CHAPTER XXII
CHLODWIG HELMER’S LECTURE: THE CONQUEST OF THE AIR
On the fourth day of the Rose-Week, the auditorium was as usual filled to the last seat. At the right, on the front of the platform, a kind of proscenium-box had been set up, designed for the special guests who had signified their intention of being present,—the King of Italy and the President of the French Republic. Besides these two chief executives, there were several other members of the ruling families of Europe in the hall, but they were mingled with the other auditors. On the stage, the speaker’s desk was placed in the center, but pushed somewhat to the rear, and in the background sat as usual Mr. Toker, his daughter, and a number of his distinguished guests. Some of them, however, had preferred to listen to the exercises from the body of the house.
It was still ten minutes before the hour set for the commencement, but the hall was already packed; only the King and the President had not as yet appeared. Lively conversation buzzed through the place. Persons who naturally belonged together sat in little groups: thus, for example, the two widows, Countess Solnikova and Frau Annette Felsen, accompanied by several gentlemen, among them Marchese Rinotti and Baron de la Rochère, as if they were in their own salon; the Countess Schollendorf, Albertine, Coriolan, and Malhof formed a little Austrian colony, to which the well-known sportsman also joined himself. Franka Garlett with her companion sat in the background of a small box, just out of sight of the public.
Franka’s excitement was great. She had never heard Helmer speak in public—it was practically his first public address, and she trembled a little for him.
The Sielenburgers had not taken their departure after all. It had happened that the sleeping-coupé tickets procured were meant for the following day and consequently the involuntarily prolonged sojourn allowed them the opportunity of hearing Helmer’s address. The Countess Schollendorf was gazing about through her opera-glass. Suddenly she cried out with a startled expression: “For God’s sake, there in the third sofa in front—isn’t that the Archduke...?”
“Sh!” interrupted the sportsman. “Don’t utter the name aloud; it is certainly he, but he does not want to be recognized.”
“Still, perhaps we are mistaken,” said the Countess; “our imperial family has not much taste for such American extravagances.”
“But really, it is the Archduke; I cannot be mistaken, for he bought a horse of me once and closed the bargain himself. Besides, he is said to be a very enlightened prince.”
Coriolan flared up: “What do you call ‘enlightened’? That is a suspicious word.... Thank God, our court is nothing of the sort.”
The countess had now directed her glass toward the platform. “Franka is not sitting up there this time ... but that Helmer! Who would have thought that I should have seen Eduard’s secretary in this way again! It is said that he is going to give an address. I am curious.”
“I am not,” muttered the cousin.
“You are an unendurable man, Coriolan,” remarked Albertine suavely.
“We need not be vexed, my worthy friends,” observed Baron Malhof at this moment, taking a part in the conversation, after having vainly looked round to find Franka. “One must never be vexed; certainly not while on a pleasure journey. One ought thankfully to get from it all the possible satisfaction that may be offered. Domestic cares, local prejudices, have been left far behind. One drinks in all the delight of the ‘now,’ of the unfamiliar, of the unusual. And especially here in this festal hall, where such a brilliant company is assembled, where it smells so fragrant,—I would wager that the ventilator distributes atomized rosewater,—where sweet music is playing, where beautiful women are to be seen, and where one can stare at two living rulers of great States, and where there is to be great oratory in various tongues of Babel about the ‘lofty flights of human thought.’... If this is not a place of amusement, what is it, I’d like to know? Do you see, in my opinion life is a storehouse, filled full of joyance and annoyance, and all wisdom consists in getting out of that storehouse all possible joy and avoiding everything that can possibly annoy....”
A stir went through the audience. The President of the French Republic and the King of Italy had entered their box. Mr. Toker had ushered them in, and he remained for a few moments standing in the back of the box in order, as could be plainly seen, to give his illustrious guests some information about his likewise illustrious house-guests; for his eyes, as well as those of the two rulers, moved, during the conversation, from one to another of the selected circle filling the background of the platform.
Now Mr. Toker went back to his place and gave the signal to begin.
For the introduction, a second performance was given of the Rose-Quintette which on the first day had afforded such enjoyment; again it exerted the same charm and aroused the whole audience to the utmost enthusiasm. The King from the land of music set the example, and the applause throughout the auditorium rose into a perfect storm. Vera’s eyes were filled with tears of delight. The Rose-Quintette was a genuine affront to that ultra-modern school of those who pose as scorners of melody; they did not, indeed, hiss, but they exchanged significant glances and bitterly ironical smiles.
