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 DISCOURSE. 
 
 Gentlemen, 
 
 There are few occasions, on which we could have been 
 assembled, which would awaken more varied feelings, or 
 possess a more profound interest, than that, which now brings 
 us together. We stand here at the distance of two hundred 
 years, upon the very spot, where stood the first class, having 
 completed their academical course, ready to receive the ear- 
 liest honors of this our parent University. From the pious 
 lips of the first President, whose remains lie in the neigh- 
 bouring churchyard, they received their farewell benediction, 
 — in the presence of the venerable founders of the colony, — 
 amidst the deep shades of the surrounding forests, — and un- 
 der the roof of the simple edifice, first reared to God and the 
 Church in this stranger land. Few, indeed, were they in 
 number, but not faint or faltering in the support of religion 
 and learning. The little Band of Nine may well be presumed 
 upon that occasion to have sought utterance of their own 
 thoughts in the very language of the Governor of the Colony 
 (a short time afterwards) in his appeal to the General Court 
 for aid to the College. "If this work of the College be 
 thought fit to be upheld and continued, as we hope, that con- 
 siderations of the glory of God, the honorable interest of the 
 country, the good of all posterity, and the experience of the 
 benefits and blessings thereof, will constrain all men to say, 
 it is, then something must effectually be done for help in the 
 premises." And that something (said these youths) must be 
 done by us, that we may establish the foundations, and per- 
 petuate the fame, of this Institution. — We are the first-born, 
 
y$& 
 
 and will not dishonor our parentage. Wherever our lots in 
 life may be cast, to this blessed spot will we turn with a holy 
 reverence. For the prosperity of this college shall our daily 
 prayers ascend. Here shall our last thoughts repose. And 
 whatever of earthly honors shall belong to us, to this altar 
 shall they be brought, as the first-fruits of grateful children to 
 the best of mothers. Worthily, indeed, were these vows per- 
 formed. They went forth into the world with undaunted 
 zeal to the great work, and became eminent in the church and 
 the state. Their mouldering relics have, indeed, long since 
 shared the common fate, and returned to the dust. But their 
 good deeds still survive in the memories of good men, and 
 shed a mild and balmy light over the annals of the past, as 
 well as over the honors of the present days. 
 
 And We too, are assembled here, — for the first time, — on 
 an occasion equally worthy of commemoration, and full of 
 responsible duties. We meet to celebrate the first anniver- 
 sary of the society of all the Alumni of Harvard. We meet 
 without any distinction of sect or party, or of rank or profes- 
 sion, in church or in state, in literature or in science. We 
 meet, as a band of brothers, educated in the bosom of the 
 same indulgent parent, and drinking from the same fountain, 
 which has from the beginning poured forth its pure and 
 sparkling streams of knowledge to give life and glory to our 
 land. Our fellowship is designed to be, — as it should be, — 
 of the most liberal and comprehensive character, conceived 
 in the spirit of catholic benevolence, asking no creed but the 
 love of letters, seeking no end, but the encouragement of 
 learning, and imposing no conditions, which may lead to 
 jealousy or ambitious strife. In short, we meet for peace 
 and for union ; to devote one day in the year to academical 
 intercourse and the amenities of scholars. We would shake 
 off from our feet the dust, gathered, not only in the by-ways 
 and highways of life, but in the fervid race for public distinc- 
 tion. We would lay aside for the hour, the garlands and the 
 palms, and the emblems of victory. ViriUesque Corona, et 
 Palmce pretium victorious. 
 
We would enter this temple with hearts overflowing with 
 grateful recollections of the past, and earnest hopes of the 
 future. We would lay upon this family altar our tribute of 
 affection, and celebrate with our whole hearts the birthday 
 of our matriculation. Salve, — magna Parens, — magna 
 Virum. 
 
 Under such circumstances I am but too conscious of my 
 own inability to perform the duties assigned to me in a man- 
 ner, suited to the dignity of the occasion. It would have been 
 far more grateful to me, that the task should, according to your 
 first choice, have been executed by your venerable President, 
 whose ripe scholarship, and rare endowments, and intellectual 
 energy, have so long attracted the public admiration. He 
 seems, indeed, to form the connecting link between the pres- 
 ent and the past, standing, as it were, upon the verge of that 
 dim twilight of life, where the twinkling stars, in our cata- 
 logue, alternately appear, and vanish, as the shades of the 
 evening shut down upon the passing generations. Sic itu** 
 ad Astra. 
 
 I am conscious, also, in whose presence I stand, and whose 
 instructed judgments I am called upon to address. I see 
 before me the veterans, who, having won the laurels of their 
 day, seek now in retirement to enjoy the dignity and repose of 
 learned leisure. I see before me those, who occupy the high 
 ranks of professional life. The venerable ministers of the 
 Gospel, whose critical spirit has illumined the dark passages 
 of Scripture, and given new vigor to the sublime truths of 
 religion. I see the professors of the medical art, whose gen- 
 ius has curiously studied the maladies of our race, and whose 
 skill has administered succour to thousands, who were ready 
 to perish. I see the jurists, who, in the judgment-seat, or at 
 the bar, have applied their profound knowledge to the support 
 of the civil institutions of society, to the protection of inno- 
 cence, to the fearless vindication of right, and to the triumph 
 of justice over popular clamor and political cabal. I see the 
 statesmen, whose enlarged and comprehensive minds have 
 maintained the glorious struggle for the support of the princi- 
 
6 
 
 pies of the Constitution, which may, if any thing human can, 
 perpetuate the blessings of liberty, and save us from becoming 
 a byword and reproach among the nations of the earth. 1 see 
 the elegant and quiet scholars, who have given their days 
 and nights to illustrate the annals of the past, or imparted a 
 warm and sunny glow to the literature of the present. I see 
 the ambitious youth, who, having completed their preparatory 
 studies, stand at the starting-post of the course, impatient of 
 delays, and panting for the toils and the rewards of the victo- 
 ries of life The Olympic dust has not as yet even soiled their 
 sandals. Nor can they as yet feel the force of that solemn 
 admonition. " Let not him, that girdeth on his harness, boast 
 himself, as he that putteth it off." 
 
