Office of the President

New Student Convocation — September 4, 1994

He More Greatly Dared

Members of the Carthage Class of 1998! Transfer students in the classes of 1995, 1996, and 1997! Mayor Antaramian! Families and friends of the entering students! Faculty and staff colleagues!

This academic convocation perpetuates a tradition stretching back to the origins of universities in the twelfth century. The caps, gowns, and hoods worn by the faculty carry a language of their own. To the initiated, they communicate both the individual's highest academic degree and the university where it was earned.

As the faculty processed in, the College Organist played the "Academic Festival Overture," which Johannes Brahms composed for just such a convocation as this in Breslau in 1880. In a few minutes, you will hear the song from which Brahms drew his theme, sung today by Greg Berg, but before him by successive generations of your fellow students in Central European taverns across the centuries. There is a lot of history, a lot of symbolism, in what we are doing.

We stage this convocation to welcome you new students, each of you, into college life. We employ old customs to introduce you to a new world — even as your very presence introduces us to the world to come. As we honor you, you focus our attention not on the twelfth century, but on the twenty-first.

On average, you have six decades of life ahead of you. How adventurous do you plan to be? Just how daring are you?

* * * * *

About the time Jesus was a ten- or eleven-year-old boy, the Roman poet Ovid wrote his Metamorphoses, in which he tried to merge into one artistic whole all the stories of classical mythology. In his poem, Ovid left to us antiquity's most graphic portrait of Phaethon, the child of the Sun.

Phaethon was a lad with something to prove. Phaethon's human mother had told him that his father was the sun-god himself, Phoebus Apollo, but Phaethon's friend, another young boy, exclaimed that Phaethon was a fool to believe such a story. Insulted and enraged by the taunt, Phaethon set off to the rising place of the sun in order to determine his parentage for himself.

Entering the palace of the Sun and marching straightway to his father's throne, Phaethon had to halt yet some distance away because of the sheer overpowering radiance of his father. Grouped around Phoebus Apollo in brilliant array "stood Day and Month and Year and Century, and the Hours set at equal distances." Not intimidated in the least, however, Phaethon called out: "Grant me a proof, my father, by which all may know me for thy true son, and take away this uncertainty from my mind."

Gazing upon him, Phoebus Apollo "put off his glittering crown of light, and bade the boy draw nearer." Embracing Phaethon, Phoebus Apollo not only assured the boy of his parentage but also swore by the sacred river Styx that he would grant Phaethon whatever he might request, as evidence of his father's love.

Immediately, Phaethon asked for "his father's chariot, and the right to drive his winged horses for a day." In other words, Phaethon wanted to conduct the sun across the sky. Just as immediately, Phoebus Apollo recoiled in horror and explained to Phaethon that not even the other gods were able to control the horses pulling the chariot of the sun. Only the Sun-God himself could do that. But Phaethon persisted, and Phoebus Apollo was bound by his oath.

Delay was impossible. Dawn was fast approaching, and with it the time for the chariot of the sun to spring up over the horizon and to mount high up into the sky. In a touching detail, Ovid tells us: "Then the father anointed his son's face with a sacred ointment, and made it proof against the devouring flames; and he placed upon his head the radiant crown, heaving deep sighs the while, presaging woe ..."

The horses took off into the sky, and with them Phaethon in the chariot grasping the reins. Almost immediately, the horses sensed that the weight in the chariot was lighter than normal, and the grip on the reins less sure. They bolted out of control and flew in first one direction and then another.

The damage was enormous. After running amuck through the constellations, the horses pulled the chariot down too close to earth, setting much of the land on fire. Then Jove, the father of the gods, looked down on the death and destruction spreading across the earth and impulsively hurled a lightning bolt, striking Phaethon dead.

Hair ablaze, Phaethon fell from the chariot like a shooting star, his corpse landing in a strange river far from home. The frightened horses leapt from the sky, the chariot was wrecked, and the earth was saved. Ovid concludes by imparting heroic proportions to Phaethon's death, recounting the grief and mourning of his father, mother, sisters, and friend. Even Jove had to make a grudging apology before Phoebus Apollo would drive a new chariot of the sun across the sky again.

Without doubt, Ovid relates a fascinating story, gripping in its symbolism and human insight. But what is his point?

In our family, one of our sons whimsically suggests the moral of the story is: "Don't ask to drive the family car." Not foreseeing machines of several hundred horsepower, Ovid himself was content with the epitaph on Phaethon's tombstone: Here Phaeton lies: in Phoebus' car he fared, And though he greatly failed, more greatly dared.

Phaethon was rash, he was headstrong, but he dared to prove he was the child of the Sun.

How greatly will you dare?

At this moment, if you are just sitting, not thinking, not analyzing, not critiquing my words, you are not out of the starting block yet. But perhaps you are saying to yourself: "What is all this to me? How can this man relate an ancient myth of fantastic proportions, and then imply I am supposed to be daring? And what does he mean by 'daring' anyway?" If you are thinking something like that, congratulations. Let's pretend this is a mock class session today. You are already up to a D.

* * * * *

Let me try to bring daring a little closer to our own time. Back on March 20, 1980, out in the state of Washington, the volcano that is Mount St. Helens reawakened after a dormancy of 123 years. The tremors and early small eruptions attracted geologists and volcanologists from across the country. One of them was Dr. David Johnston, aged 30, employed by the United States Geological Survey.

