When a man gets a decoration from a foreign institution, he may take it
as an honor. Coming as mine has come to-day, I prefer to take it for
that far more valuable thing, a token of personal good will from
friends. Recognizing the good will and the friendliness, I am going to
respond to the chairman's call by speaking exactly as I feel.
I am not an alumnus of the College. I have not even a degree from the
Scientific School, in which I did some study forty years ago. I have
no right to vote for Overseers, and I have never felt until to-day as
if I were a child of the house of Harvard in the fullest sense.
Harvard is many things in one--a school, a forcing house for thought,
and also a social club; and the club aspect is so strong, the family
tie so close and subtle among our Bachelors of Arts that all of us here
who are in my plight, no matter how long we may have lived here, always
feel a little like outsiders on Commencement day. We have no class to
walk with, and we often stay away from the procession. It may be
foolish, but it is a fact. I don't believe that my dear friends
Shaler, Hollis, Lanman, or Royce ever have felt quite as happy or as
much at home as my friend Barrett Wendell feels upon a day like this.
I wish to use my present privilege to say a word for these outsiders
with whom I belong. Many years ago there was one of them from Canada
here--a man with a high-pitched voice, who could n't fully agree with
all the points of my philosophy. At a lecture one day, when I was in
the full flood of my eloquence, his voice rose above mine, exclaiming:
"But, doctor, doctor! to be serious for a moment . . . ," in so sincere
a tone that the whole room burst out laughing. I want you now to be
serious for a moment while I say my little say. We are glorifying
ourselves to-day, and whenever the name of Harvard is emphatically
uttered on such days, frantic cheers go up. There are days for
affection, when pure sentiment and loyalty come rightly to the fore.
But behind our mere animal feeling for old schoolmates and the Yard and
the bell, and Memorial and the clubs and the river and the Soldiers'
Field, there must be something deeper and more rational. There ought
at any rate to be some possible ground in reason for one's boiling over
with joy that one is a son of Harvard, and was not, by some unspeakably
horrible accident of birth, predestined to graduate at Yale or at
Cornell.
Any college can foster club loyalty of that sort. The only rational
ground for pre-eminent admiration of any single college would be its
pre-eminent spiritual tone. But to be a college man in the mere
clubhouse sense--I care not of what college--affords no guarantee of
real superiority in spiritual tone.
The old notion that book learning can be a panacea for the vices of
society lies pretty well shattered to-day. I say this in spite of
certain utterances of the President of this University to the teachers
last year. That sanguine-hearted man seemed then to think that if the
schools would only do their duty better, social vice might cease. But
vice will never cease. Every level of culture breeds its own peculiar
brand of it as surely as one soil breeds sugar-cane, and another soil
breeds cranberries. If we were asked that disagreeable question, "What
are the bosom-vices of the level of culture which our land and day have
reached?" we should be forced, I think, to give the still more
disagreeable answer that they are swindling and adroitness, and the
indulgence of swindling and adroitness, and cant, and sympathy with
cant--natural fruits of that extraordinary idealization of "success" in
the mere outward sense of "getting there," and getting there on as big
a scale as we can, which characterizes our present generation. What
was Reason given to man for, some satirist has said, except to enable
him to invent reasons for what he wants to do. We might say the same
of education. We see college graduates on every side of every public
question. Some of Tammany's stanchest supporters are Harvard men.
Harvard men defend our treatment of our Filipino allies as a
masterpiece of policy and morals. Harvard men, as journalists, pride
themselves on producing copy for any side that may enlist them. There
is not a public abuse for which some Harvard advocate may not be found.
In the successful sense, then, in the worldly sense, in the club sense,
to be a college man, even a Harvard man, affords no sure guarantee for
anything but a more educated cleverness in the service of popular idols
and vulgar ends. Is there no inner Harvard within the outer Harvard
which means definitively more than this--for which the outside men who
come here in such numbers, come? They come from the remotest outskirts
of our country, without introductions, without school affiliations;
special students, scientific students, graduate students, poor students
of the College, who make their living as they go. They seldom or never
darken the doors of the Pudding or the Porcellian; they hover in the
background on days when the crimson color is most in evidence, but they
nevertheless are intoxicated and exultant with the nourishment they
find here; and their loyalty is deeper and subtler and more a matter of
the inmost soul than the gregarious loyalty of the clubhouse pattern
often is.
Indeed, there is such an inner spiritual Harvard; and the men I speak
of, and for whom I speak to-day, are its true missionaries and carry
its gospel into infidel parts. When they come to Harvard, it is not
primarily because she is a club. It is because they have heard of her
persistently atomistic constitution, of her tolerance of exceptionality
and eccentricity, of her devotion to the principles of individual
vocation and choice. It is because you cannot make single one-ideaed
regiments of her classes. It is because she cherishes so many vital
ideals, yet makes a scale of value among them; so that even her
apparently incurable second-rateness (or only occasional
first-rateness) in intercollegiate athletics comes from her seeing so
well that sport is but sport, that victory over Yale is not the whole
of the law and the prophets, and that a popgun is not the crack of doom.
The true Church was always the invisible Church. The true Harvard is
the invisible Harvard in the souls of her more truth-seeking and
independent and often very solitary sons. _Thoughts_ are the precious
seeds of which our universities should be the botanical gardens.
Beware when God lets loose a thinker on the world--either Carlyle or
Emerson said that--for all things then have to rearrange themselves.
But the thinkers in their youth are almost always very lonely
creatures. "Alone the great sun rises and alone spring the great
streams." The university most worthy of rational admiration is that
one in which your lonely thinker can feel himself least lonely, most
positively furthered, and most richly fed. On an occasion like this it
would be poor taste to draw comparisons between the colleges, and in
their mere clubhouse quality they cannot differ widely:--all must be
worthy of the loyalties and affections they arouse. But as a nursery
for independent and lonely thinkers I do believe that Harvard still is
in the van. Here they find the climate so propitious that they can be
happy in their very solitude. The day when Harvard shall stamp a
single hard and fast type of character upon her children, will be that
of her downfall. Our undisciplinables are our proudest product. Let
us agree together in hoping that the output of them will never cease.
[1] Speech at the Harvard Commencement Dinner, June 24, 1903, after
receiving an LL.D. degree. Printed in the _Graduates' Magazine_ for
September, 1903.