 It is, I repeat it, under such circumstances, that I feel with 
 unaffected sensibility the difficulties of the task, which I have 
 assumed. Amidst a crowd of topics, which rush upon the 
 mind, I would fain select some one, not unworthy the inter- 
 ests and associations of the occasion. After some hesitation 
 nothing has occurred to me more appropriate, than some sug- 
 gestions on the dangers and difficulties and duties of scholars 
 in our own age, and especially in our own country. 
 
 If I were called upon to say, in one word, what constitutes 
 the predominant danger of our day, I should say, that it is 
 the tendency to ultraism of all sorts, and in all directions. In 
 all ages there have probably been found among men of letters 
 three distinct classes in opposition to each other. But never 
 until our day have the lines of separation between them been 
 so broad, and so sharply denned. These classes are, — The 
 lovers of the past, — the devoted admirers of the present, — 
 the enthusiastic prophets of the future. It is of course, that 
 the world of letters, like the natural world, should appear un- 
 der very different aspects and relations to each of these class- 
 es. The antiquarian dwells with intense pleasure upon the 
 olden times, as at once their historian and eulogist. He lives, 
 as it were, among the dead, and esteems it his highest priv- 
 ilege to remember the forgotten, and to chisel deeper the in- 
 scriptions upon the tombs of the renowned. He gathers up 
 
the dilapidated fragments with a holy reverence, and finds in 
 each of them the ruins of a lofty mind, more precious, because 
 it is rescued from the remorseless hand of modern improve- 
 ment, and speaks, in its broken language, the voice of depart- 
 ed ages. On the other hand, the fond admirer of the passing 
 literature of the day deems little else worthy of his notice, 
 and contemplates former works, but as faded pictures, left to 
 moulder on the walls, or at best, as serving to show the preju- 
 dices, or follies, or defects of taste of bygone times. And, 
 again, the man of ardent temperament, regardless of the known 
 and the tangible, casts his keen glances through the obscuri- 
 ties of the future, and prophesies the surpassing grandeur of 
 the days to come, when new revelations of the human soul 
 shall be unfolded, and new truths be proclaimed, which phi- 
 losophy itself, in its boldest flights, has never yet dreamed of. 
 He sees, that, after the lapse of nearly six thousand years, 
 Man is but in the infancy of his being ; — that he has learned 
 little, which might not as well be forgotten ; — that the lights, 
 which have hitherto guided him, are not from heaven, but false 
 and delusive phantoms, which have led him astray; — that he 
 has yet to learn how to live, as well as how to die ; — and 
 that this instruction is to be sought, not in the meditations 
 and writings of the great minds of other ages, but in the 
 depths and communings of his own spirit. 
 
 Now, I say, that these three classes of opinions, which, 
 to some extent, have probably prevailed in all the epochs of 
 literature^ have acquired an unnatural impulse and acceleration 
 in our day, from the vast powers of a free press, and the con- 
 centrated influences of a wide-spread education. If this state 
 of things is to continue ; if these three classes of opinions are 
 to flow on in separate, yet neighbouring channels ; if they are 
 to divide and distract the public mind and conduct ; it is plain, 
 that there is no small danger to the cause of solid learning, 
 sound religion, and social institutions. Divide and conquer, 
 is the cunning maxim of tyrants, in order to accomplish their 
 nefarious purposes.' But in the republic of letters the same 
 rule must nourish factions at war with its safety and its ad- 
 
8 
 
 vancement. If, for example, the human mind, (as we are 
 sometimes proudly informed,) has never yet grappled with the 
 great truths belonging to its character and destiny ; if neither 
 history, nor experience, nor philosophy, have hitherto even 
 reached the vestibule of those inquiries, which are to guide 
 us in the business of life, — in the affairs of government, — 
 in the principles of public policy, — in the developement of 
 national interests and resources, — in the foundations of morals 
 and religion, — or (passing from these to less grave topics) if 
 genius has never yet affixed the true value or importance to 
 any of its own achievements in art, or science, or learning ; 
 and the mastery of its powers, as well as its means of excel- 
 lence, are yet to be searched out, as unknown quantities ; — 
 then, indeed, as it seems to me, man has lived in vain, and 
 disquieted himself in vain. We can give no pledges of suc- 
 cess in our present efforts, which former ages have not given. 
 We can offer no securities, which may not hereafter crumble 
 away, like the fabrics, which they reared only to perish, or 
 left, as monumental ruins, to instruct us in the meanness of 
 the end, compared with the magnitude of the labor. 
 
 Considerations not less discouraging must arise, if either of 
 the other two extremes of opinion are to possess an enduring 
 influence. The truth is, that the past is not every thing; nor 
 the future every thing ; nor the present every thing. The 
 intellect of man is now neither in its infancy, nor in its de- 
 crepitude. Human knowledge, — whether it be for ornament 
 or use, — for pleasure or instruction, — is the accumulation of 
 the wisdom and genius of all ages, and is, like the ocean, com- 
 posed of contributions from infinitely various sources, whose 
 currents have mingled together from the beginning, and must 
 continue so to do to the end of time. Sound the depths, as 
 you may, they will be found not entirely the same, nor entire- 
 ly different. The shoals and the quicksands may be removed 
 from one side ; but they have often only shifted to the other. 
 The waters may have become more clear and transparent in 
 some parts ; but at the same time more turbid, and shallow in 
 others. The general level has not materially changed in 
 
9 
 
 height or the current in its breadth, although occasional tides 
 may have ebbed and flowed with irregular and sometimes 
 desolating power. In some places the alluvial deposits have 
 buried the ancient landmarks ; while in others they have been 
 worn away, or submerged. So, in some measure, has it been 
 with the history of the human mind. What has been gained 
 in one direction, has been almost simultaneously lost in anoth- 
 er. The known of one age has become the obscure of the 
 next, and the lost of the succeeding. The favorite pursuits 
 and 'studies of one age have sunk into insignificance or neg- 
 lect in another. The value, as well as the interest, of partic- 
 ular researches has fluctuated with the passions, and the 
 theories and the fashions of the day. And while each succes- 
 sive generation has imagined itself to stand upon the shoulders 
 of all, that preceded them, and flattered itself with the belief, 
 that it surveyed all things with a more comprehensive power, 
 and a less obstructed vision, it has forgotten, that on every 
 side there is a natural boundary to the intellectual horizon, at 
 which every object becomes obscure, or evanescent ; and that, 
 just in proportion, as we advance in one direction, we may be 
 receding from well-defined and fixed lines of light in the 
 other. 
 
