Chapter VII: Part 7

I may safely say that from the beginning of social life the great mass of the literature, genius, and wealth of the world has been, and is now, on the side of intemperance. The greatest poets that ever lived have sung in strains of beauty that captivated the young heart the praises of the ruby wine. It has for ages been interwoven with all festivals,--the meeting and parting of social life. It is this more than the love of liquor that attracts. In this view wine becomes the exponent of all that is genial and warm; temperance of all that is cold, forbidding, and repulsive. It is for just this purpose and to meet the enemy at just this point that associations like this have been formed. They seek to show that the flowing bowl is not of necessity the quickener of the intellect, or of all ardent and generous feeling; that it is not the only elixir for the heavy heart. They would show that there are other pleasures as exhilarating as those of the wine cup--pleasures that leave no sting behind. They would show that men can be earnest scholars, sympathetic friends, jovial companions, and at the same time taste not, touch not, and handle not the wine cup, or be under any obligations to alcohol for their enjoyment. May this association in the heart of this great city accomplish its purpose, and be the young man’s friend.

RELIGIOUS WORSHIP EARLY IN THE CENTURY

[Delivered at the Municipal Celebration of the one hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town of Portland, Maine, Sunday, July 4, 1886.]

MR. CHAIRMAN: Having been requested to offer some remarks in respect to the conduct of religious worship early in the century, I would say that early impressions are the most enduring, and religious impressions more so than all others, resulting from the fact that they are not so much impressions as the development of innate tendencies kept alive and nourished by the intercourse that all men, to a greater or less extent, hold with their Creator. There are none that so resent interference or are with such difficulty eradicated. Though by no means one of the good boys who die young, and with little inclination to acquire knowledge by books or by dint of study, there were two subjects that always possessed for me a peculiar interest and attraction-- one the employment by which men obtained their bread, and the other the discussion of religious doctrines, though utterly averse to any personal application of them. I recollect that when I had twenty-five cents given me by my father to go to Sukey Baker’s tavern to see an elephant, a rare sight in those days, I sat as demure as a mouse in my father’s study the greater part of an afternoon listening to a discussion between him and a Hopkinsonian minister upon disinterested benevolence, which was brought at last to an abrupt termination in consequence of the use by the Hopkinsonian of the following illustration: “Suppose, Brother Kellogg, I was walking over a bridge with two ladies, to one of whom I was tenderly attached and engaged to be married, the other an indifferent person. My particular friend, I am aware, is a person of ordinary ability, but the other lady is possessed of great mental powers thoroughly disciplined, and both of them are in a state of grace. The bridge breaks through and we fall into the stream. I can save but one of them, and in that case it would be my duty, even if I had to leave my personal friend to perish, to save the more gifted person, because she is able and qualified to do more for the glory of God.” My father ended the discussion by rising and declaring that a man who could cherish, much more propagate, such abominable sentiments was not fit to preach the Gospel nor even to live in a Christian society. The discussion and ways of ministers, their preaching and modes of conducting worship at that period are as vivid in my recollection to-day as then, and I purpose to turn this to account in complying with your request.

Religious worship at that time, though modified, still retained much of the ancient spirit and something of the form. My father and the ministers of his age formed the connecting link between the old and the new. Many of the old ministers, who were settled for life, and wore old ministerial wigs, cocked hats, small clothes, and bands, were still preaching, and frequently exchanged with my father,--Father Lancaster of Scarborough, Mr. Tilton and Mr. Eaton of Harpswell. Father Lancaster would sometimes fall asleep in the pulpit while the choir were singing the hymn before the sermon, for he was well-stricken with years. Ministers of a later date wore a queue and powdered their hair. My father in younger life wore his hair long, and it curled down his back and was powdered. He also retained the bands for a neck dress. I can just recollect when he exchanged breeches for loose pants. The old people, who were opposed to the innovation, called them sailor trousers, and said they did not become a servant of God, were got up to conceal spindle shanks, and the deacons of the First Parish and some others retained them. The sermons and prayers were somewhat curtailed, even by the old ministers, but were still of sufficient length. The hour-glass was no longer seen on the pulpit, but was still used in families, schools, and by the toll-keeper at Vaughan’s bridge. The deacons in the First Parish still sat before the pulpit, but the practice of deaconing the hymns was given up. Intentions of marriage were no longer cried in the church with the addition that if any person could show cause why they should not be carried into effect, to make it known, or else forever to hold their peace; but publishments were posted in the porch of the meeting-house for all to read. Much importance was attached to the singing, and it was always performed by a full choir, as loud noise was by our forefathers deemed essential in public worship. At first there was no instrument except the bass viol. The chorister, conscious of the dignity of his office, would rise with a solemn air, run up the scale, beating time with his hand, and lift the tune. My father, who had been drum-major in the Continental army, and was extremely fond of instrumental music, introduced the cornet and clarinet, in addition to the bass viol, into the Second Parish choir. He likewise persuaded Mr. Edward Howe, of Groton, Massachusetts, to come and set up business in Portland on account of his musical talent, and assisted him all he could, and Mr. Howe led the choir of the Second Parish for years, keeping up with the progress of the times. Difficulties with church choirs were as prevalent then as now. At one time the first hymn was read, but there was no response from the choir. My father, who was a good singer, immediately read the hymn, “Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God,” and led off himself, and the congregation joined in. When the next hymn was read, the choir concluded to sing.

