CHAUTAUQUA, NEW YORK.
The summer vacation which the C. L. S. C. allows, is characterized by one particularly strong and profitable feature, a feature peculiar, too, to this organization. It is the system of summer meetings. These meetings are not idling times for holiday excursions, nor are they outings even. They are serious assemblies for serious purposes, and are marked by original and charming methods of work. Though the dozen or more assemblies which have sprung from the Chautauqua Assembly all introduce these C. L. S. C. methods, it is at Chautauqua that we naturally find them in their original form. With the work of one year over and the work of another approaching, it is the plan of the counselors to save rather than kill the time of the interval; to spend it in carefully examining the work done, in comparing plans, listening to and weighing criticisms, in devising new ideas for the future, in short, in taking an inventory of stock now on hand, and in laying in new goods for the coming year. Most successfully was this accomplished at Chautauqua this year during the months of July and August.
The Round-Table was, of course, the gathering through which most was done. Before this season the Round-Tables have been held during the August meetings only, but July found so large a number of the members of the C. L. S. C. at Chautauqua that the five o’clock hour was set aside from the first, and during the entire season at least three afternoons of the week found the “White-Pillared Hall” filled. These assemblies had some peculiarly attractive points, striking even to the idler, who, strolling by, stopped to look and listen. Perhaps one of the first attractions was the charm which the Hall and Grove never failed to exercise, a charm which always contributed to the success and enjoyment of Round-Tables, Vesper Services and Vigils. The rustling trees, the long rays of golden light, the fair vistas of sky and water and sun-lit foliage which one catches through the frame-work of white pillars produce that strong sympathy, that oneness with the life of nature which elevates the heart, invigorates the mind, and for the time, at least, raises one above mere earth life. Without exception the five o’clock hour was one of rare beauty. Many remarked during the summer: “Is it not strange that we always have a pleasant evening for our C. L. S. C. meetings?” The very weather seemed to breathe a benediction.
The Round-Tables were uniformly characterized by earnestness. The people who met had serious purposes written on their faces, and in all the deliberations it was evident that the best good of the great Circle was at heart. The “best plan” not “my plan” seemed the desire of each. This earnestness was accompanied by the greatest eagerness. A lecturer before the “Teachers’ Retreat” remarked: “These C. L. S. C. people completely nonplus me. I never saw folks so eager to learn.” It was true; they were eager, anxious, determined to learn. They sought the best and truest methods of work, the strongest thoughts on all subjects, and the newest facts in each branch of knowledge. The Round-Tables brought together the very people at Chautauqua who were most deeply imbued with this energy.
The unity of spirit was remarkably strong. At one of the most impressive meetings of the season this oneness in feeling was thoroughly proven. Some one had suggested in a note to the leader that a plan should be introduced into the C. L. S. C. by which the religious readings of the course might be made denominational; the secular readings being kept alike for all, but several courses of religious readings being prepared so that each reader might use books setting forth the doctrines of his own church. The feeling aroused against this measure was intense. Most emphatically did the members express the opinion that any plan which should divide the readings of the Circle even on one point should be rejected. We have never seen any expression of opinion on the part of the members of the C. L. S. C. which so plainly said: “This is a brotherhood in which we will not be divided by creed, doctrine or difference.”
In all the serious work done there was a tender thoughtfulness and care for those who were serving the Circle, which was most touching. It was shown in many ways: in greetings of flowers and kind messages sent to the Superintendent of Instruction, in the willing spirit which every one showed in helping to carry on the work, but never more beautifully than in the testimonial of books sent to Chautauqua’s bell-ringer, with the following resolution, adopted at the Round-Table of August 23: “Resolved, That the members of the C. L. S. C. here present join in a most heartfelt appreciation of the fidelity of our beloved bell-ringer, Father Skellie, in his labors of love during the years, ringing regularly the Bryant bell on all memorial days in the interest of the C. L. S. C. near and far, and showing a deep and abiding interest by word and deed in all the general well-being of our beloved Chautauqua; and we hereby present to him the accompanying testimonial of our love and esteem.”
The vesper services filled the five o’clock hour each Sabbath. They were marked by the same earnestness and brotherly feeling which was so strong in the Round-Tables and hallowed by a deep religious spirit. These meetings were thoroughly spiritual. An influence pervaded them which could not fail to touch an observer. The great interest in the vesper services at Chautauqua this season ought to lead to a wide observance of these services during the year by local circles.
Social life was by no means neglected, but promoted by some charming devices. Among the most enjoyable reunions were the vigils held in the Hall of Philosophy in the weird light of the Athenian watch-fires. The strangeness of the scene gave a peculiar charm to these gatherings. In fact the novelty of all the C. L. S. C. entertainments at Chautauqua gave them a certain esprit du corps which was very captivating. Adding to this the strong class feeling which prevailed, and we have the very best elements for enjoyable social affairs. Each class was thoroughly organized, and planned for its members excursions, reunions, banquets, camp-fires and vigils without number. It would be very hard to say which class had the most enjoyable season. It was certain, however, that they all learned to know each other better, and the hours spent in chatting around the camp-fire or in listening to pleasant and witty speeches from their members at the reunions in the Temple, or in steaming around the lovely lake, were among the most profitable as well as enjoyable spent at Chautauqua.
Of course the C. L. S. C. work had its climax in the commencement season, which was opened on Sunday, August 17, by the baccalaureate sermon delivered by Rev. Herrick Johnson, of Chicago. Practical and strong, this sermon was a fitting preparation for the exercises of Tuesday, the 19th of August, the graduating day of the Class of 1884. This event, so full of meaning to the members of the class, had a setting as beautiful as ever blessed the graduation of any one. It was a perfect August day, the air flooded with a wealth of sunshine, but its heat tempered by a delightful breeze. The imposing ceremonies began promptly. Early in the morning the long processions consisting of the Trustees of the Assembly, professors and students from the C. S. L. C., the classes of the C. L. S. C., and the friends of the graduates, were formed. While these lines were gathering, the Class of 1884 entered the Gate to St. Paul’s Grove, marched under the arches, and was received at the Hall of Philosophy, where the solemn recognition services were performed. There the members of the Class of 1884 who had completed the prescribed course of reading were accepted and approved as graduates of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle, and were pronounced entitled to membership in the “Society of the Hall in the Grove.”