 I have said, that the tendency in our day is to ultraism of 
 all sorts. I am aware, that this suggestion may appear to 
 some minds of an easy good-nature, or indolent confidence, to 
 be overwrought, or too highly colored. But unless we choose 
 voluntarily to blind ourselves to what is passing before our 
 eyes in the daily intercourse of life, it seems to me impossible 
 not to feel, that there is much, which demands severe scruti- 
 ny, if not serious alarm. I meddle not here with the bold, and 
 yet familiar speculations upon government, and polity, upon 
 the fundamental changes and even abolition of constitutions, 
 or upon the fluctuating innovations of ordinary legislation. 
 These might, of themselves, furnish out exciting themes for 
 public discussion, if this were a fit occasion to introduce them. 
 I speak rather of the interests of letters, — of the common 
 cause of learning, — of the deep and abiding principles of 
 
 2 
 
10 
 
 philosophy. Is it not painfully true, that the spirit of the age 
 has broken loose from the strong ties, which have hitherto 
 bound society together by the mutual cohesions and attrac- 
 tions of habits, manners, institutions, morals, and literature ? 
 It seems to me, that what is old is no longer a matter of rev- 
 erence or affection. What is established, is not on that account 
 esteemed positively correct, or even salutary or useful. What 
 have hitherto been deemed fundamental truths in the wide 
 range of human experience and moral reasoning, are no longer 
 admitted as axioms, or even as starting-points, but at most are 
 propounded only as problems, worthy of solution. They are 
 questioned, and scrutinized, and required to be submitted to 
 jealous proofs. They have not even conceded to them the 
 ordinary prerogative of being presumed to be true, until the 
 contrary is clearly shown. In short, there seems to me, at 
 least, to be abroad a general skepticism, — a restless spirit of 
 innovation and change, — a fretful desire to provoke discus- 
 sions of all sorts, under the pretext of free inquiry, or of com- 
 prehensive liberalism. And this movement is to be found not 
 merely among illiterate and vain pretenders, but among minds 
 of the highest order, which are capable of giving fearful im- 
 pulses to public opinion. We seem to be borne on the tide of 
 experiment with a rash and impetuous speed, confident, that 
 there is no risk in our course, and heedless, that it may make 
 shipwreck of our best hopes, and spread desolation and ruin 
 on every side, as well on its ebb, as its flow. The main 
 ground, therefore, for apprehension is not from undue rever- 
 ence for antiquity, so much as it is from dreamy expectations 
 of unbounded future intellectual progress ; and, above all, from 
 our gross over-valuation and inordinate exaggeration of the 
 peculiar advantages and excellences of our own age over all 
 others. This last is, so to say, our besetting sin ; and we 
 worship the idol, carved by the cunning of our own hands, 
 with a fond and parental devotion. To this cause, I think, 
 may be "chiefly attributed that bold, not to say reckless spirit 
 of speculation, which has of late years spread itself with such 
 an uncompromising zeal over our whole country. It is not 
 
11 
 
 indigenous to our soil ; nor does it belong to the sober sagaci- 
 ty and patient judgment of the Anglo-Saxon race. There 
 are many even among the educated classes, and far more 
 among the uneducated, who imagine, that we see now, as men 
 never saw before, in extent, as well as in clearness of vision ; 
 that we reason, as men never reasoned before ; that we have 
 reached depths and made discoveries, not merely in ab- 
 stract and physical science, but in the ascertainment of the 
 moral and intellectual powers of man, and the true structure 
 and interests of government and society, which throw into 
 comparative insignificance the attainments of past ages. We 
 seem to ourselves to be emerging (as it were) from the dark- 
 ness of bygone centuries, — whose glow-worm lights " show 
 the matin to be near, and 'gin to pale their ineffectual fires," 
 before our advancing radiance. We are almost ready to per- 
 suade ourselves, that their experience is of little value to us ; 
 that the change of circumstances is so great, that what was 
 wisdom once, is no longer such ; that it served well enough 
 for the day ; but that it ought not now to be an object of de- 
 sire, or even of commendation. 
 
 Nay, the comparison is sometimes eagerly pressed of our 
 achievements in literature with those of former ages. Our 
 histories are said to be more philosophical, more searching, 
 more exact, more elaborate than theirs. Our poetry is said to 
 surpass theirs in brilliancy, imaginativeness, tenderness, ele- 
 gance, and variety, and not to be behind theirs even in sub- 
 limity, or terrific grandeur. It is more thoughtful, more natu- 
 ral, more suggestive, more concentrated, and more thrilling 
 than theirs. Our philosophy is not, like theirs, harsh, or 
 crabbed, or irregular ; but wrought out in harmonious and 
 well-defined proportions. Our metaphysical systems and 
 mental speculations are, (as we flatter ourselves,) to endure 
 for ever, not merely as monuments of our faith, but of truth, 
 while the old systems must fall into ruins, or merely furnish 
 materials to reconstruct the new, — as the temples of the 
 gods of ancient Rome serve but to trick out or ornament the 
 modern churches of the Eternal City. Ay, — and it may 
 
12 
 
 be so. But, who will pause, and gaze on the latter, when 
 his eyes can fasten on the gigantic forms of the Coliseum, or 
 the Pantheon, or the Column of Trajan, or the Arch of Con- 
 stantine ? " It was among the ruins of the Capitol," (said the 
 historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,) 
 " that I first conceived the idea of a work, which has amused 
 and exercised near twenty years of my life, and which, 
 however inadequate to my own wishes, I finally deliver to 
 the curiosity and candor of the public." Among the ruins of 
 the Capitol ! He felt, indeed, that history was philosophy, 
 teaching by example. He was willing to devote a whole 
 life to the study of the dead, that he might learn, how to 
 instruct posterity in their dangers and their duties. 
 