There was no fire in the meeting-houses. The women carried foot-stoves that contained an iron dish filled with hot coals. The sexton was bound by written contract to keep a good rock-maple wood fire on the Sabbath in order that the people might have good coals with which to fill their foot-stoves in the morning and replenish them between meetings. Children suffered the most from cold feet, and would often cry with cold. I used to run my legs to the knees into my mother’s muff and get my feet on her foot-stove and long for services to be done. My father used to say that when he could hear people all over the house striking their feet together to quicken the circulation, he felt it was time to stop preaching, and indeed he seldom preached more than forty minutes, and often less. But many of the old ministers who exchanged with him had a method of dividing their sermons that to a boy with cold feet was extremely tantalizing. They would have six, eight, and often ten heads of discourse after which came “the improvement,” the most excruciating of all. After a long time occupied in the application of what had preceded, the minister would say “lastly.” Then all the younger portion of the audience would prick up their ears and handle their mittens in expectation of the close, but after this would come “finally,” and on the heels of “finally” “to conclude,” and after “conclude,” “in short.” There were few Sabbath-schools; religious instruction was in former days given to the children by means of the Westminster Catechism that was taught to children by their parents; and at stated times in the year the ministers were accustomed to assemble all the children of the parish and catechise them. Parents who were not religious, equally with others, taught their children the catechism that they might be able to answer the questions of the ministers and appear as well as their companions. This method of instruction had fallen in a measure into disuse, and though Sabbath-schools had been substituted to take its place, they were not cherished or conducted as at present. No pains were taken to render them attractive. Some parents held on to both methods of religious instruction upon the principle that there never could be too much of a good thing. The schools had little hold upon the hearts of the ministers of the church and were generally taught outside. The first Sabbath-school I attended was held in a schoolhouse that stood on the northeastern side of State Street. The late Mr. Cahoon was my teacher. The New Testament was the text-book. Children committed hymns but took no part in the singing.

There was a vein of austerity running through the relations that existed between parents and children. They were neither fondled nor pampered, but taught self-denial, to obey their parents, and reverence old age. In many families the children ate at a side table, as they were not supposed to be fitted by age or development to associate with their elders.

In the province of labor there was no special adaptation of the implements of labor to the physical strength of children, nor in matters of education any adaptation of studies or methods of teaching to their mental wants as at present, but children and youths used to a large extent the tools and books of their elders or waited till they grew up to them. Thus, in matters of religion, immediate effect was not expected either in relation to children or adults. It was not expected that a person would be converted till he was married and settled in life.

The question will naturally arise in the minds of many, what was the result of such a mode and spirit of worship as to the promotion of vital godliness and the conversion of souls. I reply, there was but little fruit. The preaching was mostly argumentative and controversial or political--the conic sections of godliness. Ministers seemed to feel that their responsibility ended when they had faithfully preached the truth and kept back nothing, and church members, when they attended the ordinances and kept the faith.

The first great change for the better in this state of affairs was caused by the embargo, which crushed for a season and well-nigh exterminated the business interests of Portland. It brought those who had become giddy with more than twenty years of unexampled prosperity to reflection. In proportion as their prospects in this life were blighted, they directed their attention to the attainment of more durable riches. The ministers of the gospel of all denominations took advantage of the changed condition of thought, and there was a great revival of religious interest throughout New England. Edward Payson, who was then in the prime of life and a colleague with my father, exerted himself to an extent that consigned him to an early grave, and there was during his ministry a constant revival. Instead of fate, free-will, foreknowledge, absolute free-will, etc., people began to hear of Christ and Him crucified, the still small voice of the Spirit, and the danger of delay. The eyes of men, stirred to a new life, were now opened to perceive the great obstacles to the progress of religion and morality.