No one who saw this scene can ever forget the solemn ceremonies. When it was over the class marched between the open ranks of the long processions formed to do them honor and filed into the Amphitheater where the graduation services were held. After the opening exercises of song, prayer and readings, Counselor W. C. Wilkinson, D.D., of Tarrytown, N. Y., delivered the following commencement oration:
LITERATURE AS A GOOD OF LIFE.
The Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle is founded, at least in part, upon the idea that literature is a true good of life. Is it? That is the question which I raise for discussion to-day.
A strange time of day, I hear some of you exclaim, for that question to be raised. Are we not nearing the end of the nineteenth century of the Christian era? May we not take a few things for settled, and is not the worth of literature one of those few? But there is a French saying that it is the unexpected which happens. So it is the out-of-season that is opportune—sometimes. And this seemingly out-of-season topic, this anachronism, the question of the value of literature, is perhaps exactly the thing that will prove timely to-day.
For, incredible as it should seem, the real value of literature, the validity of the claim of literature to be regarded as a substantial human good, has of late been brought seriously into question. It is the men of science—not all of them, but some of them—that begin to challenge to literature its hitherto conceded title to be considered one of the great interests of mankind. These men say literature has had its day. A long day it has been, too long in fact, but the day is done now and literature must disappear. The future—such is their language—the future belongs to science. Science is the true great good of the human race. Science, they go on to represent, science can do for us what we really need to have done. Literature, on the other hand, can supply no real want of mankind. The great vogue that literature has enjoyed in the past, is due to an illusion—an illusion that with the broadening light of science, a light brightening and broadening every moment, dissolves and vanishes. More and more we are having done with the traditional and conventional. And anything more entirely traditional and conventional than the claim of literature on the attention and reverence of men does not exist. What we really need, and what we are going henceforth to insist on having, is substance, not shadow. Literature is shadow. It affords no satisfaction except to the sentiment. It makes nobody stronger, healthier, richer, more comfortable. It does not help us travel faster or travel more safely. It does not carry messages for us. It does not build our houses, or ventilate them, or warm them. It does not plant, or cultivate, or reap. It does not bind, or thresh, or grind, or cook. It does not invent any of the conveniences of life. We do not owe the sewing machine to literature, or the telegraph, or the telephone, or even the printing press itself, which so serves literature. Literature is a drone and an idler. Science works and produces. Science has done for us all the things enumerated, with many things beside, too many for enumeration, in which literature has had no useful part at all. Literature is a fine gentleman, a fine lady, sitting by with folded hands, hands folded and too delicate, far too delicate, for any productive employment. We can get along without this ornament to our civilization—the delight, the luxury of a few, a burden which the many must drudge to support. Science, on the contrary, is the servant equally of all. Her hands are not afraid of soil and toil. She loves to work. Give her henceforward the chance that literature had, abundantly had, and neglected. Endow schools for science, encourage her, cheer her; in short, let science have the place that literature has enjoyed too long.
Such, I say, is the bold language in disparagement of literature, and in comparative exaltation of science, that we find some scientists, or perhaps I ought to say some literary men, self-constituted spokesmen for scientists, holding in these days concerning the just claim of literature to be regarded as one of the true goods of human life.
Now I propose that we entertain candidly the question thus raised. Let us not treat it as a question to which the answer is foregone. Let us put aside prepossession, and ask ourselves freshly and freely and frankly, quite as if our conclusion were doubtful, what are the rational grounds on which we may rest the title of literature to share with science, at least equally, the attention and the cultivation of mankind.
Share with science, I say, and at least equally share. More than this I do not claim. Certainly I should not claim more than this in presence of the C. L. S. C. You are a circle or society of literature indeed. But no less you are a society of science. You embrace both ideas, both interests, with impartial regard. You would not listen favorably to me were I to decry science. But I have no such disposition. I love science, honor her, applaud her, bid her God-speed. I wish I knew more of what science could teach me. I wish I could do more to help science on. But at least, with all good heart, I say, God make her prosper! And this breadth of sympathy, in my mind and my heart, I owe largely to literature. Literature, as I understand her spirit, is catholic and generous. If I have myself any capacity of liberal love for human progress in whatever sphere, I have derived that capacity in no small degree from the inspiration of literature. I should wrong my own client, I should grieve her, I should earn rejection at her hands, if I stood here, or elsewhere, in the name of literature, to say aught, as if on her behalf, against a sister that she loves. For literature loves science, and will contentedly hear nothing to her harm.
What, then, I ask, are the sound and substantial reasons, the reasons valid in the court of common sense, why we should stand by literature as one of our great goods of life?
The reasons that I find are of two sorts: First, those that respect the number of the persons benefited; and, second, those that respect the degree to which these are benefited—in other words, first those that respect the quantity, and second those that respect the quality of the benefit bestowed.
First, then, as regards the breadth, the diffusiveness, of the blessing that literature ministers to mankind.
But since the present comparison is naturally between literature and science, it may be well, at this point, that we pause to take our bearings. What is literature? And what is science? Let us clearly understand the terms and ideas with which we deal. Literature then may be defined as the record of what men have thought, felt, fancied, done, in the world. Science is reasoned and classified knowledge respecting the facts and laws of nature or the physical universe. Our question is not, Which is the greater good, literature or science? Our question is, Is not literature, as compared with science, at least an equal good?
