Misfortune
Dublin Core
Title
Misfortune
Subject
speech
Creator
[Unknown]
Source
http://addison.vt.edu/record=b1775388~S1
Publisher
Blacksburg News Print
Date
March 1884
Contributor
Ryan Beck, Jonathan Harding, Roshani Dhamala
Rights
Special Collections, Virginia Polytechnic Institute and State University, Blacksburg, VA.
Format
Text
Language
English
Type
Speech
Identifier
LD5655.V8 L4, ser.2, v.1, no.2 (March 1884), p.5-6
Text Item Type Metadata
Text
VIRGINIA AGRICULTURAL AND MECHANICAL COLLEGE. 5
ORATION
Delivered before the Maury Society.
MISFORTUNE.
Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Maury Society :
The pictures of fancy inevitably carry us far beyond that which can ever become real or possible. In spite of life's stern realities we will indulge her delusive phantoms. The gaudy visions of unknown, unreal perfection and greatness play before the imagination like mirage of the desert, gradually alluring us on, but receding as we approach,and not until the tide of years has furrowed the brow with care, do we perfectly realize its deceptive might. The child upon its mother's knee begins to survey the Elysian fields of to-morrow,and dream of future greatness; the youth attempts to peer far into the distant future, and the Utopian dream of manhood's perfection often steals into his silent revery. But if we were to call forth all the imaginative powers of the soul, and if fancy's creations were to become living realities, they would not, they could not place us upon that height of happiness allotted to man had he continued in his primitive state. He had the approving smile of heaven; not an evil thought had ever grasped his vitals; he had dominion over the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air; no misfortune had attempted to throw its black pall over Eden. Man was truly in Paradise. But alas! the Tempter came, and woman was his first victim. Imagine the wrath of an omnipotent God when, from his gilded throne, he perceived that man, his image, had violated the one, single and only law he had given him. In his wrath he commanded that the serpent should forever crawl upon the earth and that sorrow should be with mankind until the end of the world, He drove man forth from Eden upon the sin-cursed earth, and at "the gate of the garden he placed cherubims with flaming bright swords to keep the way of life." Indeed, man has fallen, sadly fallen from the heights of his original creation. It is distinctly traced in the shattered ruins of his spiritual nature. Man wanders now upon the earth with misfortune upon every hand; it blasts the proudest dreams of the king in his palace and the peasant in his hut.
It takes the strongest will to retain reason on her throne when this impenetrable cloud lingers upon the horizon fringed with its darkest hues. Alexander possessed the greatest intellect of his time. At eighteen he overthrew the sacred band of Thebans; at twenty he ascended the throne, severed the famous Gordian knot, and laid the whole world captive at his feet. No human being ever had a better opportunity of doing immortal deeds. 'Tis true he diffused the language and civilization of Greece wherever victory led him; he gave to Europe the first glimpse of the road to dazzling India,but misfortune numbered his favorite, Hephestion, among the dead; he then sought to drown his trouble in oblivion, plunged headlong into debauchery, and thus passed away one of earth's greatest monarchs. Homer, the father of literature, stands as yet her polar star; Byrons, Shakespeares, and Miltons have erected literary monuments which the lapse of ages confirm as great and perpetual,but the Iliad and the Odyssey stand tower-ing far above and alone in their grandeur, even as the snow-capped Chimborazo to-day looms her white pinnacle beyond her sister peaks. When the author of these matchless verses obeyed the summons that all must hear, no martial host wept beside his bier; no admiring nation wore the sable garments of sorrow, but centuries ago "yon sentinels from their far-off watch houses" cast a few faint gleams upon a ragged
6 THE GRAY JACKET.
beggar; the icy stiffness betokened the presence of death, and God had taken the spirit of the wanderer home. These were the last hours of Homer; misfortune had swept away his all upon earth, and gladly he bade farewell to all trials and sufferings and went to his last home.
