Chapter I: The Secret of the Alcohol Habit (3)

Mrs. Eliza Burd, of Philadelphia, in the year 1848 founded a home for girls, which was handsomely provided for in her last will and testament. This institution, which is under the care of Saint Stephen’s Episcopal Church, of which Mrs. Burd was a member, is situated in West Philadelphia, and is one of the finest charities of the city. The grounds are extensive, the buildings are very fine, and the results thus far achieved have been of a most satisfactory character. In addition to these orphan schools there are in Philadelphia nineteen asylums for orphans and abandoned children. Some of these, like the Northern Home and Southern Home for Friendless Children, are undenominational. Others of them, like the Methodist, Baptist, Lutheran, and Jewish orphanages, are sectarian, and thus excluded from state aid. Perhaps the Roman Catholic Church has more homes of this character in different parts of Pennsylvania, than all other denominations taken together. In Philadelphia alone they have “Saint Joseph’s Female Orphan Asylum,” in charge of the Sisters of Charity, “Saint John’s Orphan Asylum,” in charge of the Sisters of Saint Joseph, “St. Vincent’s Orphan Asylum,” at Tacony, an “Asylum for Italian Orphan Children,” “The Catholic Home for Destitute Orphan Girls,” “St. Vincent’s Home,” which cares for children who are under five years of age, and two magnificent orphanages in West Philadelphia. Indeed, it is difficult to know the exact extent of Roman Catholic charities of this kind in our state. Excluded by law, as are all sectarian institutions, from any participation in the public funds, they make no reports to the public authorities, and not accustomed to appealing to the general public for aid, their workings are known only to the members of their own communion. In the city of Pittsburgh the Roman Catholic Church has four Orphan Asylums, the United Presbyterian Church has an Orphan Home, the Episcopal Church has a Home for Orphan Children and Aged Women.

There is also a Protestant Orphan Asylum, and a Colored Orphan Asylum in the same city. There are homes for orphans in Beaver, in Berks, in Huntingdon, in Lancaster, in Perry, in Schuylkill, in Susquehanna, in Luzerne, and in York counties, other than those which are maintained by the Roman Catholics. A third kind of provision for the poor is

THE TEMPORARY HOME.

Some of these are for friendless girls, for the time without occupation and without roof to shelter them; some of them are for those who have strayed from the paths of virtue, and who require the special care of those who have the courage and the Christian faith to deal with this phase of human wretchedness.

Of the first class we may mention: “The Western Temporary Home,” which is a shelter for those too weak to go to work, “The Boarding Home for Young Women,” and a “Home for the Homeless;” and of the second, “The Howard Institution,” under the care of an association of women Friends, for furnishing shelter, food and clothing to poor outcast women, and “The Midnight Mission,” which has for its object the rescue and salvation of fallen women. Here might be included the Inebriate Asylums, such as “The Franklin Reformatory,” whose object is the recovery of drunkards to decent society. A peculiar charity of this kind is a “Temporary Home for Children,” which is designed to lighten the burden of parents whose circumstances are such as to prevent the proper care of their offspring. The number of children in this home is at present sixty-one; and the institution seems to be accomplishing a good work.

Allegheny City has a “Home for the Friendless,” somewhat similar to the one just described. In this home one hundred and twenty-five children are receiving care and support at the present time. It is impossible to do justice to the charities of Pennsylvania, in an article of limited extent; many of them can not be enumerated at all; some of them can only be mentioned; and hence I shall make no attempt to estimate either the cost of these charities or the value of their results. And much, in any event, would of necessity remain untold. No record is possible—at least, no earthly record—of the prayers, the anxieties, the thoughtfulness, the patient persistence of the men, and especially of the women, who sustain these charities with their energies and their love. Whilst others are helplessly bemoaning the evils of large cities, these faithful servants of him who went about doing good are quietly, but efficiently, working to rescue and save a soul from darkness, and a body from pollution. Every large city has its devouring eddies into which drift hundreds of thoughtless and ignorant creatures every year. Every large city in this state, let us thank God, has also its brave and earnest Christian souls who are ready to run no small risks, and to make no small sacrifices, if, peradventure, they may save a soul.

PROVISIONS FOR THE INSANE.