Now we, that is, men and women in general, who ask this question, may have either one or the other of two quite different relations to literature or to science. These two different relations we may name and distinguish. In the first place, you—any man or any woman, I mean—may be either, on the one hand a producer of literature, or a promoter of science; or, on the other hand, you may be simply one to enjoy literature or to reap the fruits of science. Since, however, those who make literature also enjoy literature, and those who advance science also reap the fruits of science, we may as well disregard entirely the productive relation which belongs in either case to the few, and consider only the fruitional relation, which belongs in both cases to the many—in fact, to all.
Just here, however, I am met with a warning. I am bidden take heed. I am told that exactly because literature is not to all a good, but a good only to the select and favored few, because literature is aristocratic, not democratic; because it is a luxury, not a necessity; because it concerns not the average man, but the picked man, one in a thousand, not the thousand—exactly because of this, I am told, it is that literature has got to give way and let science, which is a universal interest, take its too long usurped place. Well, I stop to answer this challenge. I admit at once that, if such be the fact, if literature be a monopoly, and not a common good, then I lose my case. And I say more, then I ought to lose my case, and I am glad to lose my case. For I avow myself a democrat in this matter. I go with the people. I belong with the majority. I stand up for the benefit of the most. But is it true that literature is an exclusive, a seclusive thing? Is it true that the many can not enjoy it, do not enjoy it? Is not literature a general, a diffusive good? If not, then however great a good it may be to a few, I am not here to defend its cause. We are a popular association, this C. L. S. C., or we are nothing. If I did not believe literature to be a thing for everybody, I, as one among the Counselors of this organization, should favor a dismissal of literature from our plan and plead for the substitution of something else in its place that should be a thing for everybody. What is the fact?
Why, the fact is that literature is the very atmosphere, the intellectual atmosphere, in which we all, not some of us, but all of us, live and breathe and have our being. We drew in this air as soon as we began to think. Long before we could read for ourselves, before even we could listen understandingly to the reading of others, we felt unconsciously, but most really, and most profoundly, the effect, the beneficial effect of literature. The home in which you were reared, the character and the spirit of the mother that gave you birth, that nurtured and tended your infancy—these were different, and they were better, because literature had done something to make them and mold them. And were they not literature, those lullabies that quieted us in our cradle, the fairy tales that fed the fancy of our wondering childhood, the stories from the Bible that expanded our infant minds to embrace the idea of a God, of a Savior, of a future life, of heaven, and of hell? Those men seem not to know what their words mean; those men who talk of expunging literature, and bringing up the new generations of mankind on science. Really to do what they say, but what surely they never could intelligently mean, would be to destroy for the whole civilized race of mankind the very grace and glory of life.
I know very well that comparatively few out of any human generation ever become widely or deeply conversant with literature. It is but the one person out of ten, or a hundred, or out of a thousand it may be, that reads books. This I freely acknowledge. Nay, this I loudly proclaim. It is because this is so that the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle exists—because this is so, and because it ought not to be so, and because there are at least a few of us that do not mean to have it continue to be so. Such, however, is undeniably at present the fact. Readers of books, take the civilized world at large, are few and far between. But no matter for that. What I have maintained is nevertheless true. Literature is a universal good. How many of you spend time in gazing heavenward at the sun? But you see by the light of the sun none the less. The sun lights the world in thousands and ten thousands of places where he does not directly shine. And literature is a sun. It blazes high in the heavens and spreads its beneficent illumination everywhere abroad among the haunts of civilized mankind. There are coverts, it is true, into which its rays can not immediately pierce. But even into such coverts its rays enter. There is such a thing as diffusion of light by refraction and reflection and transmission. In this way literature becomes a light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world. A light, I say—for I use those sacred words with reverence. One is the light that lighteth every man. And, by the way, let us remember that it is greatly through literature, that is, through a book, the book, the Bible, that Jesus himself shines hither, across seas and continents of space and across centuries of time, to light us here as in a city in the wilderness to-day.
Of the hundreds of thousands of Englishmen of the present generation that have from time to time listened to the noble eloquence of that great orator, John Bright, perhaps not one in a hundred has ever read, for example, the “Paradise Lost” of Milton. But does it therefore follow that to these of the overwhelming majority the “Paradise Lost” of Milton is nothing? Far from it. John Bright has acknowledged his vast debt to the poetry of Milton for the enrichment of his own gift of speech; and through John Bright, Milton’s poetry has thus become a real, an appreciable good to all the hundreds of thousands of men that have fed on John Bright’s eloquence, though they may never have read for themselves a line of Milton’s magnificent and inspiring verse.
This is but a single, and it is of course a very inadequate illustration. Every sermon you hear, every lecture, every speech, every newspaper you read, owes something, and something that it could by no means spare, to the beneficence of literature. Take away the light of literature from the world of mind—why, it would be like putting out the sun in the heavens. The very men who talk of such a vandalism, such an unspeakable, such an anachronistic vandalism, these very men would grope as in Cimmerian darkness. I will tell you what the effect would be like. It would be like suddenly annihilating all the civilized inhabitants of the world and endowing the unreclaimed savages of waste and wild with the powers and appliances that centuries of science have accumulated for the service of mankind. Imagine, if you can, the Hottentots and Caffirs and Ojibways remaining uncivilized in character, but equipped with the material apparatus of civilization. Would you like to live among them? What sort of use, think you, would they be likely to make of their magnificent acquisitions? But a thought like this is associated rather with the second than with the first of our reasons for regarding literature as a true good of human life. To this second reason we presently make our transition; first, however, let us fix it firmly in our thought that literature is no narrow, no exclusive interest, but an interest as broad and as expansive as is civilization itself. The fact that literature is in character such, is capable of being made clear by additional illustration. The city of New York is supplied with water from the Croton river. Every inhabitant of the city enjoys the benefit of this water supply. There is a system of aqueducts ramifying from Croton river to every street, to every dwelling, to almost every room, in the great metropolis. You have but to apply your hand, and instantly at that silent sign, Croton river flows to meet your demand. For it is not water simply, it is Croton river that is brought thus within the reach of every one that will have of it. So it is with the distribution of effect from literature. The conduits of literature run everywhere. The current flows to every mind within the bounds of civilization. Men may not know this, but they share the blessing all the same without knowing it. There are, I suppose, plenty of people in New York, who, when they turn the faucet to their water-pipe, not once dream that the fountain which they see springing as if by magic under their touch, is a true river brought from forty miles away. But true river it is nevertheless. Certainly not one in a hundred thousand of New Yorkers has ever tasted of Croton river where it flows in its natural bed. But they taste Croton river for all that, every time they drink water in New York. And thus it is that, however little men think of it, they still do share the benefits of literature with almost every breath of larger intellectual life that they draw. To the original sources of literature, the great books, ancient or modern, they may never have directly resorted, never even have seen them from afar, nay, never so much as heard of them; but they drink from them all the same, every time they take in a thought or a fancy, however brought within their reach, that once sprang up first in some great human brain, and was then immortalized in a tale, an essay, a history, a poem.
