GENERAL.
Readings in The Chautauquan about the Arts, Artists, and their Master-pieces; about Commercial Law and Political Economy.
[ARDOR OF MIND.]
By JAMES KERR, M.A.
Intense ardor in the pursuit of its object seems to be one of the leading characteristics of genius. This quality of the mind, this enthusiasm, impels to persevering study, to sustained application and constant effort.
In most men of genius it is found that they are fully engrossed with the subject, and, as it were, possessed by it, while it is before the mind. When they have anything important in hand, they are so absorbed in that one thing that it occupies all their thoughts. They can not attend to less important matters, and every inferior object withers in its presence.
The perfection of any literary work seems to arise in a great degree from the author having deeply meditated on the subject, brooding over it with unremitting attention, allowing no other thoughts to intrude, until it stands before his imagination a picture complete in every part. When this is done, he can sit down and commit it to paper off-hand.
Such was the case with the poet Burns. Intense meditation, deep all-absorbing thought, seems first to have moulded the subject in his mind, and then, when that was done, he could write it down rapidly. We have minute details of the moments when he composed two of his most celebrated pieces—“Bruce’s Address” to his soldiers, and “Mary in Heaven.” On both occasions he was so rapt in thought, and so possessed by the subject, as to be unconscious of what was passing around him.
It is said of Sir Walter Scott that, after choosing a subject on which to write, he carefully brooded over it, until the outline of the story had taken a distinct shape before his imagination. After being thus moulded in his mind, he would seize the pen and throw off page after page with amazing rapidity.
This also seems to have been the case with Mozart, the great musical composer. When engaged in one of his compositions he would meditate on the subject with intense ardor, until it stood before him complete in all its parts, and then he would write it down easily in the midst of company, and when people were conversing and laughing around him.
We have an instance of this characteristic of genius in Rousseau. Every study he took up he pursued with intense ardor. A friend shows him how to play at chess. He suddenly becomes wholly engrossed by it, shuts himself up in his room, and spends days and nights in studying all the varieties of the game. The same ardor and intense application he threw into everything he undertook. He brought it to bear on his botanical studies, his musical compositions, and his literary pursuits. He tells us that he composed the greater part of some of his works in bed, in the hours of the night when sleep deserted him. “I meditated,” says he, “in my bed with my eyes closed, and in my mind turned over and over again my periods with incredible labor and care. The moment they were finished to my satisfaction I deposited them in my memory until I had an opportunity of committing them to paper.” Such was his ardor in pursuit of knowledge that he used always to carry books about with him, and while at work in the garden he was constantly conning pieces over and getting them by heart.
This ardor, this intense application to the subject in hand, which is characteristic of men of genius, may account for their liability to what is called absence of mind. They are notoriously subject to this infirmity. Hence it is that a Sir Isaac Newton, lost in thought, sits still while his boot is burning before the fire, and after a while calls in the servant remove the fire, instead of himself removing his foot. Hence it is that an Adam Smith, absorbed in his own thoughts, sallies forth in his dressing-gown, and walks miles and miles into the country, unconscious of his strange attire and of the ridiculous figure he cuts. This is called absence of mind, but it implies great activity of mind.
Some writers there are who can shift lightly from one subject to another, attending to various studies at various hours of the day. There are such men, and men too of no mean capacity, though not, it would seem, of the most ardent genius. Macaulay somewhere speaks of Southey as having an aptitude for applying his mind to several subjects in succession—a piece of poetry in the morning, history in the forenoon, a review in the evening. He confesses that for himself he had no such power. Whatever he took up he must apply his whole mind to until he finished it. That one subject was for the time all-absorbing; and who knows but to this he may have owed much of his success as a brilliant writer!
[THE SONG OF THE ROBIN.]
By Miss A. M. STARKWEATHER.
A poem for the children.
A robin to her young ones said,
As she flew home with food:
“You look so cunning in your bed—
You are a handsome brood.