There are five Insane Hospitals in the State of Pennsylvania, under the control of the state, located respectively at Harrisburg, Danville, Dixmont, Norristown and Warren. The total expenditures of these five hospitals for 1883 amounted to $711,666. In addition to these there are “The Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane,” “Philadelphia Hospital for the Insane,” “The Friends’ Asylum for the Insane,” located at Frankford, near Philadelphia, and the “Training School for Feeble Minded Children;” the four latter involving an annual expenditure of nearly $400,000. The total number of insane confined in these institutions is 5,338, of whom 4,361 are indigent patients supported at the expense of the state. When the act of the legislature, already alluded to, shall have taken full effect, the total number of insane patients in these hospitals will reach at least 7,000. “The Pennsylvania State Lunatic Hospital” at Harrisburg was founded in the year 1848, and since that time the total amount appropriated by the state is $1,110,929. The district entitled to the benefit of this hospital is composed of sixteen counties, with a population of nearly one million; and the capacity of the hospital is only sufficient for twenty-seven per cent. of the insane persons resident in the district. “The Western Pennsylvania Hospital,” at Dixmont, was founded in 1855. The total amount appropriated by the state since that time is $1,022,128. In addition to what it has received from the state, this hospital owns 373 acres of land, which were paid for entirely by private contributions. The district in which this hospital is located is composed of thirteen counties, with a population of 900,000; and the hospital has accommodations for only twenty-two per cent. of the insane residents within the district. “The State Hospital for the Insane” at Danville was founded in 1868, and has received in appropriations from the state, $1,408,900. The district in which it is located is composed of twenty-one counties, with a population of 800,000; and the present capacity of the hospital for seven hundred patients, is sufficient for fifty-four per cent. of the insane residents within the district. “The State Hospital for the Insane” at Warren was founded in 1873. The total amount appropriated by the state since that time is $1,125,000. The district in which it is located is composed of ten counties, with a population of about 400,000 inhabitants. Its present capacity is six hundred, which is eighty-seven per cent. of the insane residents of the district. “The State Hospital for the Insane” at Norristown was founded in 1876. The amount appropriated by the state since that time is $9,616,846. The district within which it is located is composed of seven counties, with a population of 1,300,000. Its present capacity is eight hundred and four; that is for only thirty four per cent. of the insane residents of the district. “The Pennsylvania Hospital for the Insane” is located in West Philadelphia, the hospital grounds covering 113 acres, upon which are erected two buildings, one the department for males, and the other the department for females. This is the institution which has become known throughout the country by the name of its long-time chief physician and superintendent—Dr. Thomas S. Kirkbride. Although it has frequently received aid from the state, it is not a state institution. From the opening of this hospital up to 1882, the number of patients admitted was 8,673. Of these, 7,052 were residents of Pennsylvania, the remainder coming from all parts of the United States, Central and South America, and some few from Europe. The total annual expenditures for both departments during 1882 was $182,000. “The Friends’ Asylum,” at Frankford, has long been known in the eastern part of the state as a well conducted and generously managed institution.

It has at present about one hundred patients, all of whom are supported by their friends. “The Philadelphia Hospital” contains 617 patients, of whom 332 are female. Under what is known as “The Hoyt Lunacy Act” of 1883, the supervision of hospitals for the insane, both public and private, will be much stricter than it has ever been heretofore. That act was intended to remedy many of the evils which are constantly occurring in the treatment of these sorely afflicted people. A special committee of the Board of Public Charities is charged with its execution, which committee is composed at present of Philip C. Garrett, Henry M. Hoyt, Thomas G. Morton, E. Coppee Mitchell and W. W. H. Davis, whose names are a guarantee that the insane of Pennsylvania will be treated with scrupulous care, and that no sane man or woman need any longer dread that one form of incarceration which is worse to the healthy minded than either the prison or the grave—incarceration among maniacs. Akin to these institutions for the insane is the Training School for Feeble Minded Children, located at Media. This institution was founded in 1853, and has received from the state since that time the sum of $723,498. It also receives contributions from neighboring states, in return for which the children of contributing states are admitted to its benefits. The number of pupils now in the school is 428, of which about 200 are from the State of Pennsylvania. The total annual expenditure of this school amounts to $109,829.

HOSPITALS FOR THE BLIND AND THE DEAF AND DUMB.

The most noted of these is “The Institution for the Instruction of the Blind,” located in Philadelphia. The buildings of this institution are valued at $183,000; its funds and investments at $266,773. The average number of pupils in the institution for 1883 was 178; and the average number of state beneficiaries 145, for which the state granted the sum of $43,500.

There are also located in Philadelphia two working homes for the blind—one for men and one for women—into which are received many of the graduates of the Institution for the Instruction of the Blind. In the home for men there are eighty-five beneficiaries; in the home for women there are forty. The purpose of these institutions is, as far as possible, to offer employment and not alms; to make its inmates independent, so far as their disability shall permit. There is an Institute for the Deaf and Dumb located in Philadelphia, and a Western Pennsylvania Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, located about twelve miles east of Pittsburgh. In the former of these institutions there are about 300 pupils; in the latter about 102. To the former the state appropriates $78,000 annually. For some reason, unknown to me, the appropriation of $40,000 asked from the legislature by the latter last session was not granted.