Thus much for the extent or quantity of the influence for good to men exerted by literature. It certainly is not too much to claim for literature that it is an interest broad enough in its range and reach of power to be called a general, if not a universal interest of civilized mankind.
We have next and last to consider the kind or quality of this expansive influence. As I have said, it is not to most men a material good. Only to those who live by literature, to those who make books, to our men and women of letters distinctively so-called, is literature a material interest. To the vast majority of us all, literature is chiefly a spiritual, an intellectual, a sentimental good. This I fully admit.
But I am far from admitting that because this is so, therefore literature is less a real good than anything else whatever, no matter what, the most solidly material interest of mankind that you can name. For what is our life? It is no doubt partly animal. We need, first of all, to subsist somehow, and then, if possible, to subsist comfortably. Beyond these two ends, subsistence and comfort, our animal nature has little or no craving. Give us a chance to go on living, and living with comfort, and we as animals ask nothing more. Science greatly helps us to accomplish these ends, and for so much we owe to science a large debt. But beyond this limit what does science do for us, for us, I mean, the generality of mankind? I wish to be perfectly candid and to concede to the claim of science everything that is justly hers. But what, I ask, beyond helping us live, and helping us live comfortably, does science even aim or aspire to do for the majority of the human race? For the scientists themselves, I acknowledge, for that comparatively small number of men who engage in the pursuits of science as a business of their life, science does much more. For these men science affords a means to vast enlargement and ennoblement of mind. The brilliant hypotheses, the bold speculations, the broad generalizations, the stimulating guesses, the expansive conceptions, with which science deals—what can be thought of more fitted to feed the imagination and reason of man and advance him to the strength and stature of angels than is such occupation of mind as these afford? And then no doubt also, mere patient observation for the collection of facts is a work more humble, indeed, yet worthy to be reckoned a true discipline and reflection of the intellectual nature. But then we are to remember that these relations to science are for the few and not for the many. The many simply enjoy the material fruit without enjoying the glorious intellectual quest that finds the fruit, do you say? Yes, but the many may enjoy the ennobling effect upon the intellect of those large conclusions to which science leads the scientific man. This, I concede, is to some extent true, but it is not true to any very considerable extent. And to the extent to which it is true, literature is largely the means through which the effect is produced. The great results of science, satisfying, inspiring as they are to those who first come at them, and to those others who really appreciate them as literature, by eminence, presenting them in her own admirable ways, is able to make them appreciated—these great results, I say, of science, tend when taught as lessons in the text-books of the schools, to become mere lifeless commonplaces of knowledge and of thought—mainly barren of force to quicken and fructify the mind. It has been said, and truly said, that the average American school-boy of to-day knows at twelve more true science than the wisest philosopher of Greek or Roman antiquity could ever by possibility have learned. But, as has been replied, and truly replied, it by no means thence follows that such a school-boy is wiser than was Plato or Aristotle. It is not what you know, it is what you are, that chiefly signifies. And what you are, in that which is most central and most important, literature does more, far more, to make you than lies within the utmost reach of science; that is, if you are an average man, if you are one of the majority, and not one of the elect few who follow science as the vocation of a life. This is what I claim for literature, and this my claim for literature I acknowledge myself under obligation to make good by something beyond mere confident assertion of the fact.
I do not undervalue comfort. I like to be comfortable. I like to see people comfortable. But there are two sorts of comfort—one is comfort of the body, and one is comfort of the mind. These two kinds of comfort react mutually on each other. That is, bodily comfort tends to create comfort for the mind, as also does comfort of mind to create bodily comfort. But of the two kinds of comfort one is a great deal closer to us, and a great deal more durable than the other. If I had to choose between them I should not hesitate a moment. I should say, give me a mind at ease. The mind is master after all. Who has not seen men and women stretched helpless and hopeless on the rack of bodily pain, but triumphing nevertheless into peace and joy? That was the victory of mind. It makes far more difference to us, for our comfort, for our happiness, what is the course of our thoughts, our fancies, our affections, than what is the course of our bodily sensations. A sweet thought, a sovereign affection, a ravishing vision of fancy may make a man forget hunger, thirst, fatigue, pain. But no amount of physical comfort can ease you of anguish fastened upon your mind. That clings and stings in spite of all, and poisons all.
Science can do much for me to promote my comfort of body. True, however much she does, I am so constituted that immediately I want a little more. Comfort might perhaps be well enough defined as perfect balance between desire and supply. Only there never is in bodily concerns any such balance. We always want something more than we have. This sense of need constantly surpassing supply is the very spring of progress in civilization. Civilization has been wittily said to consist in the multiplication of artificial wants together with a corresponding multiplication of artificial supplies for those wants. But in view of the fact that want forever outruns supply, a change might not inaptly be made in this French definition of civilization. We might say that civilization is an endless process of multiplying wants and of then multiplying appliances that never will satisfy these wants.