The drinking customs of the day which had now reached a fearful extent, and African slavery and the discussions concerning it, caused a shaking of the dry bones seldom equalled; for conscience, self-interest, and the law of God were pitted against each other. The main shaft that carried the wheels of business in Portland was the lumber trade, which consisted in transporting lumber to the West Indies and bartering it for molasses, a large portion of which was made into rum that went all over the country. There was new rum for poor people, and West India rum for those in better circumstances. I have seen my mother, as often as Parson Lancaster exchanged with my father, mix Holland gin and loaf sugar and warm it for him before he went into the pulpit and after he came out. I once went with my father to a funeral in Beaver (now Brown) Street, and a decanter of liquor and glasses were set on the coffin. At eleven o’clock on each day the bell would ring, the masons come down from the ladders, the joiners drop their tools, and all would partake of rum, salt-fish, and crackers. This great obstacle, in a measure taken out of the way, led to the development of a spirit of Christian enterprise which I leave to abler tongues and pens to describe.

AT BOWDOIN COMMENCEMENT, JUNE 25, 1890

[Among papers especially treasured by Mr. Kellogg was found the following letter:--

BRUNSWICK, MAINE, May 22, 1890.

“DEAR MR. KELLOGG: The coming Commencement will be the fiftieth anniversary of your graduation. It is our custom to call first on a representative of the class of fifty years ago; and as goes his speech, so goes the dinner. Now you are not only the natural representative of the class of fifty years ago, but one of the most widely known and universally beloved of all the graduates of our whole hundred years. So we shall look to you for the response from the Class of ’40. You must not fail us. If you do not report yourself present at the formation of the procession in the morning, we shall send a sheriff and posse after you. The Congressmen will not be here this year. The success of the dinner depends on your coming, and giving us such a send-off as you only can give to a crowd of Bowdoin College boys. It will be a sad day for Bowdoin College if there shall ever be a generation of students who know not Elijah Kellogg. “Faithfully yours,

“WILLIAM DEW. HYDE.”]

MR. PRESIDENT, GENTLEMEN, MEMBERS OF THE ALUMNI, AND CLASSMATES: It is fifty years this autumn since I presented myself, a sedate and diffident youth, between the two maple trees that relieved the monotony of this then arid and barren college yard, and, like friendship and misfortune, flung their shadows over the steps of Massachusetts Hall, and sued for admittance to Bowdoin College. With that humility which was an inherent attribute of youth in that bygone day, I requested an inhabitant of this village to point out to me the president of the college, and I gazed upon the great man with that anxiety and solicitude, inspired by the belief that my fate and that of my companions lay in his clutches. Since that period, since that comparatively short period, what changes have taken place! This barren college yard, across which students were wont to hurry, has been transformed into a beautiful and attractive campus where they are now prone to linger and repose and sport. This then barren college yard, where Professors Smyth and Newman struggled desperately to prolong the existence of a few sickly trees, and died in the struggle, is now adorned by that beautiful Memorial Hall, created by the hands of a progressive age, and transmitting to other generations the virtues and the memory of those sons of Bowdoin who were true to their country in the hour of her peril.

But in other respects what changes! Every president but two, a great portion of the overseers, the trustees, and alumni, every instructor, every teacher, every tutor, almost every person in any way connected with this college, from the treasurer to the janitor, and the woman who took care of the rooms, have all passed away. I can reckon my own surviving classmates on my fingers, and I stand here to-day like an old tree among the younger growth, from whose trunk the bark and leaves have fallen, and whose roots are drying in the soil. Then I could stand where the roads divide that lead to Mere Point and Maquoit, and hear the roar of the Atlantic in one ear and that of the falls of the Androscoggin in the other. To-day I have not heard a word, except the two words “Bowdoin College.”

But there is no decrepitude of the spirit. Moons may wax and wane, flowers may bloom and wither, but the associations that link the student to his intellectual birthplace are eternal.

There is an original tendency in the human mind which is the foundation of the desire for property. We all naturally crave something that is our own. What lover of nature wants to be where everybody has been? It is an instinctive tendency. We want our own land, however limited; our own house, however humble; our own books, however few in number. Who, I pray you, wants to “wear his heart upon his sleeve for daws to peck at,” or be a member of a fraternity that is like an unfenced common for every slimy thing to creep and to crawl over? It is this instinctive feeling which has from the beginning been at the foundation of all fraternities of every description, and they have striven to realize this idea, though they have not always accomplished it. This principle of limitation strengthens by concentrating every association and every feeling of the human mind, just as the expansive gases derive their terrific power from compression, and liquids, by concentration, gain in pungency what they lose in bulk. It is this which imparts such magic power to the college tie, because the college tie brings and binds together, at a period when friendships are most ardent and sincere, and feelings are most plastic, those who have separated themselves to intermeddle with all knowledge, and unites them in the pursuit of all that can honor God, develop the intellect, or benefit mankind.

It introduces them at once into a fraternity composed, not merely of their own classmates and contemporaries, but of all the gifted and the good who still live in their works, and by whose labors they profit. The longer a man lives, the broader his views, and the more he experiences of men and things, the more he feels his obligation to his Alma Mater, to the nourishment he drew from her bosom, to the formative influences with which she surrounded him. Brethren, it was here we were intellectually born and bred.