HOSPITALS FOR THE SICK AND THE INJURED.

The one purely state hospital in Pennsylvania is “The Anthracite Hospital,” located at Ashland. This is intended for the coal and mining regions, in which injuries are of such frequent occurrence. Unfortunately, this was not opened for the reception of patients until November, 1883; but already upward of forty-one patients have been admitted, and are receiving the benefit of medical care and treatment. Of institutions not under the control of the state, the most famous is probably “The Pennsylvania Hospital,” located in Philadelphia. Round this have grown up a number almost as famous—the splendid “University Hospital” in West Philadelphia, “The Orthopedic Hospital” for the treatment of nervous diseases, the Presbyterian and Episcopalian Hospitals, the Jewish Hospital, the new Stewart Hospital, founded by a distinguished Methodist physician of Philadelphia, the Wills Hospital for diseases of the eye, the Howard Hospital for Incurables, and the Children’s Hospital for the relief of sick and suffering children.

In addition to these are the “Preston Retreat,” one of the most touching charities of Philadelphia, and the “Maternity Hospital,” which has been founded to rescue unfortunate women in the terrible extremity into which their sin has driven them. Outside of Philadelphia there is the splendid hospital recently opened at Harrisburg, “The Western Pennsylvania Hospital,” “The Mercy Hospital” of Pittsburgh, the Hospital of Wilkes-barre, the Hospital of Scranton, the Reading Hospital, “The St. Joseph’s Hospital” of the same city, the “St. Luke’s Hospital” of Bethlehem, and the “York Hospital,” of York, Pa. The work of these hospitals it would be impossible to describe within the limits of an article like this. The patients within their walls not unfrequently receive, gratuitous, treatment equal to that for which the rich must pay enormous prices.

But it should be mentioned in this connection that in Philadelphia there are two Homes for the Training of Nurses, physicians having long since discovered that their skill and industry is frequently thwarted by the ignorance and incompetence of ordinary nurses. The women who are admitted as pupils to these homes must pledge themselves to the work for which they are prepared. They are taught by lectures, and by actual work in the sick room, how to handle and care for the sick; and when their education is completed their names are placed upon a register, so that those desiring trained nurses may secure them by application to the matrons of these establishments. A more important charity hardly exists within the state.

This article may be fitly closed by reference to those institutions which are founded for the care of children afflicted with that which is worse than disease—with a tendency to crime. Of these there are two now in operation—the House of Refuge in the city of Philadelphia, and the Reform School at Morganza, Washington county, Pa. The House of Refuge expends annually about $130,000, and the Reform School about $190,000. The total number of inmates in the House of Refuge is 671, and of the Morganza School 339, making an aggregate of 1,010. Perhaps there is no sadder chapter in the report of the Board of Public Charities than that relating to these schools. The statistics deserve careful study, and show how unwarranted are many of the assertions constantly made about the criminal classes. For instance, nearly one-half of these children are of American parentage, and of the 490 children committed, only 24 could read and write well; whereas only 125 were absolutely illiterate. Two hundred and eighty-five were committed for that which is set down in the statistics as “incorrigibility.” It would be curious to know just what this means, and whether, after all, the real fault was not chargeable to the parents rather than to the child. I can conceive of nothing more terrible than that which I fear lurks underneath this item.

There is now being erected at Huntingdon an

INDUSTRIAL REFORMATORY

To which all male criminals between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, sentenced for the first time, shall be committed. The purpose of this Reformatory is, if possible, to save to society youthful criminals. The jail and the penitentiary only harden the offender, and turn him forth hopeless, helpless, revengeful, and in his own terrible language, “To get even with the society which has punished and destroyed him.” Ex-Governor Hoyt, whose large mind and generous heart are only fully known to those who have close personal intercourse with him, was strongly impressed during his administration with the defects of our treatment of the criminal classes. He made himself a thorough master of the literature bearing upon this subject, and became an ardent, even enthusiastic advocate of the reformatory system; and during his administration, and since his administration, has done his utmost, in public and private, to further the completion and the opening of this institution, which, it is hoped, may be ready for occupancy at an early day.

Pennsylvania, which spends such large sums for its poor, which pours out its thousands for its insane, its sick and its afflicted, may well afford to spend even millions for the reformation of its criminals, many of whom are quite as much sinned against as sinning.

THE C. L. S. C. AT THE ASSEMBLIES.

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.