Now, I am in favor of material progress. I am not one of those who think that the simplicity of savagery is better than the artificiality of civilization. No, I say, let us be as civilized as possible. Let us make all the progress we can. Let us go endlessly on in finding out God’s great universe, and so realizing that mastery once divinely bestowed on man over the powers and capacities of nature. Let us do all this with heart and hope, but let us at the same time recognize the fact that never so shall we obtain immortality, never so obtain exemption from ill. Our world will still be a world of human infirmity and human suffering, however much the physical framework of things is put by science under our control. In truth, it may well be doubted whether of real comfort, the sum is greater to men now, over and above all deduction, than it was a century or centuries ago. The appliances and means of comfort are more now, perhaps a hundred fold. But so too are the needs that must be met. And the difference of real comfort in favor of these times would not be found great. I repeat that I am not a reactionist. I want no retrograde movement, but, on the contrary, only advance, and ever advance. Still, whatever the advance, there will be, proceeding from that advance, no corresponding advance in solid human comfort and happiness.
The reason is that human comfort and happiness depend in the main on conditions that science can not supply. They depend on the state of the mind within. They depend on the habitual or prevalent course of thought and feeling in the soul. What we chiefly need is not easier and more comfortable subsistence—though this too is good and desirable—but a released and victorious mind. We shall never escape our physical conditions, and these will always be more or less unsatisfactory. We shall rub against the bars, we shall press against the pricks of our material environment and suffer. This is inevitable. But there is for us something better than escape from physical limitation would be, were such escape possible. We can live a life of the mind that shall be, to a great degree, independent of the life of the body, and ascendent over it. Even let our hands be filled with mean and sordid tasks, we may, as Mrs. Browning puts it in her verse, keep our souls “singing at a work apart.” The mind is its own place—and its own environment. In this fact lies our hope. And here is the great chance of literature.
Literature comes to us in our prison, and brings deliverance that is more than deliverance. It brings large thoughts to us, solvent affections, free fancies. We forget our bondage and our pain. We live a life of the mind that soars, as the bird soars, above the ground where else we should crouch and grovel. And I say that this is a real, a solid, a substantial good. Sentimental it is—yes, but our most true life is sentiment. Morton did for us, I suppose, a valuable service when he discovered the use of ether as an anæsthetic. That discovery has mitigated many a physical pang. But it is to me certain that Longfellow’s poetry, for example, has done not less to bring comfort to men. Pasteur, the great French savant, has, it is said, found a specific by inoculation for hydrophobia. That is a vast boon to our kind. The same great scientist explored the disease that was destroying the silk worm in France, and applied an effective remedy. He performed a similar service in the rescue of the cattle from a widespread and destructive malady. Pasteur, by such achievements as these, has added untold millions on millions of dollars to the material wealth of the world. I glory and joy in these beneficent results of science. Human existence is blessed thereby. But blessed not less is human existence by the great literary gift of such a body of poetry as Tennyson’s. You can not count in millions of dollars the wealth of the world received from Tennyson, but God can count it in heart-throbs, and in stirrings of the brain, too costly and too precious for countless millions of dollars to buy.
Blessed, I have said, is human existence in the beneficent results of science. But how blessed? What are we rich for? Why is it a good that we should possess a surplus beyond the necessities of subsistence, of subsistence in material comfort? That we need not work so hard to live, that we may have some privilege of leisure? But how is leisure a blessing to our race? By giving us a chance to be idle, to be lazy? I trow not. Leisure is a good to us when we use it well, not otherwise. It is not using leisure well to spend the time and the strength saved to us through science from the sordid demands of mere subsistence—getting, in accumulating appliances of pleasure. We may indeed accumulate the appliances so, but we shall never so accumulate the pleasure. God has planned it for us otherwise. Comfort turned into luxury ceases to be comfort. What then shall we do with our leisure when, at the gift of wealth through science, we have gained our leisure? We must not squander it in luxurious ease. Wealth so used would be not a blessing, but a curse.
No, wealth is a blessing to us only when we say within ourselves, now that we need not work all the time to keep soul and body together, now that our body is sufficiently well served, go to, let us see what we can do for our soul. I am not preaching to-day, and I utter not a word about religion for the soul. But, apart from religion, what is there that you can do for your soul, that is, for your self, better worth doing than to feed it with thought, with reason, with emotion, with imagination? What does your release from drudgery signify to you, if it does not signify opportunity to live freely a life higher than the life of a brute? The good that science accomplishes for us is in itself an imperfect good. It is merely means to an end. We are defeated if we stop with the means. We must go on by the means to the end. Science is chiefly good as science makes way for literature. Let literature come in through the door that science opens.
Make free and wide your mind to the expanding and ennobling influence of literature. Every time you read a great book, you grow. And growth is life, and life is power, and power is joy. Literary culture is a process of intellectual annexation. You read, and you annex province after province of thought and of experience to the realm that was yours before. There is no limit to this expansion of empire. It is not simply during the intervals while you are reading that you establish new currents of intellectual life within you. What you read remains a permanent possession. Do not say, No, my memory is poor, I can not retain what I read. But you do retain it—in effect. It has gone into the substance of your mind. Your mind is now of a different texture. Your horizon is extended. Before, you dwelt low in a valley shut in by narrowing hills. You saw only what was immediately around you. You have a higher point of outlook now. Your landscape is wider, more various. But there are yet higher heights to be won. Go on and up. What an inspiring thing it is to stand in the Alps, where there is nothing visible to overtop you but the sky itself! Toward such an experience, in the realm of mind, literature invites you.