“’Twas here our life of life began,
The spirit felt its dormant power.
’Twas here the youth became the man,
The bud became the flower.”

The longer a man lives the more sensible he becomes of this obligation, and though it is impossible to repress a feeling of sadness when we visit the rooms and tread the floors where those swift-winged hours flew, and where we decipher the almost obliterated inscriptions, the names on the walls, names of those most dear to us, of those whose step kept time and whose hearts throbbed in unison with ours,

“Who the same pang and pleasure felt,
At the same shrine of worship knelt,
And knew the same celestial glow
That young and burning spirits know
In the bright dreaming days of youth,
Ere visions have been chilled by truth,
And feelings gushed without control
Of those cold fetters fashioned by
That wayward king, society.”

And yet these considerations are modified by the reflection that they have nobly used the training that they here received, and are exerting influences that survive them, and have sown seed that shall be the increment of future harvests.

I feel grateful that a lengthened life and an intimate acquaintance with the history and former faculty and the students of this college have enabled me to appreciate the progress of this institution for the last fifty years. For more than forty years circumstances have so ordered it that I have been brought into most intimate relations with the faculty and students of Bowdoin College. They have loved me and I have loved them. I have been brought into contact with these young men at a period in their moral and mental development when a youth will tell his whole heart, all his best plans, aspirations, and difficulties to an older person who he feels understands him and whom he knows he can trust; and in the light of this experience, I do not hesitate to say that this college never stood so high in moral and intellectual work as it does this day. In 1838 I listened to the farewell address of President Allen to the faculty and students of this college and the inhabitants of this town, in which he declared that this college was a seething tub of iniquity, and he could not in conscience advise any parent to send a child here. Mr. President, do you think you could in conscience make such a declaration? And whatever may be thought, I say whatever may be thought of the good judgment of the reverend gentleman, it cannot be denied that he had good grounds for his assertion.

There were at that time a great many pious and devoted students in college, as many, probably, in proportion to the number, as have ever been since. They had a praying circle, and the college church kept up their religious meetings and attended them promptly. They lived, the greater portion of them, devoted and consistent lives, and from time to time they received the influence of the Divine Spirit, and many strong men were brought to Christ and fitted for usefulness; but in general they had the fire all to themselves and it warmed no one else. The good went with the good, and the bad with the bad. There was a line of demarcation between them. I did what I could to break it, came very near shipwreck, and shall carry the scars of it to my grave, but I am glad I made the attempt. Those were not the methods which the changing times required. The Christian Association which has superseded them, built on a broader basis, meets the requirements of to-day, and does more to promote the morality of the college. Things have broadened since I was a boy. Why, when I was a young man, it was thought that a person couldn’t be converted till he was married and settled in life.

Another thing which has added strength to this college and been fruitful in respect to morality is the attention that has been paid of late to athletic exercises. This outlet for superfluous energy has more to do with the good order and subordination of the institution than most people are wont to imagine. Boys that in my day would have been playing cards in their room for a hot supper and fixings at the Tontine, are now pulling an oar or playing baseball or lawn-tennis, and the germs of mischief ooze out in copious drops of perspiration. And when night comes, instead of reveling in shirt-tail processions, making night hideous, they are contented to sit down with their books or go to bed.

It has always been a vexed problem how to give students exercise. Every man of common sense knows that students, in order to accomplish anything, must have exercise. Andover built a large building, bought tools and stock, hired a skilled foreman, and was going to set the students to work. They wasted so much lumber and brought the institution so heavily in debt that they were obliged to sell out and turn the building into a house for Professor Stone.

I recall the military drill here. It was all very well for a while. But all couldn’t be officers. Nobody was content to be dragooned by an army officer. But lawn-tennis, baseball, football, and the gymnasium fill the bill. The students are proud of their gymnasium, and I know from personal experience that, during the last eight years, those who have excelled in athletic exercises have also excelled in rank.

Now I believe that this college has taken a new departure, and I believe there is a future for it from the fact that the alumni take more interest in the college than they used to take, and because there are so many poor students connected with it. Poor students are the salvation of a college. I know young men who worked their way through college who are to-day its benefactors. I worked my way through college with a narrow axe, and when I was hard up for money, I used to set the college fence afire and burn it up, and the treasurer would hire me to build another one. Let the young man who has to help himself thank God, keep his powder dry, and take to his bosom the old motto: “_Per angusta ad augusta._”

AT CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION OF BOWDOIN COLLEGE, JUNE 28, 1894

