Silver Links Part 6

And now, thanking you for the considerate attention you have accorded these words of salutation, we trust that our programme will greatly please you; that at its conclusion you will be happy to offer heartiest congratulations to the Cla.s.s of '91.

Address of Rev Chas. S. Harrower, D. D.

_To the Cla.s.s of '91._

Mr. Chairman, Ladies of the Cla.s.s of '91 and Friends: I almost feel as if I were one of the graduates of this inst.i.tution, I have been here a number of years now. But one thing that puzzles me is how I should go to work to report these speeches, and, really, a moment or two ago I thought the young ladies were engaged in taking down the music. And I should not be surprised if they after a little while would be able to take music down stenographically and write it out on the typewriter and perhaps, by some modification of their skill, evolve it into tune again. I know that they can talk musically, because we just heard some beautiful music talked by one of them and I know that she is a representative of the cla.s.s.

So I think that after all the only claim I have to representing this inst.i.tution is the fact that I have been honored by being a.s.sociated with the officers, and the teachers, and the graduates of this school a number of seasons in succession, and age is my only claim to honor, for I cannot write stenographically, although I can make some crooked marks, but I do not believe that anybody else could read them after they get cold, because I know I cannot myself. I can some of them, but I mean I cannot read them all. I feel particularly honored to-night upon being given a place upon the platform. I believe this is the very first occasion when the Society of Mechanics and Tradesmen have pushed out from their own ancient hall into the world to give a larger welcome to their constantly growing and most admirable and enviable const.i.tuents. I was wondering to-night how many of the young men and of the young women before me here had enjoyed the facilities of this inst.i.tution in the times past. I am sure they would have to take a hall that would hold six or seven hundred people, who would fill it full just as this place is filled full, and to-night this is just as full as our old hall over home has been during the past five or six years. We should fill anything because if our friends know they can come and get away alive, they will come, but if they think they are going to sweat nearly to death, and be crushed to death, possibly there will a great many of them stay away.

I want to congratulate these young ladies. There is one matter that was referred to in the salutatory this evening,--there is one aspect of your work and of your success to-night that strikes me. Happy is the inst.i.tution that puts a cla.s.s of fifty young ladies year after year into the position which those young ladies occupy who have finished their course, and to-night are to receive their diplomas. Oh, I do not wonder, after what I know about life in New York City, and life among women and girls, that your doors are crowded every fall and that you have two, and three, and four times the applicants for the facilities and opportunities of the school that you can possibly accommodate. I do not wonder at it. Why I know a woman 36 years of age with four children whom she is trying to support, and who works eleven hours a day for six days of the week, and barely makes an average of sixty cents a day, and on Sat.u.r.day night gets six times six or thirty-six,--$3.60 for her week's toil, and she has been at it till eleven at night, starting soon after six in the morning. Just think of a story like that. Oh, girls, I will call you girls; young ladies, if you had rather be called young ladies, I pray you never forget the sisters and the mothers who are toiling like this. They were just as bright girls, and just as brave girls when they were girls as you are now, and yet life has crowded them down, and I do not know how we are to lift them up, but, by a tremendous concentration of all of our consciences and all our powers, which shall make a public sentiment, that shall look into the sweaters' h.e.l.ls as much as it looks into the factories, and into the stores, and establishments of men who do not mean to be cruel or more cruel than you are, and I should be, but who, in the tussle and compet.i.tion of life, are led to take part in a system which is sweating and destroying life which is as brave and worthy as any of theirs. I wish to create a public opinion which shall make these exigencies of toil impossible in our modern life. You and I must do something not only to lift ourselves up, but to help some one else to climb the ladder to better conditions than otherwise they will be led to, and I congratulate you that you have climbed the ladder and have climbed to a better height than that. This inst.i.tution just helps you all where your future is secure. Do I say too much? Oh! no, daughters and sisters, mind, this inst.i.tution has helped you to the place where your future is secure. Nothing can take the place of toil.

Nothing can take the place of work. The Emperor Severus, when he lay dying at the foot of the Grampian Hills in the old town of York, a stranger who had taken him from the field turned to the men about him, and making a little address emphasized his last words over and over again, saying, "Laboramus, laboramus, laboramus!" We must work, we must work, we must work, he said, and what was true of the Emperor of Rome cannot be untrue of us; is just as true of all. There is nothing done without work, work, work. But you will work. You mean to work.