There is no exclusiveness, no monopoly here. You are all invited. Homer, Virgil, Dante, Milton—these are not for one, or for a few, but for all. Socrates will talk with you, and Plato and Aristotle. Demosthenes will repeat his peerless eloquence for you, and Cicero, and Chatham, and Webster. It is a glorious fellowship. Here are Æschylus and Sophocles and Euripides, here are Herodotus, Thucydides and Xenophon, here are Horace and Juvenal, Livy and Tacitus. All ages and all races are yours. You may be wise with the wisdom of time. Who would be content to live his own individual life alone, when, to each one of us all it is open to live, as it were, the whole life of mankind? And this is the gift of literature.
Let us be thankful that it is impossible for them to take away from us the “Iliad,” the “Æneid,” the “Divina Commedia,” the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” the “Paradise Lost.” These great works and their fellows are ours forever. And there are more and ever more such works to be created and enjoyed. Literature is indestructible. They may depress it, but they can not destroy it. Always, however much we may enjoy knowing nature, we shall at least as much enjoy knowing man. And it is in literature that man speaks to man. And never will come a time when there shall not be souls that must speak, and souls, too, in still greater number, that can not but listen.
Literature, then, is a true good of human life, both because, first or last, it addresses all, and because it speaks to that in all which is highest, most permanent, most controlling. Did I say I would claim for literature nothing more than equality of place with science? Let me unsay that. Science is knowledge, literature is wisdom. As wisdom is better than knowledge, so greater than science is literature.
THE AFTERNOON SERVICES.
In the afternoon the presentation of diplomas took place in the Amphitheater. The services were most interesting, many excellent addresses being delivered. A very interesting feature was the presentation of a Class Memorial by the ’84s. This memorial is to adorn the walls of the new Hall of Philosophy, and consisted of the portraits of President Lewis Miller and Superintendent of Instruction, Dr. J. H. Vincent. After the unveiling of the portraits President Miller was introduced and said:
Chautauquans, and especially the Class of ’84:—The name Chautauqua is now among classical words, and various definitions of it have been given, and, until its meaning is fully known, definitions will be given. You will therefore allow me to give a few definitions, so that this classical word may fix itself upon your minds and hearts, and its spirit may ever be with you. What does it mean? In its crude form I will not say, but in these last few years, and since this Assembly began, it has come to mean a place where God is all and in all; it means a place where caste, sectarianism and denominationalism are unknown; a place for formulating all kinds of moral forces; a place of rest, of proper rest, and physical development; a place to inspire mental culture—in short, a place for the consecration of all of man’s possibilities for good, and to prepare men to go out to the world to do good. These are some of the definitions, and you do not wonder, when you are here, how various and how broad the outlook is, an outlook so broad that I fear many times we become discouraged because of its breadth, and give up in despair. I am glad to see this afternoon that there are many here who have not given up.
Now, for your encouragement, let me say a few words. Suppose that the world should stand still for sixty years, and you had no more teachers for the young, that all teaching stopped, and those who now have the ability to teach, those who now have the skill to work in the mechanical arts, or to take that scientific field we heard of this morning, passed away, and there should be no more students or apprentices for sixty years, what would be the result? Taking this country as a guide, we would have but one million people who are in any vocation. This is an astonishing fact, taken from the census of the United States, as I gathered it some time ago for another occasion. Now, take the other fact: in 1880, twenty-six millions of the American people—more than one half of the inhabitants of the United States—were below twenty-one years of age, and had not taken up any vocation or any purpose in life. Chautauqua puts within your reach a privilege. I saw a man among your number this morning who was eighty-four years old. With that exception, few of you are sixty. There are not so many gray hairs here as there were this morning. In sixty years many of you will have gone; most of the men you find here on this platform will have gone, and you will have the privilege of taking their places. We sometimes think we have no place, there is no use trying to become anything because all these places are filled, but before you are sixty years old you will have the privilege of coming up through these avenues and taking any place you are able to fill. These avenues will be open to you. See what privileges you will have. I will give you the figures. You will have sixty-four thousand chances to take the rostrum or the pulpit; you will have eighty-five thousand chances to take a place in medicine; you will have two hundred and twenty-seven thousand chances to be teachers or scientists. All others will have given way before you. Now, do you think it worth while to struggle to become something? We can not all go through the schools, but by this new Chautauqua Idea we can gather together, and put our hearts together, and in this way gather some ability that will be consecrated for good.
Dr. Vincent then announced Dr. Lyman Abbott, one of the Counselors of the C. L. S. C., who spoke as follows:
ADDRESS OF REV. LYMAN ABBOTT, D.D.
Mr. Chairman and Fellow-Chautauquans:—The Circle, you know, is symbolic for the conception of perfection. The C. L. S. C. stands, therefore, by its very title, for an inclusion of all knowledge. Dr. Wilkinson this morning dealt with one half of that Circle, literature. There is nothing to be added to what he said this morning, for certainly I would not detract anything from what he said, if I could. The praise that he awarded to literature as a means of education was well deserved, as it was well given.
I thank him for having left us for this afternoon the other half of the subject, and I want to say something to you about science. And I approach it from the side of ignorance, not as a scientific man, but as one whose education in youth, and ever since, has been neglected on the scientific side, and who looks at science from the point of view of desire and aspiration, not from the standpoint of satisfaction and achievement. Certainly science has done a great deal for us in the mere physical and material realm, and of that aspect Dr. Wilkinson spoke this morning. It has enlarged, if not our comforts, certainly the material of our comforts. It has enlarged, if not our satisfaction, at all events our content. It is to science we owe the fact that we have so largely increased the facilities also for our learning. Science has made for us voyaging and travel easy; science has bound the different parts of our nation together with iron bands; science enables us readily and quickly to communicate with one another; science has formed our houses, preserving us from cold; science has illuminated our houses, and redeemed from darkness and night the hours that can be given to social intercourse and study. In innumerable ways, science has added to our material and moral well-being.