 May I not stop for a moment, and ask if there is not much 
 delusion and error in this notion of our superiority over 
 former ages ; and if there be, whether it may not be fatal to 
 our just progress in literature, as well as to the permanent 
 interests of society ? I would not ask those, who entertain 
 such opinions, to accompany me back to the days of Aristotle 
 and Cicero, whose works on the subject of government and 
 politics alone have scarcely received any essential addition 
 in principles or practical wisdom down to this very hour. 
 Who, of all the great names of the past, have possessed so 
 profound an influence and so wide an authority for so long a 
 period ? If time be the arbiter of poetical excellence, whose 
 fame is so secure as that of Homer and Virgil ? Whose his- 
 tories may hope to outlive those of Thucydides and Tacitus ? 
 But I would limit myself to a far narrower space, to the 
 period of the two centuries, which have elapsed since our 
 ancestors emigrated to America. Survey the generations, 
 which have since passed away, and let us ask ourselves, what 
 have been their literary labors and scientific attainments ? 
 What the productions of their genius and learning ? What 
 the amount, which they have contributed, to ameliorate the 
 condition of mankind, — to lay deep and broad the founda- 
 tions of Theology and Jurisprudence and Medicine, — to es- 
 tablish and illustrate the principles of free governments and 
 
13 
 
 international law, — and to instruct, as well as amuse, the 
 leisure, and to refine the taste of social life ? Unless I greatly 
 mistake, a calm survey of this whole matter would convince 
 every well-balanced mind, that, if we may claim something 
 for ourselves, we must yield much to the scholars of those 
 days. We shall find, that much of our own fruits have been 
 grafted on the ancient stocks. That much of what we now 
 admire is not destined for immortality. That much, which 
 we deem new, is but an ill-disguised plunder from the old 
 repositories. And, that much, which we vaunt to be true, 
 consists of old fallacies, often refuted and forgotten, or of 
 unripe theories, which must perish by the wayside, or be 
 choked by other weeds of a kindred growth. 
 
 The truth is, that no single generation of men can accom- 
 plish much of itself or for itself, which does not essentially 
 rest upon what has been done before. Whatever may be the 
 extent or variety of its labors, and attainments, much of 
 them will fail to reach posterity, and much, which reaches 
 them, will be felt, not as a distinct formation, but only as 
 component ingredients of the general mass of knowledge. 
 Many of the immortals of one age cease to be such in the 
 next, which succeeds it ; and, at best, after a fitful season of 
 renown, they quietly pass away, and sleep well in the com- 
 mon cemetery of the departed. What is present is apt to be 
 dazzling and imposing, and to assume a vast importance over 
 the distant and the obscure. The mind in its perspective 
 becomes affected by the like laws as those of the natural 
 vision. The shrub in the foreground overtops the oak, that 
 has numbered its centuries. The hill under our eye looms 
 higher than the snowy Alps, which skirt the edge of the 
 horizon. 
 
 But let us subject this matter to a little closer scrutiny, and 
 see, if the annals of the two last centuries alone do not suffi- 
 ciently admonish us of the mutability of human fame, as well 
 as of that of human pursuits. What a vast amount of intel- 
 lectual power has been expended during that period, which 
 is now dimly seen, or entirely forgotten. The very names of 
 
14 
 
 many authors have perished, and the titles of their works are 
 to be gathered only from the dusty pages of some obscure 
 catalogue. What reason can we have to suppose, that much 
 of our own labors will not share a kindred fate ? — But, turn- 
 ing to another and brighter part of the picture, where the 
 mellowing hand of time has touched with its finest tints the 
 varying figures. Who are there to be seen, but Shakspeare, 
 and Milton, and Bacon, and Locke, and Newton, and Cud- 
 worth and Taylor and Barrow, not to speak of a host of 
 others, whose works ought to be profoundly studied, and 
 should illustrate every library. I put it to ourselves to say, 
 who are the men of this generation, to be brought into com- 
 parison with these, in the extent and variety of their labors, 
 the powers of their genius, or the depth of their researches ? 
 Who of ourselves can hope to exercise an influence over the 
 human mind as wide-spread as theirs ? Who can hope to do 
 more for science, for philosophy, for literature, for theology, 
 than they ? I put the argument to our modesty, whether we 
 can dispense with the products of their genius, and wisdom 
 and learning ; or may cast aside their works, as mere play- 
 things for idlers, or curiosities for collectors of the antique ? 
 
 I have but glanced at this subject. It would occupy a 
 large discourse to unfold it in its various bearings and conse- 
 quences. But the strong tendency of our times to disregard 
 the lessons and the authority of the past must have any thing 
 but a salutary effect upon all the complicated interests of 
 literary as well as social life. It not only loosens and dis- 
 joints those institutions, which seem indispensable to our 
 common happiness and security ; but it puts afloat all those 
 principles, which constitute, as it were, the very axioms of 
 all sound philosophy and literature. In no country on earth 
 is the danger of such a tendency so pregnant with fearful 
 results as in our own : for it nurses a spirit of innovation and 
 experiment and oscillation, which leaves no resting-place for 
 sober meditation or permanent progress. It was the striking 
 remark of an acute observer of the human mind, that " He, 
 who sets out with doubting, will find life finish, before he 
 
15 
 
 becomes master of the rudiments ; " and that " He, who 
 begins by presuming on his own sense, has ended his studies, 
 as soon as he has commenced them." * 
 
 But another danger in our age, and especially in our coun- 
 try, of no small extent, although certainly of a subordinate 
 character, is the vast predominance of the taste for light read- 
 ing and amusing compositions over that for solid learning and 
 severe and suggestive studies. This has been gradually upon 
 the increase ever since the commencement of the present cen- 
 tury, and has become not only the fashion, but I may say, the 
 passion of the day. It has been fostered by, and in its turn 
 it has administered to, our periodical literature, which, from 
 small beginnings, has at length accumulated to such a mass, 
 as threatens to overwhelm all the other departments of litera- 
 ture and bury them under its avalanches. Novels and 
 romances, and other exciting fictions, increase upon us with a 
 fearful rapidity, and, in conjunction with periodicals, constitute 
 the staple of nearly all the reading of the reading public. 
 They are circulated in prodigious numbers through the cheap 
 weekly and penny press. They are found with all the 
 studied attractions and ornaments of letter press and engrav- 
 ing upon the centre-tables of the refined and wealthy, piled 
 up with a gay and varied profusion. They line the saloons 
 of our hotels and boarding houses. They fly on our railroads, 
 and swim in our steamboats, with a dazzling and almost dizzy 
 activity. Not a passenger-ship crosses the Atlantic, which 
 is not freighted with the wet sheets of the last weekly or 
 monthly, or quarterly, or the last story of the Jameses and 
 Blessingtons and Bulwers. And, thanks to our good stars, 
 sometimes they bring also, for our refreshment and delight, 
 the thrilling pathos, and touching humor, of that marvellous 
 genius of all work, the author of the " Old Curiosity Shop." 
 