After the applause had subsided, the great Italian tragédienne came forth and recited Hero’s lament over the body of Leander, a soul-stirring monologue from the first work of a Roman poet as yet comparatively unknown. It was a decidedly long while after she had finished, before the applause began: people were too deeply moved to express their gratification instantly. Genuine tears trembled on the eyelashes of the great artist, and in the audience many cheeks were wet. Who has never stood by the bier of one dearly beloved, and has not gazed down into an abyss of grief so profound that the heart is penetrated by the terror of eternity?
Now followed one of those ten-minute pauses during which the auditorium changed into a salon. Some of the guests left their places; calls were paid; there was promenading up and down the lobbies. The master of the house stepped into the box where sat the two exalted rulers in order to explain to them the meaning of the intermission; they in turn went out on the platform and allowed the various celebrities to be presented to them. The King greeted the actress as an old acquaintance, shook hands with her, and talked with her for some time. Then he greeted his other fellow-countryman, the great inventor, with equal heartiness. To be proud of one’s king and to feel for him a genuine affection, is a widespread sentiment in monarchical countries; but there is also very frequently in royal personages a feeling of pride and of gratitude for those who as artists or otherwise wear the crown of glory of their country, and this feeling might be called kings’ loyalty. For centuries monarchs have showed this loyalty in the form of gratitude to the heads of the great noble families, especially for the leaders of armed forces on land and sea; but of late they have begun to realize that the fame of a country is borne over wider reaches of space and time by the names of its intellectual great men than by the names of its aristocrats and soldiers.
The ringing of a bell announced the resumption of the exercises, and an expectant silence reigned throughout the hall. John Toker and Chlodwig Helmer stepped out to the speaker’s desk. The American began in English:—
“Your Majesty! Mr. President! Ladies and gentlemen! I have the pleasure of introducing to you as the speaker of the evening—I might almost say the speaker of the week—Herr Helmer, of Vienna, the author of the poem ‘Schwingen’ which quickly became famous. Not that I have any desire to place his deserts higher than those of the other illustrious members of the Rose Order—but because the theme which he is about to treat is the fundamental theme on which our whole plan of action is arranged: the conquest of the upper regions—Herr Helmer, you have the floor.”
And he stepped back to his place in the circle. As he took his seat some one whispered to him: “That was not very democratic of you, Mr. Toker, when in your introduction you apostrophized the two rulers with their titles!”
“Please do not confuse democracy with incivility, as is so often done. It is exactly what they are—rulers. To every one his due.”
The fault-finder remarked still further: “The two rulers certainly do not understand German and they will be mightily bored with Herr Helmer’s address.”
“But they do understand German, as I happen to know. Besides, the French translation of the gist of the address has been printed and is in their hands.”
In the mean time Helmer had taken his place at one side of the desk, letting his hand rest on it and surveying the audience. First of all, he looked for Franka. At last he caught sight of her in the corner of her box. He gave her a mute greeting. At that instant Prince Victor Adolph and General Orell entered her box. Franka shook hands with them, but put her finger to her lips, as a sign that they must not speak; then she turned toward the platform. Her heart was beating wildly. She was as deeply agitated as on the evening of her own début. Victor Adolph took his seat behind her.
Helmer made a slight inclination toward the two rulers; then turned to the audience:—
“Fellow-men! The meaning of this address requires an explanation: I am conscious that I am speaking not merely to the small assembly of prominent men and women in this place, but to the world outside. I know that what I am about to say—whether well or ill—will be repeated in type, on human lips, on phonographs, in scientific reviews, in popular assemblies, in the homes of workingmen, in university halls, in all the nooks and corners of the whole civilized world; that it is therefore rightfully addressed to my fellow-men; and what is more: the object itself touches every one personally, no matter to what rank or what land he may belong. Fellow-men, this matter concerns you all alike. Tua res agitur—Humanity! One of the greatest hours of your destiny has struck!”
Franka drew a breath of relief. The speaker’s voice rang out clear and full, and at the same time a restrained fire could be felt under his words, spoken so calmly and with such assurance. Verily, it was the same fire as had inspired her, when he delivered into her hands the shield and spear—Hojo-to-ho—the cry of the Valkyrie!
She turned round to Victor Adolph, who must have understood the mute question in her eyes—“He speaks well, doesn’t he?”—for he nodded affirmatively.