But it is of science as an educator that the words I have to speak this afternoon are to be directed. I am sure nature has another aspect than that of a mere servitor, and is a material educator. So science has another aspect than that of adding to our mere material and bodily comfort. Science ministers also to our intellect and our spirit, like literature. I shall not undertake to put these in the balance, each over against the other, and see which is the better of the two. Now, it is scarcely necessary for me to point this to you who are pursuing both literature and science, that both of these develop the mind. Science as well as literature develops the soul and the spirit of man, the inner life. Science is teaching us to observe. It is teaching us other things, but that is all I wish to say to you this afternoon. It is teaching us to observe—how to use our eyes. It is astonishing how many men and women there are in this world who do not know how to use their eyes. Science is making us observant of the minuter as well as of the grander of God’s works. The motto of the C. L. S. C. stands on the wall before you, “We study the Word and the Works of God.” The word written in man’s heart, that literature opens to us; the works that are written on all nature, that science opens to us.
I go out for a walk on the Catskills; I look off, I see the view, the trees, the June aspect. But there is a scientist who walks by my side. He points out to me the little scratches in the rock, and tells me it is the path of the glacier, that here where I am walking the glacier in the centuries long gone by made its march, and that there were higher mountains here then than now, and there was a sea in the valley below, and here are the marks, the footprints of it. He takes his hammer, breaks a rock, and points out to me a trilobite. He tells me that all these rocks are rich in the remains of animal life, they are filled with the remains of those animals which have disappeared. He is seeing what I did not see, what I did not know, he has learned to use his eyes, he is teaching me that I am as one who, having eyes, sees not.
One does not need great apparatus to become in some small measure at least, a scientific observer. I was brought up as a boy to think, whether my teacher’s fault or my own I do not know, that the only use of my eyes was to read books, and I read them. But the great book in the midst of which I was living I never read. I know of some boys in my home who have furnished themselves with some naturalists’ pins, some cork, one of those boxes of drawers made to hold spools such as you see in any dry goods store, and which you can get for a “thank you;” they have provided themselves with a pole and a net, and now, when they go out into the woods, it is not for frolic, or waste of time. They see a bug or butterfly, they out with the pole and catch it. They are filling a museum. When they catch their butterfly, they come home with more questions about him, where he comes from, than I can answer. Whether their museum comes to much or not I do not care. They are learning to read that literature that comes before all books, the literature that God has written in the clouds, in the rocks, in the mountains, and in the flying things.
But science teaches us more than that. It teaches us not merely to observe with our eyes, but with our inward nature. We do not simply see works. “The earth is the Lord’s, and the fullness thereof.” You do not know a library because you know the names of the books that are printed on the backs of them, and you have not begun to know science because you have begun to gather a few isolated facts out of the heaven above, or the rocks beneath, or the trees. Not until you have learned what is in the books do you know literature; not until you know what is the truth that lies behind nature and palpitates within it, do you know science.
The crown that is upon the brow of science is composed of stars, every one of which is a star from God’s own heavens, and the hieroglyphic roll she has in her hands, which we strive to read, is God’s own words, no less than the printed book, from which we study of his word and his works. Science and religion stand at the door of God’s great temple, beckoning with one hand to those who stand without, and with the other pointing to Him who sits upon the throne within.
Dr. Vincent then read the following letter from Counselor Gibson, of England:
London, 15th July, 1884.
My Dear Fellow Students:—The pressure of engagements, which is usually at its height in the month of May, and begins to relax as June advances, has this year continued much longer than usual, and threatens now to traverse the month of July; but I must not again disappoint my dear brother, Dr. Vincent, by postponing my letter till too late, as I unhappily did last year, for which I ask his pardon, and yours.
I congratulate you, with all my heart, on the work of the year, and on the wonderful growth of our Circle. How speedily has the little one become a thousand, and many thousands!
I can not say that the Chautauqua Idea, pure and simple, has as yet taken root in England; but there are approximations to it, and the principles of which it is an embodiment are everywhere gaining ground. To my mind Chautauqua stands for the keeping together of many things which God hath joined, and which men are too apt to put asunder. First, I think of holiday recreation and wholesome study which many imagine to be mutually destructive, whereas our experience proves them to be mutually helpful. Well, the people here are beginning to appreciate this. In connection with the great “Fisheries Exhibition,” which was the chief novelty of the London season, last year, courses of useful instruction were organized; and this year, as an important part of “The Health Exhibition,” which has taken its place, lecture courses, bearing on important branches of sanitary science, have been delivered, and a number of useful little manuals, like those with which we have become familiar in our Chautauqua course, have been issued, one of them by Mrs. Gladstone.
Then, I think of secular and sacred culture, which there has been quite too much disposition in our day to separate, and which are, in my opinion, so happily combined in our studies. Here I am reminded of the recent great Sunday-school meeting at Exeter Hall, which I had the privilege of addressing, where the chair was occupied by the Hon. A. J. Mundella, who manages with such ability and energy the educational department of the government. Mr. Mundella, who has risen from a very humble position, had the foundation of his education laid in the Sunday-school, and a night school connected with it, and when very young, received much stimulus and encouragement by the presentation of a Bible for proficiency in his Sunday-school lessons. He does not forget his obligation, and his speech that evening from the chair was eminently hearty and satisfactory. I am reminded, also, in the same connection, of an important meeting held recently in the Jerusalem Chamber, a private meeting, from which reporters were excluded, and which, therefore, I must not report to you further than to say that it was a representative gathering of leading men of all denominations, including some distinguished Roman Catholics, (one of whom, by the by, made the finest speech of the evening), to consider the question whether it was possible under a system of State Education in a country like England satisfactorily to combine secular and religious instruction.