 The consequence is, what might naturally be expected, 
 that many of our best minds, and especially those, who pant 
 for early distinction, devote all their thoughts and all their 
 time to labors of this sort. They are seduced by the eager 
 
 * Sir Joshua Reynolds, Discourses, p. 15. 
 
16 
 
 appetite of the public for novelty, and the ready returns both 
 of money and reputation, to abandon more serious and less 
 attractive studies. They turn with indifference or disgust 
 from topics, which require profound investigation or severe 
 criticism. They become impatient of the slow progress to- 
 wards excellence, and of the long and cold researches, which 
 satisfied the desires of the men of other days, who were 
 content to bide their time, and await the award of posterity. 
 They seek not to build the lofty poetry, which shall speak 
 to the hearts of a thousand generations. They meditate 
 not those high enterprises in philosophy, in history, in the- 
 ology, or in jurisprudence, which, when once accomplished, 
 will live on and instruct mankind, when the spot, which 
 covers the ashes of their authors, shall be forgotten or ob- 
 literated from the records of time. They seek the ribands 
 and the wreaths, and the shouts of applause of the passing 
 crowd, and forget that they are not fame, — but, at best, 
 mere glitter and show and sound. They come as shadows, 
 and as such they will assuredly depart. The white foam of 
 the combing billow dies away at the moment, when it breaks 
 upon the shore. But the depths of the ocean remain undis- 
 turbed and noiseless ; for they belong to the things of eter- 
 nity. 
 
 Who, that looks around him does not perceive, what a vast 
 amount of the intellectual power and energy of our own 
 country is expended, not to say exhausted, upon temporary 
 and fugitive topics, — upon occasional addresses, — upon light 
 and fantastic compositions, — upon manuals of education, and 
 hand-books of instruction, — upon annotations and excerpts, 
 and upon the busy and evanescent discussions of politics, 
 which fret their hour upon the stage, or infest the halls of 
 legislation. Need we be told, that honors thus acquired, melt 
 away at the very moment, when we grasp them ; that some 
 new wonder will soon usurp their place ; and, in its turn, will 
 be chased away or dissolved by the next bubble or flying me- 
 teor. I know, that it has sometimes been said, that " Nothing 
 popular can be frivolous ; and that what influences multitudes 
 
17 
 
 must be of proportionate importance." * A more dangerous 
 fallacy, lurking under the garb of philosophy, could scarcely 
 be stated. There would be far more general truth in the 
 statement of the very reverse proposition. We construct all 
 sorts of machinery for the ready diffusion of science, and the 
 circulation of philosophy. Our lecture rooms and lyceums 
 are crowded, day after day, and night after night, with those, 
 who seek instruction without labor, and demand improve- 
 ment without effort. We have abundance of zeal and abun- 
 dance of curiosity enlisted in the cause, with little aim at 
 solid results or practical ends. It seems no longer necessary, 
 in the view of many persons, for students to consume their 
 midnight lamps in pale and patient researches, — or in com- 
 muning with the master spirits of other days, — or in interro- 
 gating the history of the past, — or in working out, with a 
 hesitating progress, the great problems of human life. An 
 attendance upon a few courses of lectures upon science, or 
 art, or literature, amidst brilliant gas lights, or brilliant ex- 
 periments, or brilliant discourses of accomplished rhetoricians, 
 are deemed satisfactory substitutes for hard personal study, in 
 all the general pursuits of life. Nay, the capital stock thus 
 acquired may be again retailed out to less refined audiences, 
 and give ready fame and profit to the second-hand adventurer. 
 It is an old saying, that there is no royal road to learning ; 
 and it is just as true now, as it was two thousand years ago. 
 Knowledge, deep, thorough, accurate, must be sought, and 
 can be found, only by strenuous labor, not for months, but for 
 years ; not for years, but for a whole life. What lies on the 
 surface is easily seen, and easily measured. What lies below 
 is slowly reached, and must be cautiously examined. The 
 best ore may often require to be sifted and purified. The 
 diamond slowly receives its polish under the hands of the 
 workman, and then only gives out its sparkling lights. The 
 very marble, whose massy block is destined to immortalize 
 some great name, reluctantly yields to the chisel ; and years 
 
 # See Sir J. Mackintosh's Life, Vol. I. p. 13 J. 
 3 
 
18 
 
 must elapse before it becomes (as it were) instinct with life, 
 and stands forth the breathing image of the original. To 
 sketch the outlines of Hallam's noble Introduction to the 
 History of Modern Literature, required studies so vast and 
 various, that the libraries of all America would not at this 
 very moment furnish the means of consulting, far less of 
 mastering, the original authors. And yet we are apt to ima- 
 gine, that few books need now be read in order to reach the 
 depths of any art or science. 
 
 The consciousness of this very state of public opinion can- 
 not but operate as a discouragement upon sensitive minds, and 
 weaken their ambition for the attainment of high excellence. 
 But, above all, that, which, as I think, hangs with the dead- 
 liest weight upon the literary enterprise of American authors, 
 is (what has been already alluded to) the perpetual necessity 
 of catering to the false taste and morbid appetite of the mass 
 of readers for temporary excitement, or for indolent amuse- 
 ment. How few, comparatively speaking, are found among 
 our scholars, who devote their lives to the study of some great 
 subject, with a view to embody their thoughts and acquire- 
 ments, so that they may belong to the literature of future 
 ages. How few are there, who can see, without dismay, the 
 accumulation of materials around them, upon the mastery of 
 which they are to found their own fame. How few can, with 
 a calm and quiet consciousness of their own merit, see volume 
 after volume fall from the press almost without notice or patron- 
 age, and yet be content to wait, until the voice of praise reaches 
 them from a distance, — from the closets of the learned, and 
 the schools of the philosophers. Speaking of the first volume 
 of his great History of England, Mr. Hume, with quiet mod- 
 esty, remarked ; " My bookseller told me, that in a twelve- 
 month he sold only forty-five copies. I scarcely heard of one 
 man in the three kingdoms, considerable for rank or letters, 
 that could endure the book." But with the pride of a great 
 mind, some years afterwards, he added ; " I see many symp- 
 toms of my literary reputation's breaking out at last with ad- 
 ditional lustre." What a cheering, what an impressive ex- 
 ample ! 
 