No boundary line marks its limits; no clime, no country alone contains it; but hand in hand it traverses the earth wherever man takes up his abode. It is least felt in childhood, but seldom does maturer years elude its grasp. It blasts the hopes of genius and leaves only a blighted, blackened page. Its dark cloud engulfed the pathway of our lamented Poe ere he crossed the threshold into manhood. Three lines of the "Raven" tell his sad story:
By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Though he harkened to the sirens of pleasure and drowned the silent voice of a better nature; though a throng of demons besieged his soul, yet as we clasp the proffered hand and follow him through weird windings to unsealed heights, we stand lost in admiration and sympathy, and can but exclaim how sad that misfortune blighted such a genius, and that
His soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted, never more.
Nations rise upon the surface of the great ocean, casting a phosphorescent gleam heavenward, and, after dropping their contributions into the mystic casket, vanish forever. Only a few smouldering ruins remain to remind us of the civil strife. I do not revert to it to tear open the old wound that is almost healed but only to remind you "how misfortune like a flood swept our fondest hopes away." The camp fire long since cast its last lingering ray upon the gallant
warrior, and those spared from the dreadful carnage have returned to their homes to dream no more of strife. For four long, dark years the evil bird of war hovered over us; on ebon wings he moved athwart the sky and left a bloody mantle behind. But he has winged his flight to other lands, and heaven forbid that he should ever again perch upon the highlands of the East and with a shrill scream that shall echo in the mountains far beyond the "Father of Waters," again bid us rush to arms. All is over; but the lapse of intervening years ring back the cry that a thousand, thousand noble lives were sacrificed in vain upon their country's altar,and that a misfortune swept away what a century cannot replace.
It is an immutable law of our being to center our strongest affections—those tender chords of the soul—on an object we deem worthy; it becomes more lasting, more sacred, more godlike, the worthier be that object. To Him who hurled this shapeless mass into space and afterward created its smiling valleys; who placed that orb of day in the heavens and surrounded it with a host of bright watches, to Him we owe our being, our all. In the rosy morning of youth we each choose our favorite phantom and chase it with fondest hopes till manhood's pride dawns upon us; then the delusive whisper of Hope bids us strive yet a little longer and it shall be ours. Old age begins to usher us into a second childhood, but misfortune lingers even upon the brink of the grave, sweeps our ideals from us and in the evening many a weary soul looks up and exclaims:
I have been to the funeral of all my hopes, And have buried them one by one;
and yet that soft whisper lingers with gentle step by the couch of death, and not until the archangel's trump shall bid millions stand before heaven's chancery, in that sempiternal morn, will the lowering clouds of misfortune vanish from the horizon and the weary, spotless soul enter into its reward.
ORATION
Delivered before the Maury Society.
MISFORTUNE.
Mr. President, and Gentlemen of the Maury Society :
The pictures of fancy inevitably carry us far beyond that which can ever become real or possible. In spite of life's stern realities we will indulge her delusive phantoms. The gaudy visions of unknown, unreal perfection and greatness play before the imagination like mirage of the desert, gradually alluring us on, but receding as we approach,and not until the tide of years has furrowed the brow with care, do we perfectly realize its deceptive might. The child upon its mother's knee begins to survey the Elysian fields of to-morrow,and dream of future greatness; the youth attempts to peer far into the distant future, and the Utopian dream of manhood's perfection often steals into his silent revery. But if we were to call forth all the imaginative powers of the soul, and if fancy's creations were to become living realities, they would not, they could not place us upon that height of happiness allotted to man had he continued in his primitive state. He had the approving smile of heaven; not an evil thought had ever grasped his vitals; he had dominion over the beasts of the field and the fowls of the air; no misfortune had attempted to throw its black pall over Eden. Man was truly in Paradise. But alas! the Tempter came, and woman was his first victim. Imagine the wrath of an omnipotent God when, from his gilded throne, he perceived that man, his image, had violated the one, single and only law he had given him. In his wrath he commanded that the serpent should forever crawl upon the earth and that sorrow should be with mankind until the end of the world, He drove man forth from Eden upon the sin-cursed earth, and at "the gate of the garden he placed cherubims with flaming bright swords to keep the way of life." Indeed, man has fallen, sadly fallen from the heights of his original creation. It is distinctly traced in the shattered ruins of his spiritual nature. Man wanders now upon the earth with misfortune upon every hand; it blasts the proudest dreams of the king in his palace and the peasant in his hut.
