his way through college by teaching, thus earning the money necessary
for his support. This may account for the fact that he entered college
at the age when most young men are leaving it, viz., twenty-one years.
It did not seem to him that it was a great misfortune to be poor; but
it was an additional inducement to call forth all his powers to insure
success. He knew that he must depend upon himself if he would succeed
in life. And so he was not satisfied with qualifying himself for one
chair in a college, but, as at Dickinson, he held two or three chairs.
He could teach the classics or mathematics or general literature,
or chemistry or natural sciences. Not many men had qualities so
diversified, or knew so well how to put them to good account. You know
very well that this liberal culture was not acquired without hard work.
And this hard work he must have done in early life, before cares and
duties crowded him, as they will absorb all of us the older we grow.
“Remember how He spake unto you.” I would give these words a two-fold
meaning――remember _what_ he said and _how_ he said it.
Twenty-seven years is a long time in the life of any man, even if he
has lived more than three-score years and ten. In all these years
President Allen was going in and out before the college boys, saying
good and kind words to them.
How often he spoke to you in the chapel! It was _your church_, and the
only church that you could attend, except on holidays. His purpose was
that this chapel service should be worthy of you, and worthy of the
day. So important did he consider it, that when his turn came to speak
to you here, he prepared himself carefully. He always wrote his little
discourses, and the best thoughts of his mind and heart he put into
them. He thought that nothing that he or any other speaker could bring
was too good for you.
And then the tones of his voice, the manner of his instruction; how
gentle, kind, conciliating. He remembered the injunction of Scripture,
“The servant of the Lord must not strive.” You will never know in this
life how much he bore from you, how long he bore with your waywardness,
your thoughtlessness; how much he loved you. He always called you “his
boys.” No matter though some of you are almost men, he always called
you “his boys,” much as the apostle John in his later years called his
disciples his “little children.” For President Allen felt that in a
certain sense he was a father to you all.
For some time past you knew that his health was declining. You saw his
bowed form and his feeble, hesitating steps. In the chapel his voice
was tremulous and feeble. The boys on the back benches could not always
understand his words distinctly. But you knew that he was in earnest in
all that he did say. And for many months he was not able to speak at
all in the chapel. On the last Founder’s Day he was seated in a chair,
with some of his family about him, looking at the battalion boys as
they were drilled, but the fatigue was too great for him. And as the
summer advanced into August, and the people in his native State were
gathering their harvests, he, too, was gathered, as a shock of corn
fully ripe.
When Tom Brown heard of the death of his old master, Arnold of Rugby,
he was fishing in Scotland. It was read to him from a newspaper. He
at once dropped everything and started for the old school. He was
overwhelmed with distress. “When he reached the station he went at once
to the school. At the gates he made a dead pause; there was not a soul
in the quadrangle, all was lonely and silent and sad; so with another
effort he strode through the quadrangle, and into the school-house
offices. He found the little matron in her room, in deep mourning;
shook her hand, tried to talk, and moved nervously about. She was
evidently thinking of the same subject as he, but he couldn’t begin
talking. Then he went to find the old verger, who was sitting in his
little den, as of old.
“‘Where is he buried, Thomas?’
“‘Under the altar in the chapel, sir,’ answered Thomas. ‘You’d like to
have the key, I dare say.’
“‘Thank you, Thomas; yes, I should, very much.’
“‘Then,’ said Thomas, ‘perhaps you’d like to go by yourself, sir?’”
“So he walked to the chapel door and unlocked it, fancying himself the
only mourner in all the broad land, and feeding on his own selfish
sorrow.
“He passed through the vestibule and then paused a moment to glance
over the empty benches. His heart was still proud and high, and he
walked up to the seat which he had last occupied as a sixth-form boy,
and sat down there to collect his thoughts. The memories of eight
years were all dancing through his brain, while his heart was throbbing
with a dull sense of a great loss that could never be made up to him.
The rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the painted windows
over his head and fell in gorgeous colors on the opposite wall, and the
perfect stillness soothed his spirit. And he turned to the pulpit and
looked at it; and then leaning forward, with his head on his hands,
groaned aloud. ‘If he could have only seen the doctor for one five
minutes, have told him all that was in his heart, what he owed him,
how he loved and reverenced him, and would, by God’s help, follow his
steps in life and death, he could have borne it all without a murmur.
But that he should have gone away forever, without knowing it all,
was too much to bear.’ ‘But am I sure that he does not know it all?’
The thought made him start. ‘May he not even now be near me in this
chapel?’”
And with some such feelings as these I suppose many a boy will
come back to the college and stand in this chapel, and recall the
impressions he has received from President Allen here. But his voice
will never be heard here again. Nothing remains but to “remember how he
spake unto you.”
I am sure you will never forget the day he lay in his coffin in the
chapel, and you all looked on his face for the last time. What could
be more impressive than the funeral? The crowded house, the waiting
people, the bowed heads, the solemn strains of the organ, the sweet
voices of children singing their beautiful hymns, the open coffin, the
appropriate address given by one of his own college boys, the thousand
and more boys standing in open ranks for the procession to pass through
to the college gates, the burial at Laurel Hill cemetery, where many
of his pupils already lie, and where many more will follow him in the
coming years――all these thoughts make that funeral day one long to be
remembered.
Let us accept this as the will of Providence. There is nothing to
regret for him; but for us, the void left by his withdrawal. He is
leading a better life now than ever before. He has just begun to live,
and the best words I can say to you are, “remember how he spake unto
you.”
* * * * *
“But when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war
With arms reversed and muffled drums
Follow the funeral car.
They show the banners taken,
They tell his battles won,
And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.
“Amid the noblest of the land
Men lay the _sage_ to rest,
And give the _bard_ an honored place,
With costly marble drest,
In the great Minster transept
Where lights like glories fall,
And the choir sings and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.”
A YOUNG MAN’S MESSAGE TO BOYS.
December 7, 1884.
When I came here in April last I brought with me some friends, among
whom was my son. And I said to him that some day I should wish _him_ to
speak to you. He had so recently been a college boy himself, graduating
at the University of Pennsylvania, and he was so fond of the games
and plays of boys, and withal was so deeply interested in boys and
young men, that I thought he might be able to say something that would
interest you, and perhaps do you good.
At a recent meeting of the proper committee his name was added to the
list of persons who may be invited to speak to you. The last time I was
at the college President Fetterolf asked me when my son could come to
address you, and I replied that he was sick.
That sickness was far more serious than any of us supposed; there was
no favorable change, and at the end of twelve days he passed away.
My suggestion that he might be invited to speak here led him to
prepare a short address, which was found among his papers, and has,
within a few days, been handed to me. It was written with lead pencil,
apparently hastily; and certainly lacking the final revision, which in
copying for delivery he would have given it.
I have thought it would be well for me to read to you this address; but
I did not feel that I had any right to revise it, or to make any change
in it whatever; so I give it precisely as he wrote it, adding only a
word here and there which was omitted in the hurried writing.
He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty; and he that
ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.――Proverbs xvi.
32.
I want you to look with me at the latter part of each of these
sentences, and see if we can’t understand a little better what Solomon
meant by such words “_the mighty_” and “_he that taketh a city_.”
Do you remember the wonderful dream that came to Solomon just after
he had been made king over Israel? How God came to him while he was
sleeping and said to him, “Ask what I shall give thee,” and how
Solomon, without any hesitation, asked for wisdom. And God gave him
wisdom, so that he became famous far and wide, and people from nations
far off came to see him and learn of him.