19 
 
 I rejoice to say, that there are scholars in our country, who 
 have avoided the beaten and dusty paths of every-day reputa- 
 tion, and have been willing to labor, — unseen and unheeded, 
 — for a more enduring distinction. And they have glorious- 
 ly won the prize. There are historians, and biographers, and 
 mathematicians, and painters, and sculptors, and poets, and 
 divines, who have been content for years to live on hopes, 
 nourished in their own bosoms, or whispered only by the gen- 
 tle spirit of private friendship, while they have been toiling 
 for immortality. Meanwhile the press has rung its merry 
 peals throughout the continent, for the favorites of the day. 
 And where are these favorites now ? They have perished, 
 and their very names have died away, like the memory of an 
 echo. There is a fine remark of Lord Bacon,* that " He, 
 that seeketh to be eminent among able men, hath a great 
 task ; but that is ever good for the public. But he, that plots 
 to be only the figure among cyphers, is the decay of a whole 
 age." 
 
 And then again another danger, following close in the train 
 of that, which I have been considering, is the feverish ambi- 
 tion for an artificial structure of style in all classes of compo- 
 sition. We no longer relish the quiet, easy, and idiomatic 
 tones of the olden literature. The flowing grace and simpli- 
 city of Addison, — the terse yet transparent style of Swift, — 
 the natural yet elegant diction of Goldsmith, — the playful 
 humor, and colloquial familiarity of Lamb, mixed up with 
 deep reflections, and occasionally sprinkled with quaint phra- 
 seology, — these are no longer in the possession of the public 
 favor. If they are not deemed dull, they are passed by with 
 indifference. They are more often praised, than they are read. 
 They hold, indeed, a certain conventional rank j but it is more 
 as a matter of courtesy to escape debate, than of sincere love 
 of what is true or beautiful. We require a more intense and 
 exciting style, — strong and animated language, — sudden 
 and vivid contrasts, — abrupt changes, and unexpected turns 
 
 * 2 Bacon's Works, p. 345. 
 
20 
 
 of thought, — high coloring, and wild, and, (it may be,) start- 
 ling figures of speech. And so that the story tells, and the 
 narrative flies on, or the satire scorches, or the humor is broad- 
 cast in its lights, we are quite content, that the composition 
 should be any sort of mosaic work, — interlaid with scraps of 
 poetry, or prose, — the classical or the new, — the quaint or 
 the legendary, — the cant phrases of Prance or the mystical 
 combinations of Germany. Everywhere we miss the raciness 
 and richness of the Anglo-Saxon idiom, and even the ponder- 
 ous vigor of the Roman roots forced into the native soil. To 
 borrow the language of an eminent critic ; " The grand de- 
 fect is the want of repose, — too much and too ingenious re- 
 flection, — too uniform an ardor of feeling. The understand- 
 ing is fatigued ; the heart ceases to feel."* 
 
 And this again nourishes that dangerous facility of writing, 
 which is one of the most alluring temptations, and at the same 
 time the most insidious foe of genius. He, who can throw 
 off in a few hours the brilliant passages of his own mind 
 upon transitory or local topics, and become the artificer of the 
 leading article of a review, or miscellany, or annual, that 
 flowers, and flourishes, and fades within the year ; — He who 
 puts forth his hasty pamphlet, upon the engrossing interest or 
 stirring politics of the day ; — He earns his passing fame with 
 an easy promptitude, and may circulate freely among the wits 
 of the club, and the coteries of the drawing-room. He, who 
 writes well enough to please, and pleases well enough to be 
 paid, as well as to be read, is but too apt to forget, that nothing 
 valuable is suddenly acquired ; that what is enduring must be 
 costly, in time, in labor, in design, in intellectual effort. The 
 veriest tyro in colors can paint a picture with lights and 
 shades and false brilliancies, which may attract and deceive 
 the vulgar eye. The common sculptor may mould the hu- 
 man features with a light and facile hand, or carve them into 
 the cold rigidity of stone. But the great artists of ancient 
 and modern times wrought not out so their mighty labors. 
 
 * Mackintosh's Life, Vol. I. p. 407. 
 
2L 
 
 The Apollo, the Venus, the Gladiator, the Guliano, and Loren- 
 zo de Medicis, grew not thus under the chisel of the artists. 
 The Madonna, the Last Supper, the Day of Judgment, sprung 
 not from the dashing touches of the moment. Time may 
 truly be said, with these great minds, to have been the parent 
 of immortality. 
 
 In close alliance with the foregoing will be found another 
 and kindred danger to scholarship. If the public taste thus 
 acts upon the studies and products of authors, and fashions 
 their works for the market of the day, 
 
 " If those, who live to please, must please to live," 
 
 It is not less true, that it reacts upon readers with a reciprocal 
 malign influence. Their time is equally wasted in the indul- 
 gence of a varied and sometimes superficial round of reading, 
 which vitiates, while it pampers the appetite. All is desulto- 
 ry and miscellaneous ; crowded, and yet fleeting. The viands 
 are dressed up in new forms and fantasies ; but still they are 
 neither wholesome, nor satisfying. They cloy the taste with- 
 out nourishing the soul. According to the temperament of 
 the reader, his love of letters melts away under the soft sen- 
 timentalism of fiction, or wearies itself in drowsy indolence, 
 or exhausts itself in private meditations, or rises into mystical 
 reveries, very unintelligible, but not on that account less in- 
 viting. 
 