My love, Mr. President, for this college was inherited. I drew it in with my mother’s milk, and was taught it at my father’s knees. He was one of its first trustees, proposed its first president, and sold the lands the proceeds of which, after almost interminable delays, built Massachusetts Hall. Judge Freeman of the trustees, a most excellent and influential man and ardently attached to the college, was naturally very cautious, and that trait was now much increased by age; it seemed on account of his influence as if a building would never be erected. It was at length moved at a meeting of the Boards that my father be appointed and empowered to sell the college lands. He accepted the trust on condition that they would put Judge Parker of Massachusetts with him to draw the writings. This being done, he said, “Gentleman, these lands will all be sold within a year.” Judge Freeman, stroking his face, as was his habit when excited, exclaimed: “They will ruin us. They will ruin us.” “I,” observed another of the trustees, “want to be ruined; I had rather die at once than moulder away by dry rot.” The lands were sold within the specified time, a building was then erected, and President McKeen inaugurated. Seldom has the hand of Divine Providence been more clearly manifested than in the origin and growth of this college. From its inception it secured in its presidents, professors, trustees, and overseers men who had the interests of morality and sound learning more at heart than their own ease or emolument. The abilities of its teachers and their reputation would have at any time procured for them more eligible positions if ease, compensation, and reputation had alone been consulted. They were self-denying men; they loved the college and labored and denied themselves for its good.

I was absent from college but three years when I returned and settled at Harpswell. I had a great deal to do with the college, was in intimate relations with the professors and their families, and had opportunity to appreciate their real worth. They were not merely residents of the community, but useful citizens and a public blessing. The high school owes its origin in a great degree to Professor Smyth. All the neighboring ministers were under more or less obligation to them. They attended funerals, supplied destitute churches, and in the weekly religious meetings of the village were a power for good. I have worked weeks with Professor Smyth, setting out trees on the campus which he bought and paid for. Professor Upham gave the greater part of his property to the college. He for two years supplied the pulpit of the Congregational church at Harpswell, and but for his efforts it would not have been in existence now. In the last term of my senior year he came to Andover and told me if I did not go to Harpswell, God would curse me as long as I lived. I do not know what the Lord would have done, but I have found that obedience is sweet and not servitude.

Those worthy men inspired the students with like sentiments. Every class made great sacrifices to purchase valuable standard works for their society libraries. The literary spirit was by no means in abeyance in those days. The best minds in college took as much interest in preparing themselves for debates and other parts in the two societies as they did for a Junior and Senior Exhibition. The students dammed the glen at Paradise Spring and made a pond. They also terraced the sides of the glen and constructed seats of turf, and addresses and poems were delivered there to most appreciative audiences. Sam Silsbee flung Albion Andrew into Paradise Pond, and he was so fat that he floated like a bladder. Sam was not aware that he was laying sacrilegious hands upon the future governor of Massachusetts any more than I was aware that Melville Fuller would be Chief Justice of the United States, when with care on his young brow and the fire of a great purpose in his eye, I marked him laying the foundation of future renown. Were there not poets in those days who possessed the vision and the faculty divine? Did not President Allen have a hat that was woven of grass that grew on Mount Parnassus? Did not John B. Soule compose a Latin ode upon a moth that flew into a candle which in the opinion of the class compared favorably with those of Horace? And has he not since that time by more elaborate efforts proved that the child is father of the man? How can I ignore a most pathetic effusion, on the death of an unfortunate cat that was crushed beneath a woodpile, written in the style of President Allen?

“Poor puss, and wast thou to death squeezed
Beneath the weighty pile?
How must thy life have been outsneezed
The agonizing while!
And, pussy, didst thou found it hard
To part from kittens young?
For if thou’dst not a feeling heart,
Thou hadst a feline one.
Now, pussy, since thou art up-used,
From door thee I’ll outthrow,
Thy body from thy mind unscrewed,
To bleach beneath the snow.
By hill and valley, dale and stream,
The rats shall frisk and frolic,
Crying ’Hurrah, we’ll lick the cream
Since pussy’s got the colic.’”

