Another song of the second Assembly, and sung through the years since at the services of the Chautauqua Circle, was written and set to music by Miss Lucy J. Rider of Chicago, afterward Mrs. Lucy Rider Meyer, one of the founders of the Deaconess movement in the Methodist Episcopal Church. It begins with the lines:
The winds are whispering to the trees,
The hill-tops catch the strain,
The forest lifts her leafy gates
To greet God's host again.
In the year of which we are writing, 1877, Mary A. Lathbury gave to Chautauqua two songs which have become famous, and are to be found in every hymnal published during the last generation. One is the Evening Song of Praise, "Day is dying in the West," written to be sung at the even-tide conferences beside the lake. The other, beginning, "Break thou the bread of life," was the study song for the Normal Classes. Another, less widely known abroad, but sung every year at Chautauqua is the Alumni Song, "Join, O friends, in a memory song." These were a few of the many songs written by Miss Lathbury at Dr. Vincent's request, and set to music by Professor Sherwin. Originally composed for the Normal Class, then the most prominent feature on the program, after the Chautauqua Circle arose to greatness in 1878, they were adopted as the songs of that widespread organization. For the C. L. S. C. a class song was written each year, until the Chautauqua songs grew into a book. Not all of these class songs have become popular, but quite a number are still sung at the Institution, especially at class-meetings and in the Recognition Day services.
At the Assembly of 1877 the Normal Class still stood in the foreground. Special courses of lessons were given to Primary Teachers, by Mrs. Emily Huntington Miller, Mrs. Wilbur F. Crafts, and the ever-popular "Pansy"—Mrs. G. R. Alden. The record informs us that the average attendance at the four normal tents was more than five hundred. Thorough reviews after the course were held from time to time, and this year two competitive examinations, one on August 14th for those unable to remain until the close, but received examination on the entire course—fifty questions in number; the other on Tuesday, August 21st with three hundred candidates for the diploma.
From 1876 for a number of years it was the custom to hold an anniversary service on one evening, for the Normal Alumni. The graduates marched in procession, led by a band, a silken banner before each class, and every member wearing a badge, to the Pavilion in the ravine and afterward to its successor the Amphitheater, where Chautauqua songs were sung, and an address given by an orator, the President of the Normal Alumni introducing the speaker. It may have been in 1877, or maybe in a later year, that John B. Gough was the orator of the evening; and he began his address in this wise:
I don't know why I have been chosen to speak to the Alumni of Chautauqua, unless it is because I am an Alumni myself, if that is the right word for one of them. I am art alumni of Amherst College; M.A., Master of Arts. I have a diploma, all in Latin. I can't read a word of it, and don't know what it means, but those long Latin words look as if they must mean something great. When I was made an alumni I sat on the platform of the Commencement Day; the salutatorian—they told me that was his title—came up and began to speak in Latin. He said something to the President, and he bowed and smiled as if he understood it. He turned to the trustees, and spoke to them and they looked as wise as they could. He said something to the graduating class, and they seemed to enjoy it—all in Latin; and I hadn't the remotest idea what it was all about. I kept saying to myself, "I wish that he would speak just one word that I could understand." Finally, the orator turned straight in my direction and said, "Ignoramus!" I smiled, and bowed, just as the others had. There was one word that I could understand, and it exactly fitted my case!
On the lecture platform of 1877, the outstanding figure was the massive frame, the Jupiter-like head, and the resonant voice of Joseph Cook, one of the foremost men of that generation in the reconciliation of science with religion—if the twain ever needed a reconciliation. He gave six lectures, listened to by vast audiences. The one most notable was that entitled, "Does Death End All?" in which he assembled a host of evidences, outside of the Scriptures, pointing to the soul's immortality. Joseph Cook is well-nigh forgotten in this day, but in his generation he was an undoubted power as a defender of the faith.
If we were to name the Rev. James M. Buckley, D.D., in the account of each year when he spoke in the platform and the subjects of his addresses, there would be room in our record for few other lecturers. He was present at the opening session in 1874, and at almost every session afterward for more than forty years,—aggressive in debate, instantaneous in repartee, marvelous in memory of faces and facts, and ready to speak upon the widest range of subjects. Every year, Dr. Buckley held a question-drawer, and few were the queries that he could not answer; although in an emergency he might dodge a difficulty by telling a story. For many years he was the editor of the Christian Advocate in New York, known among Methodists as the "Great Official"; and he made his paper the champion of conservatism, for he was always ready to break a lance in behalf of orthodox belief or the Methodist system. Another speaker this year was Dr. P. S. Henson, a Baptist pastor successively in Philadelphia, in Chicago, and in Boston, but by no means limited to one parish in his ministry. He spoke under many titles, but most popularly on "Fools," and "The Golden Calf," and he knew how to mingle wisdom and wit in just proportions. Abundant as were his resources in the pulpit and on the platform, some of us who sat with him at the table or on a fallen tree in the forest, thought that he was even richer and more delightful, as well as sagacious in his conversation. Dr. Charles F. Deems, pastor of the Church of the Stranger in New York, also came to Chautauqua for the first time this year. He was at home equally in theology, in science, and on the questions of the day, with a remarkable power of making truth seemingly abstruse simple to common people. I recall a lecture on a scientific subject, at which he saw on the front seat two boys, and he made it his business to address those boys and simplify his message seemingly for them while in reality for his entire audience. But we cannot even name the speakers who gave interest to the program of 1877.
One event of that season, however, must not be omitted, for it became the origin of one noteworthy Chautauqua custom. Mr. S. L. Greene, from Ontario, Canada, a deaf-mute, gave an address before a great audience in the Auditorium under the trees. He spoke in the sign-language, telling several stories from the gospels; and so striking were his silent symbols that everyone could see the picture. We were especially struck with his vivid representation of Christ stilling the tempest. As he closed, the audience of at least two thousand burst into applause, clapping their hands. Dr. Vincent came forward, and said, "The speaker is unable to hear your applause; let us wave our handkerchiefs instead of clapping our hands."