 It cannot admit of the slightest doubt, (at least in my judg- 
 ment,) that the habit of desultory and miscellaneous reading, 
 thus created, has a necessary tendency to enervate the mind, 
 and to destroy all masculine thinking. Works of a solid 
 cast, which require close attention and exact knowledge to 
 grapple with them, are thrown aside, as dull and monotonous. 
 We apologise to ourselves for our neglect of them, that they 
 are to be taken up at a more convenient season ; or we flatter 
 ourselves, that we have sufficiently mastered their contents 
 and merits from the last review, although in many cases it 
 may admit of some doubt, whether the critic himself has ever 
 read the work. Without stopping to inquire, how many of 
 
22 
 
 the whole class of literary readers now study with thoughtful 
 diligence, the standard writers in our own language, and are 
 not content with abridgments, or manuals, or extracts ; I 
 would put it to those, who are engaged in the learned profes- 
 sions, and have the most stringent motives for deep, thorough, 
 and exact knowledge, I would put it to them to say, how 
 many of their whole number devote themselves to the study 
 of the great masters of their own profession. How many of 
 them can, in the sober language of truth, say; We are at home 
 in the pages of our profoundest authors, — We not only pos- 
 sess them to enrich our libraries, but we devote ourselves to 
 the daily consultation of them. They are beside us at our 
 firesides, and they cheer our evening studies. We live and 
 breathe in the midst of their laborious researches and syste- 
 matical learning. 
 
 If the seductive influences of this habit of desultory and 
 miscellaneous reading and indulgence in general literature, 
 were confined to persons of unbroken leisure, or indolent 
 temperament, or moderate ambition, the evil would be far less 
 felt, and the example far less mischievous. But it is apt to 
 draw within its grasp the proudest spirits of the age. Many 
 of the latter have the same insatiable appetite, if I may so 
 say, for universal reading, — the same love of change, — the 
 same eager search after novelty, which belong to the gay and 
 the frivolous in their light pursuits. They amass vast treas- 
 ures of knowledge, but use them, far less for composition, 
 than for conversation ; far less as materials, out of which 
 they are to create works, destined for future ages, than as 
 means for brilliant sallies in colloquial discourse, or for sunny 
 disquisitions upon moral philosophy, or for picturesque sketch- 
 es, or for off-hand contributions to the forthcoming periodical. 
 They have learned well the lesson of Lord Bacon, that 
 " Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. 
 Their chief use for delight is in privateness and retiring ; for 
 ornament is in discourse ; and for ability is in the judgment 
 and disposition of business." * But they have forgotten the 
 
 * Bacon's Essays. Essay 50, Vol. II. of his Works, p. 373. 
 
23 
 
 noble admonition of the same great mind, that " Wise men 
 use their studies ; and that there is a wisdom without them, 
 and above them, won by observation. That they read, not to 
 contradict or confute, nor to find talk and discourse ; but to 
 weigh and consider." * 
 
 There is, indeed, and for a considerable length of time, has 
 been, a strong temptation to scholars to establish reputation by 
 bringing their resources into full play in conversation among 
 the higher circles of social life ; and in our own times it has 
 acquired a powerful impulse and acceleration among the afflu- 
 ent in learning and the elevated in genius. Dr. Johnson 
 seems almost for the first time to have given it an attractive 
 character by his own example and gigantic powers, both in 
 reading and thinking. The glorious circle of great minds, 
 who clustered around him, Reynolds, and Burke and Gold- 
 smith and Jones and Scott, and the gay wits of London, who 
 listened with a just homage to his controversial dogmas, and 
 untiring flow of thought, made it a fashionable object of am- 
 bition to become great in conversation. It may well be doubt- 
 ed, whether, even Doctor Johnson, owing to this seductive in- 
 fluence, ever accomplished any thing commensurate with the 
 powers of his understanding, or the variety of his knowledge. 
 With the exception of his Dictionary (a work of vast labor, if 
 not of critical skill) his best writings belong almost to the very 
 close of his life ; and if Boswell had not recorded his conver- 
 sations with a graphical fidelity and fulness, which makes 
 them the very familiars of our household, the fame of that 
 great man, after a life of seventy-five years, would mainly 
 rest upon two poems, in imitation of Juvenal, and upon his 
 Lives of the Poets, which, with the exception of some half doz- 
 en Lives, wrought out with marvellous felicity and vigor, were 
 but common task-work for the booksellers. I might mention 
 Doctor Parr as another singular example of vast erudition, su- 
 perior in this respect even to Johnson, and in general acquire- 
 ments quite his equal, who has rendered himself famous for 
 
 * Bacon's Essays. Essay 50, Vol. II. of his Works, p. 373. 
 
24 
 
 having exhausted his long life mainly upon a Spital sermon, 
 and an edition of Bellendenus, neither of which is now read ; 
 and yet if he had loved reading and conversation less, and 
 composition more, he might have stood in classical and other 
 literature among the foremost of his age. He lives now, 
 rather by the bright sayings, preserved by his biographers, and 
 by his private letters, than by any literary achievement, wor- 
 thy of remembrance. 
 
 But, for an example still more instructive, and far more in- 
 teresting and affecting, let us turn to one of the most philo- 
 sophical and polished scholars of our own day, I mean Sir 
 James Mackintosh, whose genius has illuminated, whatever it 
 has touched, and touched almost every department of litera- 
 ture. Whoever has read the memoirs of that excellent man, 
 written with an unassuming elegance, and a just filial rever- 
 ence, by an accomplished scholar, must have risen from the 
 perusal with mixed emotions of profound respect and profound 
 melancholy. What do we here see, but a mind of the bright- 
 est order and most varied attainments, perpetually struggling 
 with its own infirmity of purpose, — amassing, nay, devour- 
 ing, all sorts of learning, with an eager and discriminating at- 
 tention, sketching the outlines of the plan of some great work, 
 and resolving at some future time to execute it, — rebuk- 
 ing its own delays, and yet persisting in the same course, — 
 and at last, departing from the world, in a good old age, with- 
 out having achieved any one of the loftier purposes, at which 
 it aimed. Everywhere about us are the mighty fragments of 
 his genius, like the mutilated Torso, exhibiting, in its broken 
 proportions, the exquisite skill of the artist. His Introductory 
 Lecture on the Law of Nations, the most magnificent discourse 
 in our own, or, perhaps, in any other language, is but a finish- 
 ed portico for the vestibule of a temple, destined never to be 
 erected. And, again, his Historical Dissertation upon the 
 Progress of Ethical Science, which it is impossible to read 
 without kindling into enthusiasm, leaves us, with its bright 
 but rapid lights, just on the threshold of the very inquiries, to 
 which it points our way. And then, again, his contributions 
 
25 
 
 to the History of England seem but interludes between the 
 acts and epochs of that great drama, where the curtain drops, 
 just when the principal actors are about to play their parts on 
 that grand theatre of human life. What can be more melan- 
 choly, or more full of regrets, than the contemplation of such 
 a mind, so comprehensive in learning, so elevated in virtues, 
 which has thus passed away, leaving so many admirable en- 
 terprises unaccomplished, and so many plans for immortality 
 unfulfilled. 
 