And this suggests another of our pleasing combinations at Chautauqua, the drawing together, not only in fraternal feeling, but also in important work, of Christians of different denominations. I need not say that the current of the times still sets in the same direction. The meeting in the Jerusalem Chamber, above referred to, is an illustration of it; and as a farther indication I may refer to the fact that recently the rector of St. Paul’s, Cheswick, after due announcement, preached and conducted divine service for Mr. McLeod, successor to Dr. Cumming, of Crown Court. He did it with the full knowledge that it might get him into trouble; but he was willing to have the question tested at his expense. Considerable notice has been taken of it in various ways, but no one has ventured to make any complaint.
I take it that one prominent feature of the Chautauqua movement is the desire and endeavor to bring those privileges which have been hitherto to a large extent the possession of the few, within reach of as large a circle as possible—the attempt to bring the scholarship of the scholarly into far closer relations with the wants of the people. And here I am reminded of the new Oxford movement, of which you have no doubt heard—the resolution of a large number of young Oxonians to devote themselves to work in the East End of London for the educational and social amelioration of its wretched poor. The plan involves residences among the people and brotherly intercourse with them. It remains to be seen, whether, without those high Christian motives which have always been found necessary in the past, but so far are not at all acknowledged, there will be that “patient continuance in well-doing,” without which nothing worthy can be accomplished. But whatever may be thought as to the probable success and permanence of the movement, it is certainly a most gratifying sign of the times.
But I am allowing myself to drift into a treatise de omnibus rebus et quibus dam aliis, and must therefore call a halt, and come to a period, which I do with renewed congratulations for the past and hearty good wishes and earnest prayers for a happy holiday season, and a prosperous and fruitful year of work.
I shall not sign myself your Counselor, though you honor me with the title, for I am sure that any counsel I can give at this vast distance is of very small account, but I do heartily call myself your sincere friend,
John Monro Gibson.
Many kind letters of greeting and encouragement were read. No one stirred a deeper sympathy than that from Mrs. Abbey Gough, of Westfield, N. Y., the senior graduate of the C. L. S. C.:
“Although I am too feeble to be with you to-day, and although I am nearly eighty-four years old, I am with you in spirit. God bless the C. L. S. C., and God bless the Class of ’82.”
Dr. Vincent said: “This dear woman marched in through the gate when eighty-two years of age; her son of over fifty, or about fifty, behind her; his daughter of twenty, perhaps, behind him; three generations in that Class of ’82. She still lives, at the age of eighty-four, to give greeting on this glad day.”
The letters were followed by the reports from the assemblies, after which Dr. Vincent addressed the Class of ’84 as follows:
ADDRESS OF DR. VINCENT.
To the members of the Class of ’84, a few words. I have watched your progress during the four years with peculiar interest. You have gained to yourselves a reputation as a class noted for zeal and earnest work in the C. L. S. C. You are known as “The Irrepressibles.” You have been characterized by an ingenuity in devising methods. In making up the history of the C. L. S. C. there are several things that may be traced to you. You number in your roll some distinguished names. You have throughout the entire extent of the Circle labored with peculiar diligence and fidelity for its general good. I am sure that the Class of ’82, and the Class of ’83, whose experience made it possible for you to be what you have been, will not complain of the tribute which at this time I seek to pay to you. I know that the other classes will follow your lead, and be glad if they can have the good reputation which attaches to your name, the name of the Class of ’84, the “Irrepressibles” of the C. L. S. C.
There are some of you who are young, in the freshness and brightness of life, with youth’s outlook. May it be a long time before the grave folds its arms about you. May you do valiant service not only in the cause of the C. L. S. C.—that were a little thing—but, using it as a platform, may you accomplish large things and worthy in the homes you represent, in the community of which you are a part, in the branch of the Church of the living God with which you may be connected, and may your impress be felt on the national life. Above all, may you do good work in God’s way, by the divine process in your own lives, that as the years go by you may build up character that shall shine as a light on the world, character that shall endure through the eternities.
Some of you are in middle life. Aches, and pain, and signs of breaking down once in awhile, make you stop and think. You wish that you could recuperate, and get back some of the old power. Probably you will. You have yet ten years, twenty years, thirty years, in which you may do splendid service. May God’s blessing through this ministry enrich these remaining years, and make you glad, and your friends glad, through every succeeding year, that you were ever identified with our Circle.
Some of you are old. You do not like to have that stated; or do you? You do not feel old: eighty-four years is nothing. May the venerable members of our Circle, who count from—where does old age begin—from eighty-four and above, may you live until the new century shall dawn, and may your last days be your brightest and your best days. You do not know, you men and women of advanced years, how it warms our hearts to see you in this presence and engaged in these services. We have for all time glorified childhood. I can never allow a youngster to pass me without a salutation. There is only one place where I do not like to hear a child’s voice, and that is when it interrupts a public service. I take great delight in these little fellows whom we meet in the streets, at the front doors, and in all American homes everywhere. But I think we have glorified the possibilities of childhood to such an extent that men and women full-grown have come to think that all the possibilities of life are hidden in the earliest years. When we see men and women of advanced age coming to this place to receive the reward of four years’ work, with ambition for years to come remaining, we feel that the possibilities of this life are not limited at all.
And when we remember, as the poet says, that death is “but a gray eve between two shining days,” there is no limitation to man. Therefore, work on, work forever. God help us to begin in this life, that we shall make everlasting progress as we enjoy the fellowship of the saints in the presence of God.
So, then, my young friends of eighty-four years and under, I bid you welcome to-day to this place, and as President Miller shall authorize the distribution of the diplomas which you have won, we shall take pleasure in handing them to you. We expect one of these days to see them glittering with seals, new seals freshly won, placed on the pyramid. When you are asleep in the long sleep, the diploma shall hang on the wall—a tribute to your ambition and faithfulness.
The class song of ’84 was sung, the diplomas were distributed to the graduates, and the Commencement services of the Class of ’84 were at an end.