Vanderbilt University - Commodore Yearbook (Nashville, TN)

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THE COMETH- 15 where they were most needed. His manner seemed hard and dictatorial, and he was often pronounced an unapproachable man. Nothing could be further Ironi the truth. Those who knew him best realized how delicate were his sympathies, and how tender his feeling. What passed to the outer world for stolidity, or indifference, or pride, was but the magnificent will power of a self-poised man who suffered and rejoiced through a wide range of strong emotion, and who yet had that emotion under perfect control. Among the permanent results into which it has already been said that his work took shape, perhaps the noblest monument to his memory is Vanderbilt University. Without him, it would never have been. More than any other, his guiding hand mapped out its policy, and gave organic form to its various departments. More than any other, his broad shoulders and sagacious brain bore the burden of its vast and varied interests. In a comprehensive and thorough knowledge of the affairs of the University, it will do other great men no injustice to say that he was without an equal. Ilis acquaintance reached from the largest plan of financial endowment or expenditure down to the smallest minutia- of practical administration. His great grasp of mind embraced the general policy of the University, and yet his capacity for details was marvelous. He knew every closet in the buildings of the campus—every shrub on the grounds. Stroll- ing leisurely along the drives or walks, he was ever on the alert to all about him. He seemed almost ubiquitous. “For a man who walks as slowly as he does, he gets to an impossible number of places,” said one who watched his movements. Wherever work was going on, and wherever work was needed, there was he. Shortly after the dastardly attempt to burn the main building had been made, I met him one evening after dark, going toward the gymnasium. I happened to think of the coal-slide in the gymnasium, he said: “it has been left open, and I am going down to close it ui).” Taking a street car at the stile one day, he had scarcely seated himself before he noticed that the clouds were gathering; and, after riding some three hundred yards, he alighted ami walked back. I met him near the main building. “Tell Mr. Douglass to have that hay taken in,” he said; “it is going to rain.” Then he started back to the city—probably to a meeting of the Executive Committee or an important conference with the Treasurer. At another time, when he had just come from holding a consultation with reference to tilling a vacancy in the Faculty, 1 saw him passing along in front of one of the Uni- versity residences then in the hands of the mechanics. As he walked slowly by, his eye caught sight of an unlucky painter who had swung his paint bucket over the eves of the house, and his keen glance detected a stream of dark liquid trickling down upon a

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14 ■ THE COM ET: As an illustration of these two factors in his decisions, may bo quoted his view of those much-abused instruments of civilized introduction, letters of personal recommendation. “Y«s,” he said, not a year ago, “yes, I like to read them. But (what a tremendous emphasis he could give an adversative) they come cheap in these days. I'd rather talk with a man half an hour than read his whole budget of recommendations.” He made mistakes; of course he made them. But it is simply marvelous what a way the almanac had of straightening up those mistakes. His failures had a wonderful knack of reappearing as successes. In conference work ho often surprised even the presiding elders, with whom the bishops were wont to advise on such matters, by mak- ing some unexpected and apparently unsuitable appointment; but many who at that time thought his judgment at fault, afterward acknowledged that events justified his decision. In the exercise of the power committed to his hands as a bishop, he was compelled at times to subject men to inconvenience and hardship. He sometimes saw that it was necessary to sacrifice the one for the good of the many. He took a broad view of church needs and church work. His eye swept the whole field, and he issued his commands from the standpoint of headquarters. He was a much misjudged man. This, to some extent at least, was inevitable. He was placed in a position where every act was closely scrutinized, and fearlessly, 1 might almost say mercilessly, criticized. How well he bore this scrutiny and this criticism, let the mourning Methodist church, from Oregon to Florida, testify. Most of his acts affected numbers of men, and involved conflicting interests. This necessitated disap- pointment and dissatisfaction, and it too often resulted in prejudice and harsh judgment. This prejudice was often intensified by the Bishop’s reserved and secretive caution, together with the unshakable tenacity with which he clung to his decisions when once made. His judgments he would state in the face of an adverse multi- tude; his reasons he would tell to few or none. “Brethren.” his slow reply came to two preachers who had come to his room after conference to intercede in behalf of a fellow-preacher who thought that he had been wronged in his appointment, “I have thought carefully over those appointments; I have taken counsel concerning them; 1 have prayed about them; BUT THEY ABE MADE.” And his two interviewers knew that in those words there was all the emphasis of Gibraltar. Bishop McTveire was often judged by outward appearance—seldom a safe test of motive and character. His very voice and manner belied his real nature. His tones were loud and sonorous, insomuch that the London papers, during his attendance upon the Ecumenical Conference, compared his voice to a foghorn; yet that voice knew how to croon and prattle to a little child, and to whisper words of comfort and strength

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16 THE COMETS white background. Without stopping in his walk, ho raised his stick, and called out: “You are streaking that cornice.” The painter set about remedying the mishap, and the Bishop continued his walk. These little things were characteristic of the man. How many open coal-slides, how much damaged hay, how many spoiled cornices, we might have had but for his watchful care. In a very special sense, ho was the student’s friend. His interest in young men was intense. Memories of his own young manhood made him sympathize with student life. The great burdens he boro gave him little opportunity to know students personally, and yet his range of acquaintance among them was larger than might have been supposed. Many whom he seldom met face to face he knew individually, or through their people at home; for he had treasured up vast stores of memories from the immense number of people whom he had known. A face or a name he rarely forgot. He scanned the matriculation roll carefully aud thoughtfully, and linked its record with the old family circles of other States and other days. With searching penetration into character and thoughtful provision for the future, he looked to the development of young men. He was always inquiring about students—what they were doing, and what they seemed likely to do. To many of them—just how many the world will never know—he extended aid in a very practical shape; and of the generous salary which he received, a large part went, not in extravagant living, but in helping others. A whole life of unselfish gener- osity lies back of that noble sentence in his will, 4i I die poor.” We shall miss him—how much, perhaps wo do not yet realize. We shall miss him from his accustomed work, and his familiar form will never again be seen along his favorite walks around the University; but no man could ask a nobler memorial than the loving hearts he has left behind him, or a grander mausoleum than the waving trees and stately buildings that throw their soft evening shadows across his grave.