thousand cattle, and in the glory
of the departing day they seemed to him like “golden cattle pasturing
in the azure and feeding on the blue.” Upon his last visit he again
approached these scenes at the close of day, and his impressions were
as vivid as in earlier years; his enjoyment in life was deeper, his
faith was stronger, and his hope brighter. There is no need to grow old
in spirit; it is only the dead soul that wholly loses the hope and the
joy of youth.
There are three grand categories, not always understood by those who
carelessly name them—the True, the Beautiful, and the Good. May the
thoughts and deeds which give character to life be such as to fall
within this trinity of perfect ideals.