You came here because you were determined to work. You have been working over hours and overtime. You have been overworked some of you, just to get the facilities which this inst.i.tution and this blessed year of grace can give to you, and you will do it. I know you will be true. It is not for me to repeat what Mr. Barratt said. I know that he told the truth when he said that one of the essential things is fidelity to the confidences which come into your position, through the relation you sustain to your superiors, your employers and your princ.i.p.als.

I know that that is true. I know, too, another thing, and that is, that there will be times when you will feel tired-headed and wish you could rest. Did you ever read about Charles Lamb? You know what beautiful things Charles Lamb wrote. Some of you have read the jolly story of how roast pig was discovered by the young Chinaman. You have read that, and if you ever want a good laugh some time get the essays of Elia and turn to the paper on roast pig, and read it, and you will enjoy it immensely. At last Charles Lamb was released from his duties in the India office, he went home and wrote a letter and said to his friend,--he was so excited with the fact that now he was free,--he said, "For 10,000 I would not labor ten years longer in that old India office. The best thing anybody can do is nothing, and next to nothing, perhaps, go to work." And he went out to do nothing. He had nothing more to do. Two years after that he says, "Any work is a hundred times better than no work at all. The sun looks down on no forlorner creature than me with nothing to do."

Toil is necessary, labor is necessary for our happiness, as well as our prosperity. But I do not want you to overwork, and I believe you do wrong when you do. Just for a little while, while you are getting this knowledge, you must be willing perhaps to overwork; do not overwork, do not overstrain yourself. You can break your brains as easily as you can your back, and every now and then you hear of some young fellow who breaks his back. Don't break your back, and your neck, and your brain, and don't forget, just for the sake of getting ahead a little faster and making a little more money. Remember that your life and happiness are worth more than a few dollars. I say that because I know that some of you would be tempted to overwork, but I want to say alongside of it, another thing that I believe you cannot forget, and that is this, that there is an element in true life and in true service which dollars do not pay for. There is an element that is higher and finer which we usually think of when we think of the faithful performance of our work, the work allotted to us and the faithful keeping of business secrets that are intrusted to us. There is something finer than that. It would be supposed that the men of the learned profession were the men who work for something beside money.

The doctor must respond to a call no matter whether it comes from the poorest home, or the richest home. There is something in the professional relation to society that lifts a man up to a point where he dare not work simply for money. The minister must go, and it makes no difference where the call comes from or what time of the night or day a call comes, and he goes without asking anything about what is to return to him. The lawyer will stand up in court and take a case and plead for it, when there is not a single shilling to come into his hands, because the task is a.s.signed to him. He is a servant of civilized society. So is the medicine man. And it used to be supposed that only professional men were the servants of society, in this high sense that takes them out from a mere consideration of gain. That used to be supposed. But they will not be able to monopolize this high idea. The doctors, and lawyers, and ministers in that respect are just like the rest of you. There is a point for which money cannot be paid you, nor the lack of money release you, it is the putting of your heart into your work, the putting of your interest into your work, the putting of your words into your work, and doing your work not simply as long as men's eyes are on you, but doing your work faithfully, to the best of your ability, as long as you receive a man's money and as long as you hold relations of obligation to him. There is that which money does not pay for. There is that element of the highest profession in all services, whether it be a woman with the needle or a typewriter, or whether it be the stenographer, or whether it be the mechanic in the house,--if he does his work as he ought to do it he will put something into it that he does not expect to be paid for. He will put something into it for which he is to be paid in the improved condition of life and the benefit that he has done to humanity.

Humanity is to pay him, and not his employer, not in gold but in goodness, in virtue, in worthy services, he is to get his pay. Put your heart into your work. Join the learned professions, if you please, by being not only true and faithful but by being hearty and conscientious and faithful at every point in your business life.

And now I have said all that I ought to say but I cannot avoid saying that one word more. You remember when Sir Walter Scott lay dying, he called his son-in-law to his bedside and said, "I may not have a minute or two in which to speak to you my dear, be virtuous, be religious, be a good man. Nothing else will be any comfort to you when you are lying where I am lying now."