During the latter part of President Allen’s administration discipline was lax; intemperance prevailed to a fearful extent in college as it did in the community. There were no railroads, and people came to Commencement and remained in Brunswick till the close. It was then customary for the graduating class to set tables in the rooms in which were liquors and other refreshments, and entertain their relatives and friends. At one time there was a room in North College in which a table was set with liquors and other refreshments, and straw was put upon the floor, and over the door a sign bearing the inscription, “Entertainment for Man and Beast.” But even at that time there was a body of students composing the college church or Praying Circle, as it was termed, the greater number of whom were persons of the most decided religious character. They held meetings and taught Sabbath-schools in different parts of the town, and were in sympathy with every good work; but between them and the majority of the other students there was a line of demarcation. Each party travelled their own road, and they had little to do with one another. But after 1838 there was a change; a deep religious interest began and continued, the herald of a better day. Since that day Christian associations have exerted a salutary influence, and, like the Gulf Stream sending its warm current through the cold waters of the Atlantic, have imparted a more genial tone to the intercourse of the students. Athletic exercises have likewise laid a strong hand upon much of the time formerly devoted to more questionable recreations. Although the present furor in these sports has its dangers and the matter is liable to abuse, yet they fill the bill as nothing else ever did, and when pruned of their excrescences will become a power for good. Young men of real stamina, however full of blue veins and vitriol and however enamoured of baseball, football, and boating, and hurried to extremes for the moment, will yet recall and heed the words of Cicero who represents Milo of Crotona, the greatest athlete of ancient times, who could kill an ox with a blow of his fist, shedding idiotic tears as in his old age he looked upon his flabby skin and shrunken muscles, and wept because he could no longer contend and conquer in the Olympic games. Milo had muscle and nothing else. May it never be said of Bowdoin students that they have muscle and nothing else, and certainly not that they are destitute of it.

Great was the change when President Woods succeeded President Allen. Never will the upper classes of that year forget the day of his inauguration. When he took his stand upon the platform to deliver his address, he laid upon the table before him a manuscript as thick as a three-inch plank. A riband was passed through it, dividing it into equal parts. But he never looked at it from the beginning to the close, except that, when halfway through, he opened at the riband but made no use of it. For more than two hours, without the hesitation of a moment or the lapse of a word, he held that audience spellbound. I have never known the man who could produce the impression--and a permanent one--upon a wild boy that he could. There are many living, distinguished and beloved, and many here present who will never forget their obligations to Leonard Woods.

For a poor boy smitten with the love of knowledge to work his way through college was once a formidable task. The only methods of doing it were keeping school in the long winter vacation, manual labor as they went along, or hiring money with the result of being burdened with debt at graduation. The Education Society could do but little, and there were no scholarships as at present. I walked seventy-five miles over the frozen ground after Christmas to the Penobscot to keep school, and back again through the mud in March, because I was too poor to ride; and I had to hire a watch in Brunswick to keep school with.

The commonwealth justly expects much from the students and alumni who enjoy the advantages both literary and pecuniary now accorded.

“Ye are marked men, ye men of Dalecarlia.”

The associations of this day come home with peculiar force to the minds of those who have been familiar with the history and watched the progress of this college from the day it was a mere shrub, with bare shade sufficient to cover its own roots, to this glad hour when they rejoice that they are permitted to look upon it as a massive tree, on whose broad foliage the sunlight loves to linger and the dew lieth all night on its branches. Withered hands are lifted in benediction: the tremulous accents of age join the universal jubilee. They will depart cheered by the assurance that when the dial plate shall be taken off from this great clockwork of the universe, and in eternity we behold its secret wheels and springs, it will be found that those who, at this seat of science, have separated themselves that they might intermeddle with all knowledge, its officers and its benefactors, have lived, labored, endured, not for themselves, but for their country and their God.

LOVE

[Delivered at “Donation Party,” Harpswell, September 18, 1894]

Love, my friends and neighbors, is something that defies definition and resents analysis. It is not possible to communicate the perception of it to one who has never experienced it. It must be felt in order to be known. It is likewise the most permanent of all the qualities of the mind. Anger, however violent, expires with the occasion that called it forth. Grief, however bitter and heart-rending, time will remove, and it will blunt the sting of sorrow. But love is inexhaustible and grows by what it feeds upon. Here is the father of a young family. He is returning at night from his work. As he approaches the door, a little one who can just go alone espies him. With cries of delight he runs to meet his parent, till, out of breath and strength, he falls exhausted into his father’s outstretched arms. The happy parent raises the little one and kisses him. When he has kissed that child a dozen times, does he not want to kiss him a dozen times more? Thus affection grows by what it feeds upon and is inexhaustible. It will do or endure more for the welfare of its object than any other faculty. You may hire a man to labor for you, you may force him to obey you, but not to love you. No power on earth can do that. On the other hand, does he love you, that love will cause him to do more for you than all other motives put together, and the more he does the more will he delight to do, because love tells nothing is lost that a good friend gets.

There are people before me to-night whom I began to love forty years ago. Do I love them less? Is the affection worn out? No; it is worn in. Then it was in the bark, but now it has got into the heart of the tree.

Here, also, are the children and grandchildren of those who are not, for God has taken them, and the affection I bore their parents clings to the children. It is not worn out, because love is stronger than death. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it. Or if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned. It is love that makes home, love that makes friends in the world, love that makes heaven, for God is love.