If I were to ask you now who was the wisest man that ever lived, you
would say “Solomon.” Often you have heard one person say of another,
“he is as wise as Solomon.” I cannot stop here to tell you of the way
in which Solomon showed this wonderful gift. But his knowledge was
not that of books, because there were not a great many books then for
him to read. It was the knowledge which showed him how to do _right_,
and how to be a _good ruler_ over his people. And because he chose
such wisdom, the very best gift of God, God gave him besides, riches
and everything that he could possibly desire. His horses and chariots
were the most beautiful and the strongest; his armies were famous
everywhere for their splendid arms and armor. He had vast numbers of
servants to wait upon him, and to do his slightest wish. Presents, most
magnificent, were sent to him by the kings of all the nations round
about him. No king of Israel before or after him was so great and so
powerful. And, greatest honor of all, God permitted him to build a
temple for him――what his father David had so longed to do and was not
allowed, God directed Solomon to do. David’s greatest desire before
he died was to build a house for God. The ark of God had never had
a house to rest in, and David was not satisfied to have a splendid
palace to live in himself, and to have nothing but a _tent_ in which
to keep God’s ark. But God would not suffer him to do that, although
he was the king whom he loved so much. No, that must be kept for his
son Solomon to do. David had been too great a fighter all his life; he
had been at war; he had driven back his enemies on all sides, and had
made God’s people a nation to be feared by all their foes. So David was
a “mighty man,” and while Solomon was growing up he must have heard
every one talking of the wonderful things his father had done from his
youth up――the adventures he had had when he was only a poor shepherd
lad keeping his flocks on the hills about Bethlehem. And how often
must he have been told that splendid story, which we never grow tired
of hearing, of his fight with the giant Goliath; and when he was shown
the huge pieces of armor, and the great sword and spear, he surely knew
what it was for a man to be “mighty” and “great.” And when his old
father withdrew from the throne and made him king, he found himself
surrounded on all sides with the results of his father’s wars and
conquests, and soon knew that he also was “a mighty man.”
There is not a boy here who does not want to be “great.” Every one
of you wants to make a name for himself, or have something, or do
something, that will be remembered long after he is dead.
If I should ask you what that something is, I suppose almost all of you
would say, “I want to be rich, so rich that I can do whatever I like;
that I need not do any work; that I can go where I please.” Some of
you would say, “I would travel all over the world and write about what
I see, so that long after I am dead people will read my books and say,
‘what a great man he was!’” Some of you would say, “I would build great
houses, and fill them with all the richest and most beautiful goods. I
would have whole fleets of ships, sailing to all parts of the world,
bringing back wonderful things from strange countries; and when I would
meet people in the street they would stand aside to let me pass, saying
to one another, ‘there goes a great man; he is our richest merchant;
how I should like to be as great as he.’”
And still another would say: “I don’t care anything about books or
beautiful merchandise. No, I’ll go into foreign countries and become a
great fighter, and I shall conquer whole nations, so that my enemies
shall be afraid of me, and I shall ride at the head of great armies,
and when I come home again the people will give me a grand reception;
will make arches across the street, and cover their houses with flags,
and as I ride along the street the air will be filled with cheers for
the great general.”
And so each one of you would tell me of some way in which he would like
to be great. I should think very little of the boy who had no ambition,
one who would be entirely content to just get along somehow, and never
care for any great success so long as he had enough to eat and drink
and to clothe himself with, and who would never look ahead to set
his mind on obtaining some great object. It is perfectly right and
proper to be ambitious, to try and make as much as possible of every
opportunity that is presented. No one can read that parable of the
master who called his servants to account for the talents he had given
them, and not see that God gives us all the blessings and advantages
that we have, in order that we may have an opportunity to put them to
such good use, that He may say to us as the master in the parable said
to his servants, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”
So it is right for you to want to be great, and I want to try and tell
you how to accomplish it. If you were sure that I could tell you the
real secret of success you would listen very carefully to what I had
to say, wouldn’t you? Some of you would even write down what I said.