In a somewhat altered tone Helmer went on:—
“‘Alas! corporeal pinions do not so easily correspond to the pinions of the Intellect,’ are the words in Goethe’s ‘Faust.’... The opposite is true. Corporeal pinions we already have, but the spiritual wings have not as yet been found to correspond. Obedient to the will of man, the flying ship soars a thousand metres into the air, but the will itself remains in the depths. High and free, in beautiful premeditated curves, the artfully constructed pinions drive through the pure ether, while far below, enchained, remains the intellect groveling in the dust. By a marvel of technique, the gates into a new age have been boldly forced, but nobody seems to perceive this. The marvel is now only a few years old. During the first week or ten days, tumultuous jubilation, universal astonishment:—‘At last the millennial dream comes true!’ ‘How vast is human genius!’ But after a short while everything goes on as before. No trace of the new age. One further means of locomotion, a new article of commerce, a fresh sport and opportunity for laying wagers, one more childish toy, one weapon more, that is all!
“All respect for so-called human genius, but as far as concerns human imagination—it displays a pitiful feebleness. It ventures a few leaps into the air—a metre or two, like the first flying-machines—models as yet unprovided with motors; but forthwith it sinks back again to the ground. A door into the future forced open: whether from behind it, a golden radiance is to stream, or gloomy clouds are to threaten, people do not see—they have no desire to see. They shrug their shoulders, put on an air of sound common sense, and deny all discussion of future possibilities and revolutions. The matter is left to specialists, and no one any longer takes any interest in it, save as it may affect one’s private business or one’s private satisfaction.
“Above all, the military authorities always take possession of every new invention and it gets specialized into merely technical limits. Any possibility of its use other than for future wars is not taken into consideration, and hence, the more universal points of view, the indirect consequences, are put aside and only the nearest-lying applications are discussed.
“Shortly before the invention of dirigible airships and flying-machines, armies employed captive balloons and balloons driven before the wind; even then there were aeronautic troops—of course nothing more natural than that these should be entrusted as suitable experts with the introduction and maneuvering of the new air-vehicles. This was regarded in military circles as nothing revolutionary; it was simply a small improvement which might be made useful in connection with the existent system of tactics—that is to say, for instance, in reconnaissances. As a weapon also, the thing might come into use, and experiments were, indeed, made in this direction; but that was relegated to the dim future and would never attain any great effective significance, for its certainty of aim was of the very slightest, its radius of efficacy very limited, and by means of perpendicular guns the attack might be easily warded off:—such was the style of appeasement with which the suggestion of adding fleets of airships to the other effective forces was set forth and any wider outlook into the possibilities of the new acquisition was not admitted by government circles. Whenever practical necessity demanded such experiments in actual warfare, why, then they might be made, but it was useless to indulge in fanciful dreams of the future.... And the specialists continued to occupy themselves with present-day tasks, without abandoning the old ways;—as to the future, let it take care of itself.
“At bottom, indeed, it is not the business of various callings, making use of any new discovery, to investigate it in all its aspects; nay, this would even be too much to expect from the inventors themselves. Does the aviator understand very much about the scope of his invention? Occasionally and exceptionally he does, of course—but not because he is an aviator. As such he is a technician or an acrobat. Or, if he wants to make a show of ideal objects, he may be a patriot, and offers his apparatus to the ministry of war. He has no inkling of the fact that he has opened the way into a new epoch in which new conditions of life are to produce a new humanity.
“What these new conditions of life may be, many, indeed, of our clear-sighted contemporaries have already recognized, but it has not as yet penetrated into the common consciousness. On this subject I should like to say something to my fellow-men from the far-echoing tribune on which I stand, and especially to tell them about the mighty alternative that has so suddenly been brought before our race.”
Chlodwig paused. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts for a moment or two. This interval the public utilized for observations and the exchange of views.
Coriolan muttered: “Some such rubbish as that about flying I remember he put forth when he was at the Sielenburg.”
Countess Adele came to the speaker’s defense: “He talks right fluently.”
“I am curious, indeed,” said Prince Victor Adolph to Franka. “Have you any idea what he is aiming at?”
“Certainly, I know Herr Helmer’s line of thought. He has been my instructor.”
“Your instructor?... You have a high opinion of him?”
“Indeed I have.”