What has brought all these friends together to-night? They did not come to get, but to give, not with their hands shut up, but with both hearts and hands wide open. They have come to gratify their feelings of neighborly friendship and affection; for if they did not thus gratify those feelings, they would not enjoy what they had left. Ought I not to be grateful to be the recipient of so much good-will, kindness, and neighborly affection? I trust it will be an encouragement to render me more faithful to your souls’ best interests, to work for you and seek your good; to pray that God, who loves the cheerful giver, will reward and bless you.

There were never two persons in this world who loved each other but wanted and loved to eat together, and there were never two enemies who did. There were never two persons who loved each other, loved God, but who loved and wanted to pray together. We have eaten together; we have enjoyed each other’s society; recalled the feelings of other and happier days, before toil had stiffened our limbs, sorrow entered our hearts, or tears trembled on our eyelids; now let us pray together before we separate.

THE DELUDED HERMIT

[Delivered at “Donation Party,” October 1, 1895]

In the ancient days, after the early Christian fathers who succeeded the Apostles had departed, religion degenerated into superstition. There arose under the influence of the Roman Catholic Church a class of hermits, anchorites, and devotees who thought that heaven and holiness were to be obtained by torturing and denying the flesh; that by secluding themselves from society, by fastings and watchings, they might escape temptation and sin and live nearer to God and merit the divine favor.

In the North Sea are a group of islands belonging to Denmark, sixteen in number, called the Färöe Isles, some of which are of considerable size and inhabited, others mere patches of rocks and turf. Upon one of these, which is a mere sand spit flung up by the sea, a hermit had taken up his residence. His dwelling was built of the stones of the place, and the entrance was so low that he went in and came out on his knees. When the door was closed, it was lighted by an opening in the top which permitted a view of the sky, of the sun when far advanced in the heavens, of the moon and the stars, but not of the earth. Here this pious but deluded saint passed his days in prayer, meditation, frequent fasting, and reading the Bible. His food was brought to him by the inhabitants of the neighboring islands who greatly revered him for his holiness and sought his prayers for themselves and their household. He imagined that if he could see only the heavens, he should become less earthly; that by cutting himself off from the sins, the cares, and the labors of worldly and sinful men and being alone with God, he should make great advance in holiness. Poor deluded man! If, when he looked upon the heavens, the sun, the moon, and the stars, he had only taken a reasonable and scriptural view of the purpose for which they were created, he would have perceived that it was for the good of others they were created, to declare the glory of God to a universe, to cause grass to grow for cattle, and herbs for the use of man; that for six thousand years they had been holding to all the nations of the earth their high and perpetual discourse of the wisdom, power, and goodness of God, who openeth His liberal hand and satisfieth the desire of every living thing. Such reflections would have taught him that if, instead of spending his life and energies, and consuming soul and body, in prayers and meditations that began and ended in themselves, he had taken a portion of his time to keep the fire burning on his own hearthstone, and then gone forth among those islanders and told them of God and Christ and the duties they owed, given them the benefit of and shared with them his wisdom and holiness, and taught them to love God and each other, it would have been more acceptable to God, and in blessing he would have been blessed. This mistaken man imagined he was crucifying sin when he was only crucifying the natural affections and sympathies God had given him to be gratified for his own good and that of others. Man was not made to live in a state of isolation, but in fellowship with his kind. The human heart craves sympathy just as naturally as the vine stretches its tendrils to clasp some friendly prop, and, failing to reach it, droops and withers and bears no fruit. He, who is the centre of many loving hearts, whose interests, joys, and sorrows are his and his theirs, is stronger and happier than he who treads the brier-planted path of life alone, with no one to lean upon and share the burden or the conflict with him. We were made to find our happiness in the happiness of others. When is a gift valuable? When it is a part of the heart of him who bestows it. That which makes the gifts I receive upon occasions like this of priceless value to me is that they come from those with whom I have lived in love and sympathy so long that they have become part of myself. The Saviour has said it is more blessed to give than to receive. It is more blessed to give than to receive. It is more gratifying to be able to bestow favors than to be obliged to receive them. It is more like our Maker. He never receives anything, for all things are His. He is the universal giver.... May He who gives us all things reward you in your persons and in your households, and grant you that which He sees is best for your happiness both here and hereafter.

HOME

[Delivered at “Donation Party,” October 19, 1897]

The sweetest word that ever trembled on human lips is the word “home.” It embraces and concentrates in itself the germs of a thousand forces of happiness, power, and progress yet to be developed from it. So long as man wanders, and, like the savage, merely gathers what grows of itself from the soil, or captures the fish of the streams, the birds of the air, and the beasts that roam the forests, he makes no progress; he bestows no labor upon, and therefore takes no interest in, that abode which he is to abandon to-morrow. It is only when he has a permanent dwelling and produces something from the earth that progress, happiness, and the home relation begin. Home is the place where character is built, where sacrifices to contribute to the happiness of others are made, and where love has taken up its abode. Love is the strongest passion of our natures and finds its happiness in sacrificing for its object; the parent for the child, the child for the parent, the sister for the brother. In this relation they are in the best possible position for moral and intellectual development; they stimulate and call out each other’s powers, energies, and affections.