Then write _this_ down in your hearts; for, following this, you will
be greater than “the mighty:” “He that is slow to anger is better than
the mighty; and he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city.”
Are some of you disappointed? do you say, “_Is that all?_ I thought he
was about to tell us how we could make lots of money.” Ah, if you would
only believe it, and follow such advice, such a plan were to be far
richer than the man who can count his wealth by millions. But look at
it in another way. What sort of a boy do you choose for the captain of
a base-ball nine or a foot-ball team? What sort of a _man_ is chosen
for a high position? Is he one who loses all control over himself when
something happens to vex him, and flies into a terrible passion when
some one happens to oppose him? No; the one you would select for any
place of great responsibility is he who can keep his head clear, who
will not permit himself to get angry at any little vexation, who rules
his own spirit――and can there be anything harder to do? I tell you “no.”
So, I have told you how to be successful, and at the same time I tell
you, there is nothing harder to do; and now I go on still further, and
say you can’t follow such advice by yourself, you must have some help.
Is it hard to get? No, it is offered to you freely; you are urged to
ask for it, and you are assured that it is certain to come to all who
want it. Will such help be sufficient? Much more than sufficient, for
He who shall help you is abundantly able to give you more than you ask
or think. It is God who tells you to come to him, and he shall make
you more than “the mighty,” greater than he which taketh the city;
yes, for the greatness he shall bestow upon those who come to him is
far above all earthly greatness. He shall be with you when you are
ready to fly into a furious temper, when you lift your hand to strike,
when you would _kill_ if you were not afraid; but when the wish is in
your heart, yes, then, even then, He is beside you. He looks upon you
in divine mercy, and if you will only let him, will rebuke the foul
spirit and command him to come out of you, and your whole soul shall
be filled with peace. Why won’t you listen to his pleading voice, and
let him quiet the dreadful storm of anger? And when the hot words fly
to your lips, remember his soft answer that turns away wrath. Then
will you have won a greater battle than any ever fought; for you will
have conquered your own wicked spirit, and by God’s grace you are a
conqueror. And the reward for a life of such self-conquest shall be a
crown of life that fadeth not away. Won’t you accept _such_ greatness?
* * * * *
Such are the words he would have spoken to you had his life been
spared; and he would have spoken them with the great advantage of a
_young man_ speaking to _young men_. Now they seem like a message
from the heavenly world. It is more than probable that in copying for
delivery he would have expanded some of the thoughts and have made the
little address more complete. Perhaps it would be better for me to stop
here; ... but there are a few words which I would like to say, and it
may be that they can be better said now than at any other time.
I want to say again, what I have so often said, that a boy may be fond
of all innocent games and plays and yet be a Christian. Some of you
may doubt this. You may believe and say, that religion interferes with
amusements and makes life gloomy. Here is an example of the contrary;
for I do not see how there _could_ be a happier life than my son’s
(there never was a shadow upon it), and no one could be more fond of
base-ball and foot-ball and cricket and tennis than he was; and yet he
was a simple-hearted Christian boy and young man. And with all this
love of innocent pleasure and fun he neglected no business obligations,
nor did he fail in any of the duties of social or family life. In
short, I can wish no better thing for you boys than that your lives may
be as happy and as beautiful as his was.
A TRUTHFUL CHARACTER.
April, 1889.
Can anything be more important to a young life than truthfulness? Is
character worth anything at all if it is not founded on truth? And are
not the temptations to untruthfulness in heart and life constantly in
your path?
It is most interesting to think that every life here is an individual
life, having its own history, and in many respects unlike every other
life. When I see you passing through these grounds, going in procession
to and from your school-rooms, your dining halls and your play-grounds,
the question often arises in my thoughts, how many of these boys are
walking in the truth?