The group to which the two Russian widows belonged had not been listening very attentively. Annette Felsen and Minister Rinotti were sitting close together and a scarf falling from Annette’s shoulder had arranged itself so conveniently that under its protection their hands could touch. Perhaps this electric contact was too powerful to allow any other to connect the speaker and these two. M. de la Rochère understood not a word of German, and so any criticism that he might be moved to utter concerned only externalities; but it was a favorable criticism:—
“The man has a fine voice and such intelligent hands! Have you noticed how he pressed the ends of his fingers on the top of the table,—as firmly and vibratingly as if he were table-tipping,—while with his other hand he made such eloquent and gracefully sweeping gestures that one might actually follow the drift of his discourse:—he was evidently speaking of the air in which he drew curves as elegant as those of Latham or Blériot.”
Helmer now proceeded with his address:—
“The making of fire by artificial means and the invention of speech were the first stages in our progress from animal to man. Articulate man belongs, at all events, to another species than did his dumb ancestor. What kind of a species flying man is to represent, only the scientists of the coming centuries will be able to decide. To-day I would merely call your attention to the conditions of social life, in which we can, even now, predict a change. There is, for example, the whole protective system of society, which might be designated as the ‘lateral system,’—for walls, hedges, gratings, shut us off on the sides,—but this now has lost its advantage. Only the places that are covered with a roof are entirely protected, yet we cannot build roofs over all gardens and all stretches of land. There are no more islands either, if by that term we designate a territory isolated by its coast-defenses and by its fleet. Since the day when Blériot sailed over the British Channel, Great Britain ceased to be an island. Like the concept ‘island,’ by means of aviation will also disappear the custom-house of the frontier ... aye, the frontiers themselves.
“Let us pause for a moment and consider that totality of things which bears the name of war: What modification will be likely to ensue in this domain by these new acquisitions? The militarists are quickly ready with their answer: ‘War will simply be carried on simultaneously in the air.’ But the business is not so simple as on the earth and on the water. All the methods of war, we might say, all the rules of the game, are based on the following hypothesis: the two opponents go forth against each other to the borders, try to cross them, try especially to prevent the enemy from crossing them; try to win and to command positions; to march, if possible, against the capital, and if they succeed, then they dictate terms of peace. In order to make this game more difficult, obstacles are erected in time of peace, forts are built along the borders and the soil is undermined; the farther one penetrates into the country, more and more fortifications are found, which must be captured one after the other by the invading army; and, moreover, every village, every farmstead where the belligerents might meet, is made into a stronghold. The game can be supported by sea, when the fleets approach the coast, which must be made more difficult to reach by means of fortifications and submarine mines.
“And now comes the third military arm—that of aviation. For this, the crossing of boundaries is child’s play. Fortifications would no longer be impediments; not merely that they could be blown up by a couple of pyroxin bombs;—they would be simply a negligible quantity. These artificial constructions, with their trenches and walls and casements, have also ceased to be defenses, just as the islands have ceased to be islands. Headquarters, hitherto the safest places, most protected by distance, places where the maps of the country used to be studied, and serving as the center from which the troops were directed, are now the most exposed; for an enemy’s flyer would make it his chief object to fling his explosives down on that particular spot. All the most modern methods of fighting, the concealment behind high-piled earthworks, are henceforth without object; the approach of great army corps offers these air-skirmishers the most favorable circle of trajectory to be imagined—but who will there be to endure this consciousness in addition to all the other hardships of the march? Still more vulnerable to attack from above would be every munition-train.
“The cavalry, which in modern warfare is employed only for recognizances, has become a mere article of luxury through the dirigible balloon, the usefulness of which in the task of spying out the country has been from the very beginning appreciated as its most brilliant service; but the cavalry, when the regiments ride in close order, would offer a fine mark for the troops of the air. But while all the attempts would be made on the ground with the object of penetrating the hostile country, the aerial troops of both armies would already have flown over both capital cities and would be turning them into smoking heaps of ruins. Likewise, a dirigible could in the dead of night glide over the fleet of twenty-five-thousand-ton ships arrayed in battle order, and annihilate it. High in boundless, unobstructed space there is no definite theater of war, no commanding position; consequently the decision of the campaign cannot be transferred into the air. Aerial machines of murder will not march up side by side in line, but each single one will work from up above downward; up above, there is nothing to conquer and nothing to annihilate.
“If now, under these newly created conditions, nations go forth to fight each other as before, it will be just as if two chessplayers should sit down at the board and should say: ‘We will allow the old rules to prevail; the pawn shall be just as valueless; the Knight shall make his jumps; Rook and Queen shall preserve their great power; the King shall have the privilege of “castling”; but we will add a new rule: either of us may throw something on the board from above and upset all the chessmen!’ A beautiful game—that would be—which would fail to please the chessplayers!”
He then added, as if in a parenthesis: “The chessmen fail to be pleased anyhow.”
