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that in modern times the great war monarch of the Ottoman Empire bore the name of Solyman the Magnificent; and to-day Sheikh Suleiman leads the Tiyahah Arabs and guides the traveler over the Desert of the Wandering
It was the wisdom and understanding, the largeness of heart, with which God had endowed him, that made his reign resplendent. Only when the greatness of his ambition and the excess of his luxury at last eclipsed the largeness of his heart did there come a cloud upon his later years and a storm upon his successor. Had the great qualities which marked the opening continued to the close, perhaps nothing in history would furnish a parallel to the glory of his reign.
The qualities that lay beneath the true glory of the ancient monarch are equally indispensable to all genuine success.
Every young man who stands in these times on the threshold of life's work carries with him responsibilities greater and destinies more enduring than even the throne of Solomon. And his special need is
LARGENESS OF HEART.
On that theme let me speak to you this morning, and indicate some of the elements of that largeness of heart required for the educated young men of the day. The "heart” here stands, as so commonly in the Scriptures, for the whole inner man, for the invisible forces of the soul that make its personality and its power.
First of all we naturally name
I. Expansion of intellect. This surely should mark the modern scholar. But as the ages stretch on, as the long vistas open and the mountain ranges of knowledge roll up, does the observant mind naturally grow wiser and larger in the contemplation? It is by no means certain. Great advantages are often attended by great disadvantages. As the appliances of civilization tend to impair the swift foot, the keen eye, and the supple frame, so may printing weaken the memory and books cumber thinking. Despairing of the vast temple of knowledge, we may shut ourselves up in small mental compartments. We may learn to see all things microscopically; we may cultivate intellectual adhesion without wide grasp, may reason in sections, and think in decimals. Specialties have become largely the order of the day. They form our strength and our weakness. We have reached not only the division and the subdivision, but the sub-subdivision of intellectual labor, and we may mold our intellect to fit a small niche in a corner.
No doubt professional, like business life, more and more takes on a fractional type. The practice of law divides itself up into narrower ranges. The medical profession is continually restricting itself to the eye, the ear, the lungs, the nerves, and what not. Chemistry, physics, astronomy, biology steadily bisect themselves. Theology has its many subordinate fields, alas, separately pursued, and even making exclusive claims. The art of war breaks up till it is hard to find a commander-in-chief. Meanwhile training tends also to become narrow and angular. There was an earlier type of education which doubtless lacked many modern niceties and refinements, but which made robust and burly thinkers — men who could grapple with great issues and achieve high ends; men who could say, like him of old, “I do not know how to play on this little instrument, but I know how to build up a state." They had a broad, deep training on which all professionalisms stood like a pyramid on its rock platform. Now we incline to erect the tall, thin, and slender spire, conspicuous, it may be, as that of Salisbury Cathedral, but like it swerving from the perpendicular, and never pointing to the zenith, though timbered within and buttressed without.
The teaching, as I said, often conforms but too closely to the standard and exemplifies in advance its thinness, narrowness, and angularity. It is in large measure bad methods that have wrought harm and prejudice to the noble classical studies. Instead of imbibing the splendid Greek culture in all its stimulating power, the student has too often found himself from first to last in a kind of Greek factory or treadmill, grinding out not four but bran - swamped in grammatical technicalities, vexed with philological puzzles, dialectic variations, exceptional quantities, more than doubtful derivations, and often unwarranted textcriticisms - till the Hellenic culture and aroma have evaporated. The oracle is gone from Delphi, Demosthenes from the Pnyx, Pericles from the Acropolis, the frieze from the Parthenon, and the honey from Hymettus.
“’T is Greece, but living Greece no more."
The effects of intellectual limitations and isolations can be traced far and wide. The age of literary guilds is upon us.
Associations and clubs form around some single thought or principle. Every interest has its segmental journal, scientific, metaphysical, denominational, artistic, sporting, and the like, with numerous subdivisions; and the field of literature is splitting up with Shakespearianas, Hebraicas, Latines, and so on. It becomes often a kind of intellectual breeding in-and-in; and the tendency, however successfully resisted by many, is to make the metaphysician a brainspinner, the scientist a materialist, the theologian a partisan, the statesman a politician, the scholar a pedant, the historian once more a chronicler, the artist a microscopist, and the great critic a Taine. When the clear-headed Thomas Arnold first read Strauss' noted Life of Jesus he simply remarked: “It shows the ill effect of that division of labor which prevails so much among the learned men of Germany. The idea of men writing mythic histories between the time of Tacitus and Livy, and of Saint Paul mistaking such for realities!”
How sublimely indifferent are such thinkers each to the other's whole continent of thought. It is Africa to them. They do not know each other's range; they cannot take each other's measure. A flattered young woman of twenty-eight, quick of perception and singularly fluent of speech, could write in her diary: "I now know all the people of America worth knowing, and I find no intellect comparable to my own." Yet Emerson and Holmes and Lowell and Longfellow and Seward and Adams and Webster were then in America. A little knot of bright and honest people, calling themselves philosophers, annually meet in a little town near Boston and gravely settle the underlying problems of the world; but the world minds them very little, unless perchance while they discuss “the hereness of the thing,” the world smiles at the peculiar “thingness of the here." It takes breadth of training to guard against such undervaluing of others and such conceit of ourselves.
Large thinking is essential to just thinking. No intellect can play well on but one string. The historian needs imagination, or he is a dull chronicler. The great philologist must be a philosopher and have some common sense too. An exegete must know something more than grammar and lexicon. The physical observer too often fails for want of the sound reasoning faculty. A metaphysician who is only a metaphysician, or even a mathematician who is only a mathematician, is seldom that at its best. The maker of dictionaries requires a keen power of analysis ; and the grammarian without a cultivated taste is but a literary mechanic. There is, in the language of Emerson, “a susceptibility to details which precludes the exercise of a sound judgment.” And thus many an acute thinker and writer becomes so lost in the labyrinthine minutiæ of his cave that he loses the clew to the light of day. Many a German critic becomes so absorbed in his infinitesimal inspections that he cannot discern the