If I were looking for a boy to fill any position within my gift, or
within the reach of my influence, and should seek such a boy among
you, I should ask most carefully of those who know you best, whether
such and such a boy were truthful; and not in speech merely (that is,
does he answer questions truthfully), but is he open and frank in his
life? Does he cheat in his lessons or in his games? Does he shirk any
duty that is required of him in the shops? When he fails to recite his
lessons accurately, is he very ready with his excuses trying to justify
himself for his failure, or does he admit candidly that he did not do
his best, and does he promise sincerely to do better in the future?
And is he one who may be depended upon to give a fair account of any
incident that may come up for investigation? Sometimes there are wrong
things done here, done from thoughtlessness often; may such a boy as
I am looking for be depended upon to say what he knows about it, in a
manly way, so as to screen the innocent, and, if necessary, expose the
guilty? In other words, is he trustworthy, worthy of trust, can he be
depended on?
It may not be easy for one at my time of life to say just what a boy
ought to be, if he is to make much of a man. But we who think much
of this subject have an idea of what we would like the boys to be,
in whom we are especially interested. And if I borrow from another
a description of what I mean, it is because this author has said it
better than I can.
“A real boy should be generous, courteous among his friends and among
his school-fellows; respectful to his superiors, well-mannered. He
must avoid loud talk and rough ways; must govern his tongue and his
temper; must listen to advice and reproof with humility. He must be a
gentleman. He must not be a sneak or a bully; he must neither cringe
to the strong nor tyrannize over the weak. To his teachers he must be
obedient, for they have a right to require obedience of him; he must
be respectful, because the true gentleman always respects those who
are wiser, more experienced, better informed than himself. He must
apply himself to his lessons with a single aim, seeking knowledge for
its own sake, and earnestly striving to make the best possible use of
such faculties as God has given him. He must do his best to store his
mind with high thoughts by a careful study of all that is beautiful
and pure. In his sports and plays he must seek to excel, if excellence
can be obtained by a moderate amount of time and energy; but he must
remember, that though it is a fine thing to have a healthy body and
a healthy mind, it is neither necessary nor admirable to develop a
muscular system like that of an athlete or a giant. Whatever falls to
his hands to do, he must do it with his might, assured that God loves
not the idle or dishonest worker. He must remember that life has its
duties and responsibilities as well as its pleasures; that these begin
in boyhood, and that they cannot be evaded without injury to heart and
mind and soul. He must train himself in all good habits, in order that
these may accompany him easily in later life; in habits of method and
order, of industry and perseverance and patience. He must not forget
that every victory over himself smooths the way for future victories
of the same kind; and the precious fruit of each moral virtue is to set
us on higher and better ground for conquests of principle in all time
to come. He must resolutely shut his ears and his heart to every foul
word and every improper suggestion, every profane utterance; guarding
himself against the first approaches of sin, which are always the most
insidiously made. He must not think it a brave or plucky thing to
break wholesome rules, to defy authority, to ridicule age or poverty
or feebleness, to pamper the appetite, to imitate the ‘fast,’ to throw
away valuable time; to neglect precious opportunities. He must love
truth with a deep and passionate love, abhorring even the shadow of a
lie, even the possibility of a falsehood. True in word, true in deed,
he shall walk in the truth.”
I say then to you boys, do your best; be honest and diligent; be
resolute to live a pure and honorable life; speak the truth like boys
who hope to be gentlemen; be merry if you will, for it is good to be
merry and wise; be loving and dutiful sons, be affectionate brothers,
be loyal-hearted friends, and when you come to be men you will look
back to these boyish days without regret and without shame.
Something like this is my ideal of a boy. I am very desirous that your
future shall be bright and useful and successful, and I, and others who
are interested in your welfare, will hope to hear nothing but good of
you; but we can have no greater joy than to hear that you are walking
in the truth. Some of you may become rich men; some may become very
prominent in public affairs; you may reach high places; you may fill
a large space in the public estimation; you may be able and brilliant
men; but there is nothing in your life that will give us so much joy as
to hear that “you are walking in the truth.”