It takes the strongest will to retain reason on her throne when this impenetrable cloud lingers upon the horizon fringed with its darkest hues. Alexander possessed the greatest intellect of his time. At eighteen he overthrew the sacred band of Thebans; at twenty he ascended the throne, severed the famous Gordian knot, and laid the whole world captive at his feet. No human being ever had a better opportunity of doing immortal deeds. 'Tis true he diffused the language and civilization of Greece wherever victory led him; he gave to Europe the first glimpse of the road to dazzling India,but misfortune numbered his favorite, Hephestion, among the dead; he then sought to drown his trouble in oblivion, plunged headlong into debauchery, and thus passed away one of earth's greatest monarchs. Homer, the father of literature, stands as yet her polar star; Byrons, Shakespeares, and Miltons have erected literary monuments which the lapse of ages confirm as great and perpetual,but the Iliad and the Odyssey stand tower-ing far above and alone in their grandeur, even as the snow-capped Chimborazo to-day looms her white pinnacle beyond her sister peaks. When the author of these matchless verses obeyed the summons that all must hear, no martial host wept beside his bier; no admiring nation wore the sable garments of sorrow, but centuries ago "yon sentinels from their far-off watch houses" cast a few faint gleams upon a ragged
6 THE GRAY JACKET.
beggar; the icy stiffness betokened the presence of death, and God had taken the spirit of the wanderer home. These were the last hours of Homer; misfortune had swept away his all upon earth, and gladly he bade farewell to all trials and sufferings and went to his last home.
No boundary line marks its limits; no clime, no country alone contains it; but hand in hand it traverses the earth wherever man takes up his abode. It is least felt in childhood, but seldom does maturer years elude its grasp. It blasts the hopes of genius and leaves only a blighted, blackened page. Its dark cloud engulfed the pathway of our lamented Poe ere he crossed the threshold into manhood. Three lines of the "Raven" tell his sad story:
By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore.
Though he harkened to the sirens of pleasure and drowned the silent voice of a better nature; though a throng of demons besieged his soul, yet as we clasp the proffered hand and follow him through weird windings to unsealed heights, we stand lost in admiration and sympathy, and can but exclaim how sad that misfortune blighted such a genius, and that
His soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor,
Shall be lifted, never more.
Nations rise upon the surface of the great ocean, casting a phosphorescent gleam heavenward, and, after dropping their contributions into the mystic casket, vanish forever. Only a few smouldering ruins remain to remind us of the civil strife. I do not revert to it to tear open the old wound that is almost healed but only to remind you "how misfortune like a flood swept our fondest hopes away." The camp fire long since cast its last lingering ray upon the gallant
warrior, and those spared from the dreadful carnage have returned to their homes to dream no more of strife. For four long, dark years the evil bird of war hovered over us; on ebon wings he moved athwart the sky and left a bloody mantle behind. But he has winged his flight to other lands, and heaven forbid that he should ever again perch upon the highlands of the East and with a shrill scream that shall echo in the mountains far beyond the "Father of Waters," again bid us rush to arms. All is over; but the lapse of intervening years ring back the cry that a thousand, thousand noble lives were sacrificed in vain upon their country's altar,and that a misfortune swept away what a century cannot replace.
It is an immutable law of our being to center our strongest affections—those tender chords of the soul—on an object we deem worthy; it becomes more lasting, more sacred, more godlike, the worthier be that object. To Him who hurled this shapeless mass into space and afterward created its smiling valleys; who placed that orb of day in the heavens and surrounded it with a host of bright watches, to Him we owe our being, our all. In the rosy morning of youth we each choose our favorite phantom and chase it with fondest hopes till manhood's pride dawns upon us; then the delusive whisper of Hope bids us strive yet a little longer and it shall be ours. Old age begins to usher us into a second childhood, but misfortune lingers even upon the brink of the grave, sweeps our ideals from us and in the evening many a weary soul looks up and exclaims:
I have been to the funeral of all my hopes, And have buried them one by one;
and yet that soft whisper lingers with gentle step by the couch of death, and not until the archangel's trump shall bid millions stand before heaven's chancery, in that sempiternal morn, will the lowering clouds of misfortune vanish from the horizon and the weary, spotless soul enter into its reward.