Some sounds of dissatisfaction were heard in the auditorium. The military men present were expressing their disagreement. “If only civilians would not talk about things of which they haven’t the faintest notion,” remarked a retired colonel to his neighbor.
General Orell had demurred the most indignantly: “All nonsense!”
“I don’t find it so,” replied Victor Adolph.
But no great time was allowed for exchanging opinions, for Helmer now proceeded:—
“The opponents of war—and such I find to-day even in the most influential social positions”—he bowed toward the royal box—“the opponents of war might congratulate themselves that such a war-destroying element has entered into the very apparatus of war; but the chances are that the experiment would bring about a catastrophe involving not the destruction of war, but rather the destruction of civilization.
“In a book, which is the work of a prophet and of a forewarner, H. G. Wells, whose powerful imagination never leaves the solid ground of logic, there is a description of what must become of the present world if once the rain of fire should pour down upon it from out the clouds. Aye, ‘the conquest of the air’—we have little cause for rejoicing over it—conceals the most awful perils.
“And one thing more: What will henceforth be the sense of the term ‘sentinel’? Hitherto, those that were threatened could feel a certain degree of security, by surrounding themselves with a bodyguard; by keeping all the doors and entrances to their palaces and gardens closely watched, night and day; by stationing armed hedges on the right and left, when they went out into the streets; or, if they traveled, by protecting the railway track through its whole length by lanes of soldiers and police; but what will all this avail against assassination from above?
“And altogether: the execution of every act of hatred or revenge will be greatly facilitated and its discovery made more difficult; no police stations can be erected in the upper air, no police dogs could follow the trail; what yesterday was called ‘flight’—then a very difficult and dangerous undertaking—can to-day be taken as a pleasure trip!
“How could one find any traces in the heights above? The aeronautic Sherlock Holmes will offer a new and as yet unexploited subject for detective stories. A winged gendarmerie will first have to be organized; but a great obstacle stands in the way of patrolling space: not only is there the stretch from north to south and from east to west, but also zenithward. The desired point will no longer be crossed only by two lines, but by three. All this must be faced. If really man is a wolf to his fellowman and is bound to remain so, then our enemy, the wolf, by means of our new achievements has got a new and tremendous accretion of strength.”
Helmer made a brief pause. A slight feeling of uneasiness had taken possession of his audience.... What the man was predicting did not seem so rosy! But Helmer passed his hand over his forehead, as if he would drive away a swarm of annoying visions, and then he went on in a louder voice:—
“I do not stand here as a prophet of misfortune. I see the evil, but I also see the cure for it. If new conditions of life are brought forward, if the world around us undergoes changes, then our mode of life must be made to conform to them; for what does not conform goes to destruction. Nature herself accomplishes this process of adaptation by dooming to destruction those who are incapable of conforming. At the present stage of human development, however, we do not need to leave this process to Nature alone: we have reason, we have knowledge, and we have experience: we ourselves can take the work of transformation into our own hands! Nature works slowly and works relentlessly; we can hasten her work, and we can avoid those harsh and pitiless means which Nature employs to bend us under the law of adaptation. So now, we are capable of recognizing the new conditions, the new needs, that grow out of the human conquest of the air. We can estimate what of the old contrivances, of the old forms of thinking, cannot be brought over to the new dawning epoch; we can mentally construct the conditions and principles which might prevail in the altered circumstances; we can strive and we can bring it about, that the necessary conformation shall take place without its involving the method of Nature—‘The destruction of whatever resists.’
“And the formula of the needed action is provided for us by the new acquisition itself: We are already able physically to soar up into the heights—we must do the same thing morally. We must learn to hold dominion over the realm of High Thinking.
“For thousands of years mankind has been dreaming of the possibility of learning to fly. It has so often tried in vain that at last it came to the conclusion that it was impossible. And yet it has been proved to be possible.
“In the same way, and almost even more timidly, mankind has behaved toward those dreams which attributed to human souls the capacity of applying to the intercourse of nations the moral injunctions that have been laid down as law for the behavior of individuals, and of renouncing violence in all its forms. This has been called Utopia.... ‘Man is essentially a wild beast’—they say: ‘only by force can he be tamed, only by force can he be held under restraint, and force has always conducted the fate of nations.’ Well, now, the most utopian of all utopian possibilities—flying—has become a reality. Technical art has won this victory. And must the spirit alone remain forever enchained in the wallowing depths of hatred and brutality? Certainly not!