As the mountain continued its moderate rumblings over several weeks, funding for the scientists threatened to run short. On May 3, the Associated Press quoted Dr. Johnston as saying: "We all want to stay. We don't want to be in California, Denver or Virginia if something happens. I even offered to move here."

Then the AP story concluded with the report: "Scientists are particularly concerned with the volcano's bulging north flank, Johnston said, adding that the mile-wide bulge could slide down the mountain into rivers and lakes and cause flooding. The bulge could also indicate lava building up inside the mountain, although none has erupted yet."

Johnston set up his observation post on that north flank, just eight kilometers from the summit. From there, he hoped to use binoculars to examine a bulge building up just below the crater. Finally on the morning of May 18, the radio crackled with his voice, "Vancouver! Vancouver! This is it..." and then went silent. A tremendous blast blew open the side of the mountain, with Johnston directly in the path of the debris. His body was never found. A book about the eruption entitled Earthfire was dedicated to his memory and published "as a tribute to those earth scientists whose labors led to precautions and safeguards that substantially reduced the loss of human life."

Johnston's own family commented that they mourned his death, but rejoiced that when he died, he was doing what he loved.

He more greatly dared. How greatly will you dare?

Now in this mock class session, as you think for yourself and critique my remarks, you may say: "Well, at least I see that he is urging some purpose, some personal and social value to the daring, and not merely espousing mindless risktaking. Still, these are typical Commencement stories, and their practical utility for my life is questionable. Certainly, I don't need to die young like a romantic hero in order to prove my daring." If you are thinking like that, I say congratulations again. You are up to a C in this session.

* * * * *

Let me try one more example even closer to home. Today, it is my great privilege to announce the launching of a national search for the new Clausen Distinguished Professor of International Political Economy.

This new chair is possible because of the generosity of Mr. and Mrs. A. W. Clausen. They also have created a large endowed scholarship fund for Carthage students who will become Clausen Scholars.

After graduating from Carthage in 1944, Mr. Clausen rose to become twice the Chairman and Chief Executive Officer of BankAmerica Corporation, as well as President of the World Bank. For many years, he has been a highly visible leader in world economic affairs. Having grown up in a small farming community in central Illinois, he credits Carthage for giving him his start.

Until his recent retirement, what has not been generally known about Mr. Clausen is that he has suffered for many years from diabetes. He kept that information secret because he did not want his business actions and decisions attributed in any way to his physical illness. He laughs that he became so proficient he could give himself an injection during business negotiations over dinner without anyone ever realizing what he was doing.

But that is not the whole story. The other major recipient of Peggy and Tom Clausen's generosity is the University of California--San Francisco. One of the country's major medical centers, it is home to the doctor who has kept Mr. Clausen alive for many years. Dr. Florsheim is an internationally recognized authority on diabetes. The reason he has devoted his life to studying, researching, and treating diabetes is that he himself, since childhood, has suffered from the disease.

Mr. Clausen and Dr. Florsheim have more greatly dared. How greatly will you dare?

If you are still concentrating in this mock class session, you might say, "Well, OK, there is some daring in overcoming adversity and striving for high achievement useful to others. But I am not the type to lead the country's first or second largest bank, nor do I have any physical disability. Moreover, Campbell is a college president, and you would expect him to cast an illustrious alumnus and major donor in a positive light." In response, all I can say is that if you are that tough-minded, you have risen up to a B in today's session.

* * * * *

In closing, let me tell you about the genesis of this talk. My inspiration today is Professor Bill Miller of the Geography Department, who two years ago suggested the quotation from Ovid as an appropriate theme for a New Student Convocation address. When I discovered widely varying translations of the Metamorphoses, Professor Mark Southern explained to me the positioning of words in Latin hexameter poetry and assured me of the accuracy of "He more greatly dared" as a translation.

In discussing Mount St. Helen's, Professor Elizabeth Murphy remembered another death in that volcanic eruption. It was Tina Eger in the reference division of the Library who found newspaper articles confirming Professor Murphy's memory and mine as well. I could be precise about the events at Mount St. Helen's because of Ms. Eger's work.

My point is simple. I was able to write this speech because of the resources of Carthage College. Had my need for help led in other directions, there would have been many others on the faculty and professional staff upon whose expertise I could have relied.

As new students, your job now is to exploit Carthage resources. They are rich, they are diverse, and they are here for you. It makes little difference whether you already have an intended major. By far the best way you can prepare yourself for the future is to explore all kinds of knowledge. Let me suggest a way we could both deserve an A for today's work. Resolve that in your Carthage years you are going to think for yourself. You are going to let your curiosity and creativity run free. You are going to learn simply for the joy of learning. And you are going to be courageous in your course selections, choosing to study those topics that will best stimulate your growth.

That will be a daring approach to your education. And fortune does favor those who dare.

* * * * *

Back in October 1957 as a college sophomore, I marked some favorite lines in poems by Robert Browning. Having never sold a book, I easily found them for this speech today. Browning wrote:

That low man seeks a little thing to do,
Sees it and does it:
This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.
That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit:
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.

Browning put the same thought more succinctly in another poem:
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's a heaven for?
If you dare greatly and fail a bit, think how much you nevertheless will have achieved. If your reach exceeds your grasp, contemplate how adventurous your life will be.

Welcome to Carthage!