Be virtuous, be religious. Be good women always and bless your a.s.sociates. Be faithful in your accomplishments. Be useful in your services. Be proud of every achievement that you can make, but above all fear G.o.d and in this way live close to the Christ himself who lived not for what should come to Him, but for the blessing which should come to the worthy.

A Cla.s.s History

BY MISS NELLIE J. BELL.

_Cla.s.s of '91._

From the time of the creation to the present day, everything that has ever existed has had a history. Every leaf and tree and blooming flower, each have theirs; that sky-lark soaring high in the sunny blue sky has a history, and, as it pours forth a sweet melody, how the air vibrates with the gladsome song! Even that tiny spray of hare-bells clinging tenaciously to a cleft in the rugged rocks, over which the foaming mountain torrent leaps and dashes, has its own little history.

So has the torrent itself. It began away back among the snow-capped hills, and at first was only a tiny stream, but, joined by other courses, and swollen with the melting snows and spring rains, it has become a foaming, dashing mountain stream, plunging headlong over rocks and forming many a pretty cascade and sparkling waterfall. Now it runs deeply and swiftly through some dark canon, and now, emerging into broad sunlight, and flowing peacefully through green meadows, it gives refreshment to the ferns and rushes along its banks, and to many a little songster. So it flows on and on until it reaches the friendly arms of the sea, outstretched to receive it.

The Cla.s.s of '91 is no exception to the general rule which governs all Nature. The history of this cla.s.s began last October; it is thus just eight months old. Its diet up to the present time has consisted chiefly of Phonographic outlines, well seasoned and flavored with vowels and grammalogues, and served a la Pitman. And, in the words of Abraham Lincoln, we say, "For those who like that kind of diet, why it's just the kind of diet they like."

From the time of the commencement of the cla.s.s, we have been climbing, climbing, up the steep and rugged paths of Phonography. We began our ascent from the base, and while traveling up the foot-hills, our guide explained to us something of the nature of the ascent, and brought us into contact with some very amusing incidents.

The road for the most part was straight, but as we progressed we found ourselves following our guide around curves, and sometimes even around and around in circles. At first we looked about us a good deal, thought it would not be so very hard climbing after all, and so gradually accustomed ourselves to it. We found that we could accomplish more and more each day, and the higher we climbed the more invigorating grew the air.

One day we had been toiling up a long steep hill which some one suggested was like the Hill Difficulty. We struggled up its steep sides, weary and travel-stained, discouraged, but not ready to give up, and at each step plunging in our mountain canes, which were black, sharpened at both ends, and labeled "Faber No. 2." Soon we heard a cheery halloa, and looking up saw a tiny little man standing at the top of a hill. "That's Mr. Try," said our guide, "he is one of the best people in this mountain. If any one is in trouble, wearied, discouraged, and just about to give up, then is the time you may depend on Try. He comes with words of consolation, and with his bright cheery talk so convinces his poor broken down fellow-beings of future success, that they get up and begin to depend on 'Try again.'"

Soon we began to notice signs on the trees along our road. One was, "Wash tubs and window-sash, vinegar, putty, pails and gla.s.s." Another, "Two boys to let for the Summer." This was interesting, and we hurried along in hopes of seeing the author of these strange signs, for our guide told us he was the queerest man in that section of the country. Soon we came to his house and found it fairly bristling with signs. Curiosity overcame us and we stopped in and asked for a drink of water. The object of our curiosity was leaning his elbow on the mantel. He had long hair and was greatly stooped. We found his wife very talkative, and when she found out who we were, began to tell us about the Deed of their Property. "When we were married," she began in a high nasal voice, "Chauncy's father gave him a clear t.i.tle to this place; and after Chauncy's death it is to go back to the old homestead again." Then she took us through his work-shop where he manufactured the articles displayed on his signs.

Next we came across another dwarf, just the opposite of Try, our guide said. He was always up to some sort of mischief, and his greatest delight was to get other people into trouble. The country people had long wished to be rid of him but he had a long lease of his house and he meant to stay there. He was a homely little elf, with bright red hair, a slight squint in one eye and a wart on his nose. If a lesson had not been prepared, this fellow, who was called "I Forgot," was sure to be on hand in time to whisper into the ear of the culprit, "Say 'I Didn't Think' or 'I Forgot,'" and the minute she opened her mouth, out it would come and then the wicked elf would "fold his tent like the Arabs and silently steal away" to parts unknown, with a fiendish grin on his ugly little face leaving his dejected victim to receive a well-merited rebuke for carelessness. This dwarf followed us for many days, but heeding the repeated warnings of our guide, most of us at length learned to distrust him and turn a deaf ear to his excuses. Thus we struggled on and on up the steep sides of the mountain, and at the close of each day, we realized that, "Something attempted, something done, had gained a night's repose," for us, although we didn't always get it.