“Just as soon as human genius shall put forth the same determination, the same assurance, as it has put forth in technical work, for the attainment of moral ideals, it will be likewise victorious. All the technical inventions have had the one end and aim of making life more beautiful, more enjoyable, easier,—in a word, of distributing happiness. But what genuine happiness is possible if all intellectual activities are ever maintained for the purpose of rendering life more unendurable and of destroying it? With his physical capacities, man must grow psychically, else will he become more and more dangerous and wretched instead of growing greater and happier. Now that he has subdued steam and electricity and radium and the Hertzian waves, in order to make existence more comfortable for him, the time has come that he should, with equal confidence and equally firm resolution, try to make serviceable those other forces which also are inherent in the world,—good will, love, reason,—and which alone are fit to endow life with beauty and value.”
A murmur of approbation stirred through the hall. Helmer advanced a step toward the front of the platform and stretched out both his hands:—
“Aye, Good Will! I have uttered there the holiest concept in the universe. For the upward flights of the soul, this is the only motor power—‘Good Will’! If aeronautics and aviation had not discovered the lightest possible motor, they would still have been Utopias. And all endeavors to solve social problems, to bring security and comfort to human society, all attempts to rouse men’s souls into higher spheres, have necessarily failed, for the precise reason that Good Will, Goodness—called weakness by the narrow-minded—has not been made the moving power for the conduct of social and political life. Of course, there are still other splendid qualities, and these are universally upheld as the basis of character and as the motives of noble behavior: courage, determination, intellect, enthusiasm, strength. But there is only one criterion for their inward value and outward valuation—they are worthy and blessed only when they are used in the service of Good Will. The qualities I have named strengthen our activity—they do not ennoble it. There is courage shown in wickedness, determination in cruelty, intellect in malignity, enthusiasm in hatred, and strength in arbitrariness. And in fact, these elicit our admiration, because in the brilliancy of the qualification the abomination of the subject is forgotten.
“I repeat, I am not standing here as a prophet of misfortune; but neither do I stand here as a preacher of virtue. The need is not to educate to goodness, to create and awaken feelings of benevolence; only the goodness which is alive among us men needs to be put into action. There is a field, a vast field embracing almost all social relations, and at its very entrance stands this placard of warning: ‘Goodness and Benevolence are forbidden entrance to this field’—the name of which is: ‘Politics.’
“This placard, put up by folly and stupidity, must be torn down. There must be room even on this, especially on this, field for humanity’s Highest Thinking.
“Some two thousand years ago a great, good, wise spirit put into words a similar High Thought: ‘Love one another.’ But in vain. And some thousands of years ago an Icarus had attempted to fly up to the sun—but in vain. And yet to-day we can fly. And likewise that other lofty realm is to be won—in which not our bodies but our souls are to soar!
“Woe to us if we delay much longer to make ready for this new conquest. Persecution, slavery, and destruction must no longer be regarded as legitimate means for the attainment of social and political ends. For the possibilities of annihilation have grown to be too powerful. There is no other way of self-protection against the flying man than by making him a brother. We are now at the parting of the ways; we must go up higher—up to the highest heights with intellect and heart—sursum corda—or we shall sink into nameless abysses. We must make clear to ourselves whither lead the two paths that lie open before us—for the choice is ours.”
Here again Helmer made a brief pause; then he stepped to the very edge of the platform:—
“Now one further word about thoughts that soar.... The evil does not consist in the fact that men are incapable of cherishing High Thoughts, but in this:—that they have a low opinion of man. Their so-called Worldly Wisdom culminates in their declaring with a scornful face that it is impossible to set up noble and elevated ideals as acting rules for life. He who scents out low and selfish motives back of every really noble word and deed believes that he is wise and keen, that his mind is peculiarly shrewd. Such men are always trying to see through things—they have not learned to look up. Confidence in the good awakens the good. The masses will follow up to that height to which a real leader will venture to lead them; they will never go farther than the leader thinks them capable of going. We have arrived at an epoch when, in spite of the law of gravity, the body can soar to unknown heights. It is beyond the power of the imagination to foresee to what spiritual heights we and our children may attain, when once, with resolution and earnestness, with confidence and enthusiasm, we endeavor to bring about the conquest of High Thinking. The great philosopher who was filled with equal awe before the splendor of the starry heavens and before the Categorical Imperative of his own conscience, Immanuel Kant, anticipated the motto of this Rose-Week when he said—and with this quotation I bring my address to a close:—‘Men cannot think highly enough of man.’”