“But I must teach you how to fly,
You darling little elves;
I think you’re old enough to try
To look out for yourselves.
“Now you must hunt for worms and flies,
You’re getting fat and lazy,
For food and drink, your constant cries,
Just drive me nearly crazy.
“Now I will take you, one by one,
And you shall each know how;
Red Robbie, you’re my eldest son,
Come down upon this bough.
“Now hop out on the edge, my dear,
Of this your pretty nest,
And spread your wings, and fly right here,
Just so; now do your best.”
“Peep! peep! don’t make us go alone;
We are not big enough,
Our bodies are not fully grown,
Our feathers yet are rough.
“You get our food; we can not fly—
’T would hardly keep you busy.
Peep! peep! oh! oh! it is so high
I’m almost getting dizzy.”
“Come, robbie dear (chirp, etc.), come right along,
Spread out your little wings;
Chirp! Chirp! I’ll cheer you with my song,
Come while your mother sings” (chirp, etc.).
He spread his wings, and found that he
Could fly like any bird,
And all around, from tree to tree,
His joyous notes were heard.
Bird Song.
“O, what a great big world to roam!”
Said Rob; “I’m glad I’m in it.
I wonder how they do at home:
I’ll just run round a minute.
“You babies, if you’d only try,
You’d leave that horrid nest;
But I can’t mope here, so good-bye,
I’m going way out west!”
[WITH AGASSIZ AT PENIKESE.]
By Prof. J. TINGLEY, Ph. D.
Ten years ago the lamented Agassiz undertook the establishment of a summer school, at the seaside, for the benefit of teachers of natural history. There was first prominently inaugurated the system of summer instruction which has since been successfully practiced at Chautauqua and elsewhere, in other branches of knowledge, and which seems annually to be growing in popular favor. For this reason it has been thought that a brief account of the life and work at Penikese would be welcome to the readers of The Chautauquan. A volume might be written without exhausting all the points of interest connected with the story. The lectures daily delivered for seven weeks to the students there assembled would themselves fill many volumes. Our sketch, therefore, must of necessity be imperfect, affording glimpses only of that time so full of activity, delightful study, novel impressions, and golden promise. As far as possible, it shall be representative, and afford a clear conception in outline of what was designed and accomplished. Prof. Agassiz, being the master spirit—the soul of the enterprise—must be, of course, the central figure in the foreground of our picture. What a delightful summer it was! Undimmed by any presentiment of the shadow which, so soon after, was cast upon its memories, the picture of Penikese, its active life, its cheerful surroundings, its brilliant designs for the future, was a picture of energy, enthusiasm, and hope. The summer was one of bright, unclouded skies, the air laden with delicious perfume of the bay-berry bushes, the breezes full of health and joy. Thousands of sea gulls with silver plumage circled through the air, with unceasing flight and tireless wing, uttering notes of encouragement to their young, and shrill notes of warning to intruders, adding intensity to the atmosphere of activity prevailing. Even the sea gave complacent and hospitable welcome to the great naturalist and his followers who had come to search for her treasures. In the gentle plashing of the waves upon the sunny shores, there was a murmuring of content, soothing and grateful. Separated entirely, for the time, from the busy world, wholly absorbed and happy in their favorite study, under such auspicious circumstances, and with such glorious companionship and guidance, the active throng would scarce have asked for any happier lot.
The memories which crowd upon them now are so rich in incident, new ideas, widened conceptions, affectionate fellowship, all now hallowed by the event which brought the enterprise to its close, that with many it will ever remain as the greenest spot of their earthly life. For though as one of the pupil-teachers has expressed it, “The buildings and appliances were but half finished, even at the close of the term—we yet had Agassiz. He was present at the head of the table at every meal, he was present at every lecture or exercise, at every meeting of the students’ ‘clubs,’ and when not lecturing, was intently following, and ready to supplement any lack of information in any discussion by professors or students.” He himself said: “I have given myself up to the task with all the energy of which I am capable.”