And now we were nearing the end of our journey, our hopes ran high and we kept our eyes upward toward the summit. The obstacles which had continually beset our path had been overcome, and we could say like the Irishman, who, on capturing three prisoners in the late war, was asked how he secured them: "Indade, sir," replied he with a knowing wink, "it's meself that surrounded them, sir."

At last we reach our destination in time to just view the sunrise. The gra.s.s is green, the flowers are all in bloom, Spring is here. The faint gray streaks of the dawn are in the sky and soon the whole East is suffused with a roseate flush. There is a hush of expectancy in the air, the breeze is soft, the birds are twittering drowsily in the tree-tops, and then in a flood of golden splendor "the morning sun comes peeping over the hills." Instantly all nature is alive, the birds pour forth their sweet melodies, the drowsy hum of the bees floats lazily on the air; there is a pleasant rustling among the tall swaying pines. Dew-drops glisten on the gra.s.s, the flowers nod gayly in the morning breeze, and we feel like singing:

"When the sun all gloriously comes forth from the ocean, Making earth beautiful, chasing shadows away, Thus do we offer Thee our prayers and devotions, G.o.d of the fatherless, guide us, guard us, to-day."

The new day has begun, and we have witnessed one of the finest views in Nature's kaleidoscope; for what could be more beautiful than the dawn! So are our lives just at this time. The air is full of hope and promise; so are we. We are just in the Springtime of our lives; our hopes, our aims, our aspirations are all as fresh and unsullied as the morn itself.

Now, in the dewy freshness of the early morning, we see that we are on a broad table-land, and not on the summit of the mountain as we had fondly hoped. We notice paths running in all directions,--some go straight to the top of the mountain, others stop at different places along the route. Only the future can decide which path each shall take. We have a grand field of labor before us, in this hill of knowledge which we have been traversing for the past eight months.

There are still rich and undiscovered resources of knowledge, which, brought to the light, would make the art a perfect one and us perfect in it. Now it is time for us to separate. Some of the more ambitious of us will, by dint of hard and unremitting labor, reach the pinnacle of our hopes.

Others, less ambitious, will be content to spend their days in the peaceful valleys of quiet usefulness. But, before we separate, let us each resolve that we will never, by act or word, do anything which might reflect discredit on this a.s.sociation, to the members of which we owe a debt of grat.i.tude which we can never hope to repay except by doing our very best, and so bring honor upon those who have done so much for us and upon the Inst.i.tution which they uphold.

The Cla.s.s of '91 is now like the waves of the sea:

On the bosom of the ocean, Dance the wavelet's glittering band; With a slow and fairy motion Moving onward towards the land; But that reached, they burst and sever, Bound no more by beauty's spell, Thus, we who have toiled together, The goal reached, must breathe farewell.

Here endeth the simple annals of the Cla.s.s of '91.

Cla.s.s Poem

BY MISS MARION C. BURNS.

_Cla.s.s of '91._

We extend a hearty welcome To you all, both old and young, Who have come to aid in sending off The Cla.s.s of '91.

We beg you will be generous In judging us to-night, See not the faults nor blunders, But keep the good in sight.

This cla.s.s you see united here, To-night will have to sever, But where to go, Ah! who can tell?

And shall it be forever?

Here, many a pleasant hour we've spent, But now we soon must part, And yet the lessons taught us here Shall dwell deep in each heart.

In after years we'll fondly think Of pleasant times gone by, And when we're treading other paths, The memory'll dim each eye.

Our teachers we have sorely tried As any one might see; At last they've succeeded in teaching us, Typewriting and Stenography.

Oh, thanks to you, our faithful friends, For what you both have done, For firm, but kind you've always been, And patient with every one.

These gentlemen deserve our thanks, For their goodness to us here, Your kindness we shall not forget, For many and many a year.