Modern Eloquence: Vol II | Page 6

to say that both Harvard and
Yale recognize the fact that there are some things before which
universities "pale their ineffectual fires."
"Words are but breath; but where great deeds were done, A power
abides, transferred from sire to son."
Now, gentlemen, on that sandy, desolate spot of Plymouth great deeds
were done, and we are here to commemorate them. Those were hard
times. It was a terrible voyage, and they were hungry and cold and
worn out with labor, and they took their guns to the church and the
field, and the half of them died in the first winter. They were not
prosperous times that we recall with this hour. Let us take some
comfort from that in the present circumstances of our beloved country.
She is in danger of a terrible disaster, but let us remember that the times
which future generations delight to recall are not those of ease and

prosperity, but those of adversity bravely borne. [Applause.]

SAMUEL A. ELIOT
THE SOURCE OF SONG AND STORY
[Speech of Rev. Samuel A. Eliot at the fifteenth annual dinner of the
New England Society in the City of Brooklyn, December 21, 1894. The
President of the Society, Robert D. Benedict, presided. In introducing
Mr. Eliot, he said: "I am not aware that there were any poets among the
Pilgrim Fathers. They had something else to do besides versifying. But
poesy has found many a home among the hills of New England. And
many a home, not only in New England, but in Old England also, was
saddened during the year that is gone to hear that the song of one of the
poets of New England was hushed forever. I give you as the next
sentiment: 'The Poets and Poetry of New England,' and I call upon the
Rev. Samuel A. Eliot, of the Church of the Saviour, in this city, to
respond."]
MR. PRESIDENT AND GENTLEMEN OF THE NEW ENGLAND
SOCIETY IN BROOKLYN:--I have been given to understand, sir, that
in these unpuritanic days lovers keep late hours; and as I listened to the
wooing of fair Brooklyn by the eloquent son[1] of New York I thought
we might be here till papa turned out the gas. Brooklyn is a New
England maiden and a trifle coy, and it may take even more than an
hour's pleading and persuasive wooing to win her. [Applause.] You ask
me, sir, to turn our thoughts back from these considerations of pressing
and immediate problems, from discussion of international and even
intercontinental relations, to the beginnings and the causes of our
rejoicings here. I am glad to do that, for I love to trace the connections
and contrasts of past and present, and to mark the growth and evolution
of that New England genius and character which are illustrated at these
tables.
The early history of New England seems to many minds as dry and
unromantic as it was hard and narrow. No mist of distance softens the

harsh outlines, no mirage of tradition lifts events and characters into
picturesque beauty. There seems a poverty of sentiment. The
transplanting of a people breaks the successions and associations of
history. No memories of conqueror and crusader stir for us poetic fancy.
Instead of the glitter of chivalry there is but the sombre homespun of
Puritan peasants. In place of the "long-drawn aisle and fretted vault" of
Gothic cathedral there is but the rude log meeting-house and
schoolhouse. Instead of Christmas merriment there is only the noise of
axe and hammer or the dreary droning of psalms. It seems a history
bleak and barren of poetic inspiration, at once plebeian and prosaic.
How is it then that out of the hard soil of the Puritan thought and
character, out of the sterile rocks of the New England conscience, have
sprung the flowers of poetry which you bid me celebrate to-night?
From those songless beginnings have burst, in later generations,
melodies that charm and uplift our land--now a deep organ peal filling
the air with music, now a trumpet blast thrilling the blood of patriotism,
now a drum-beat to which duty delights to march, now a joyous fantasy
of the violin bringing smiles to the lips, now the soft vibrations of the
harp that fill the eyes with tears. What is it in the Puritan heritage,
externally so bare and cold, that make it intrinsically so poetic and
inspiring?
There is no poetry in the darkness of the Puritan's creed nor in the rigid
rectitude of his morality. His surly boldness, his tough hold on the real,
his austere piety enforce respect, but do not allure affection. The genial
graces cannot bear company with ruthless bigotry and Hebraic energy.
Nor is there any poetry in the mere struggle for existence, and the mean
poverty