The idea of establishing a summer school at the seaside for the benefit of teachers of natural history originated with Prof. N. S. Shaler, then a teacher of natural history in Harvard College. He communicated his thought to Prof. Agassiz, and together they attempted to organize such an institution, selecting Nantucket as the best location, on account of its facilities, and the moderate expense of living there. About that time Prof. Shaler received the appointment of State Geologist of Kentucky. Partly on account of his health and partly to prepare for his new work he went to Europe, leaving to Prof. Agassiz the entire care and management of the new enterprise. He entered enthusiastically upon the work; secured suitable and comfortable accommodations for a class of fifty—the full number desired—with the proper arrangements for lectures and laboratory work, boats and other conveniences. He also secured the gratuitous services of twenty naturalists as lecturers and demonstrators; some of them of long experience, and all with reputations for skill and learning in their special fields of study. They gladly co-operated with him, partly from their love of the work and partly from their love and esteem for Agassiz himself. Before a public announcement was made, or at least before any invitations were extended to teachers to come and enjoy the opportunity, Mr. John Anderson, a wealthy tobacconist of New York City,—owning the island of Penikese in Buzzard Bay, which he had bought and improved for a summer seaside residence,—tendered the island with its buildings and improvements to Prof. Agassiz for the use of the proposed school. This offer being subsequently supplemented by a donation of $50,000 in cash for needed preparations, was accepted formally upon the 22d of April, 1873, and arrangements made for the immediate erection of suitable laboratories, dormitories, lecture rooms, aquaria, etc. In the meantime Prof. Agassiz’s movements having become known, he was beset by hundreds of applications for admission to the privileges of the school. Fifty were selected—perhaps the first fifty properly qualified who applied, and all the rest were rejected. It is said that in one small city in New York State there were twenty applicants and nineteen disappointments. The fortunate fifty were duly notified of the day their presence would be welcomed, and accordingly met promptly on the morning of the 8th of July, 1873, upon the deck of the little steamer Helen Augusta, lying at her wharf in New Bedford, Mass. At ten o’clock we steamed down the bay and at twelve we were met at the Penikese pier by Prof. Agassiz and his excellent wife, with broad and smiling welcome. Three minutes walk brought us to an extemporized lecture room previously used by Mr. Anderson for a barn, but now cosily furnished with neat chairs and tables. When all were in their places, Prof. Agassiz stood up before us. Then occurred an event, beautiful, impressive, never to be erased from memory, soon rendered classic through Whittier’s charming poem.
He looked around upon that assembly, and saw their hopeful trust in him their chosen leader. He realized, perhaps, as he had not before, the deep significance of the hour. His beaming smile was chastened by an expression of tender solicitude, that our hopes and expectations might not be disappointed; and by the thought, “In my own strength I am not equal to this task. One higher than I must direct this movement.” After a moment’s pause he said: “Ladies and gentlemen; we meet under very peculiar circumstances. We are all strangers to each other. I know not whether there be one in this assembly upon whom I could call to open these exercises with prayer. As for myself I would not ask any man to pray for me. I will ask all of you to join with me a few moments in silent prayer.”
“Then the master in his place
Bowed his head a little space,
And the leaves by soft airs stirred,
Laps of wave and cry of bird,
Left the solemn hush unbroken
Of that wordless prayer unspoken,
While its wish on earth unsaid,
Rose to heaven interpreted.
*****
Even the careless heart was moved,
And the doubting gave assent,
With a gesture reverent
To the master well beloved.
*****
Who the secret may declare
Of that brief unuttered prayer?
Did the shade before him come
Of the inevitable doom,
Of the end of earth so near,
And eternity’s new year?”
Then followed a few words of welcome on the part of Agassiz—of gratitude to the gentleman whose liberality had insured the success of the undertaking, and of cheerful encouragement to all for the realization of their hopes. They were responded to by an eloquent address from a lawyer from New Bedford, and another from Mr. Girod, of New York, representing Mr. Anderson. We were then dismissed, and the life at Penikese was begun.