Infinite wisdom has declared, “It is not good for man to be alone.” There is not a more unsightly or unprofitable tree than a white pine growing alone. It is a mass of knots, knobs, short-jointed, crooked, and wind-shaken,--in short, a scrub. The lumbermen in contempt call it a bull pine. But put a thousand of them together as near as they can grow. What a change! As you enter that majestic cathedral no sunbeam can pierce, and look up at those heights,--trees straight as an arrow seventy feet to a limb,--you almost feel like uncovering in reverence. Thus with the family relation. The happiest homes are those the members of which are frequently called to sacrifice something or to deny themselves something for the others’ comforts and happiness. It is this that sweetens home. It is those who bear the burdens of life together, relying upon and trusting in each other, who get the most out of life, bear its trials without being soured by them, and rear children who arise and call them blessed--children that have real manhood--who can look danger in the eye without quailing and grapple to severe tasks without wilting, and are nobody’s servants.

It is evident that home is not mere locality, that it is not defined by metes and bounds. From Gibraltar to Archangel, from Calcutta to the frozen seas, there are homes. One principle, one fruit-bud produces them all. Home is not a thing that can be bought or sold in the market. You may buy a homestead or a house, you may perhaps buy a wife, but you cannot buy a woman’s love. Costly furniture, rich dresses, retinues of servants, and luxurious dishes do not make homes. It is not the residence but the affection of the occupants that constitutes the home. Those who are united in the bonds of a true affection behold themselves reflected in each other, and each is to the other as another self. In the confidence of love there is repose.

My friends and neighbors, this assembly is made up of those who have been reared and have reared others in homes where parental love and filial affection were the mainsprings of action and the foundation of charitable and friendly acts. The desire to share with others the gifts a kindly Providence bestows on ourselves is bred in the atmosphere of home. All the sweet charities of life are but the overflow of these feelings and sympathies born and bred at the domestic hearthstone.

I thank you, my friends and neighbors, for the gifts of affection bestowed this night, and may the blessing of God rest upon yourselves, your children, and your homes.

SERMONS

THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN

Text: Luke xv. 18, 20. “_I will arise and go to my father._” “_But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him._”

The Saviour, by a beautiful and affecting story, illustrates the natural and inevitable result of a sinful course, a course of ingratitude and disobedience to God. We have placed before us the life of a Hebrew patriarch. In that land now so barren beneath the curse of God and the curse of a despotic government, but once so full of beauty and blossoming, when the Chosen People clothed its now barren mountain peaks with clambering vines and its valleys with waving grass and grain, dwelt a Hebrew, a righteous man among the kindred of his people, to whom God had given goodly land, and flocks and herds in abundance, whose tents stretched far over the plains, and who had servants born in his house. This man had two sons, one of whom was much older than the other. It was a pleasant household; the father was kind and affectionate to his servants and to the poor,--a just man, fearing God and tenderly attached to his children.

As the two brothers were different in their age, so were they in their dispositions. The elder son was sober, industrious, and found in the care of the flocks and the quiet enjoyments of rural life enough to occupy and interest him. The father could put confidence in him, could go away from home and leave all his business to his care, sure that it would be completed as if he himself were present. But though sober, industrious, and trustworthy, and held by the restraints of his education, yet he was not of an affectionate and generous nature, but penurious and severe in his temper, and much more feared and respected than beloved by his servants and his equals. But the younger son was the very opposite. He was full of life and energy, but fickle and restless, and directed his energies to no good purpose. He cared nothing for business nor for cattle. He would not remain at home, but wandered from tent to tent and from vineyard to vineyard and into the distant city; the farm life was dull and distasteful to him. His father could put no trust in him. If so be that his father went from home and left him in charge of the flocks and the servants, he was sure to find on his return that the flocks had strayed, that some of them had been lost or devoured by the wolves, or to find his son frolicking with the servants instead of directing their labor. Thus while he could trust the elder son with everything, he could trust the younger with nothing, and must always watch him with constant anxiety.

Yet, with all his faults, the younger son was generous and affectionate, keen to perceive and understand, and of great determination to accomplish when he was so minded. The father often said to himself: “Oh, that my son would only do well! How much comfort and honor would he be to me! And how much good he might accomplish!” Indeed, it seemed ofttimes that the boy could not help his wrong-doing; his wild, frolicsome, headstrong nature did so hurry him along. Afterward he would be sorry and even shed tears, and then go straightway and do the same again. Yet was the heart of the father more after this wild slip of a boy than after the other.