 It may be said, that all this is the result of peculiar temper- 
 ament. I think far otherwise ; it is the natural result of the 
 seductive influences, of which I have spoken, and of the pro- 
 fuse expenditure of intellectual power upon ends and aims, 
 incompatible with enduring excellence, which is so much fos- 
 tered by the spirit of our age. How difficult must it be to 
 resist the temptations to universal reading, and the fascinations 
 of colloquial discourse, when they win instant praise, and cir- 
 culate freely to the very boundaries of the literary world. 
 For one, who, with a stout heart, and determined persever- 
 ance, could resist them, and die, like Sir Walter Scott, with 
 his pen in his hand, there are hundreds, who would surrender 
 themselves the willing, or the reluctant, victims to their influ- 
 ence, and resolve and re-resolve, and yet close their lives in 
 the midst of hopes deferred, and expectations blasted, and pro- 
 jects abandoned. 
 
 I have thus far spoken of some of the existing dangers to 
 the permanent interests of learning and literature ; and in so 
 doing I have anticipated much, which belongs to the consid- 
 eration of the discouragements and difficulties of scholars in 
 our day. Many other admonitory and interesting reflections 
 might, however, be added upon the latter topic ; but I shall 
 content myself with a few suggestions only, addressed partly 
 to our own peculiar national position, and partly to general 
 causes at work throughout the world. One, indeed, which 
 must strike even the most careless observer is the vast accu- 
 mulation, in every department of knowledge, of new materials, 
 which are to be mastered, in comparison with the old stock. 
 
 4 
 
26 
 
 The brief but pungent apothegm, that life is short, and art is 
 long, could never come home to the bosoms and business of 
 scholars with more significance than in the present age. 
 Hitherto, the task of completing the round of studies for a well- 
 disciplined mind in any one department, seemed to lie within 
 a comparatively moderate compass. But the mass has now 
 increased to an almost overwhelming size, (to use the lan- 
 guage of Sir Henry Spelman,) Molem non ingentem solum, 
 sed perpetuis humeris sustinendam. In some sciences whole 
 branches have sprung into being within the last fifty years, 
 while others have received such vast additions, that the old 
 foundations have been buried under the substructions of the 
 new. The learned professions have received a like augmen- 
 tation of principles and materials. Five hundred volumes 
 would, a half century ago, have been deemed sufficient for all 
 the ordinary exigencies of study, where five thousand volumes 
 would now scarcely meet the daily demands, for consulta- 
 tion or instruction. Medicine has changed, not merely its 
 systems and theories, and its formularies, but, through the in- 
 strumentality of chemistry, it has created a new materia med- 
 ica, and a new nomenclature. Anatomy, and surgery, and 
 physiological research, have elevated into science, what seem- 
 ed before but a humbler department of art. Theology, in its 
 dogmatical, exegetical, and critical inquiries, has made our 
 libraries groan under the weight and variety of its contribu- 
 tions. In former times the ablest divines might content 
 themselves with a few solid bodies of divinity, the best 
 sermons of the old school, and some helps to criticism and 
 exposition, in the shape of common-place books or concordan- 
 ces, illustrated by the standard guides in Ecclesiastical Histo- 
 ry. How changed is all this now ! Jurisprudence has un- 
 folded its stores with an equal profusion ; and it is scarcely 
 too much to say, that it is now practically impossible to read 
 all, that is published ; and the task of selection alone has 
 become at once perilous and indispensable. In the mean time, 
 the inquisitive and skeptical spirit of the age makes the duty 
 of instruction, as well as that of the exposition and vindica- 
 
27 
 
 tion of doctrines, full of labor and difficulty. Especially is 
 this true in theology and the higher branches of philosophy. 
 Here, the scholar must give a life of patient diligence to the 
 task ; and will find, that if he is read by many, he will be 
 praised by few. His very learning may make his labors re- 
 pulsive ; and the very depth of his researches may discourage 
 his faltering followers. His deficiencies will be studiously 
 proclaimed, while the profounder results of his analysis are 
 unheeded. Here, he will offend the prejudices of the day by 
 a bold and fearless criticism, and there, he will encounter a 
 dogma, which staggers his faith, or brings into question his 
 prudence, or his judgment. If he appeals to posterity, he 
 may, indeed, reap a just, though distant reward, when the 
 passions and parties of the day shall have passed away. But, 
 then, it may happen, that the appeal may never reach that 
 tribunal ; or, if it should, the changes of fashions and feelings 
 and opinions may make his claim a slender inheritance, even 
 if it should be recognised and confirmed. Under such circum- 
 stances, well may he be inclined to shun the toil of the enter- 
 prise, and exclaim : Ostendunt hcec tantiimfata, — neque ultra. 
 Look for a moment upon the exhausting demands of the 
 pulpit. Instead of listening to plain, calm, and practical ex- 
 pository discourses, as in former times, we have now be- 
 come fastidious and exacting critics. We require, every Sun- 
 day, the exhibitions of varied talent, dressed up with all the 
 polished elegance and refinement of an exquisite taste. We 
 seek, I had almost said, we demand, one or more sermons to 
 be produced every week, which would require the meditations 
 of the most gifted mind for a whole month ; and of such a 
 quality of excellence, that probably no single mind, in the 
 history of the profession, ever produced twelve of them in any 
 one year. This is not all. The discourses must be wrought 
 out with somewhat of dramatic power and effect. They 
 must be eloquent, as well as instructive ; pointed, as well as 
 true ; vivid, as well as thoughtful. They must win by their 
 persuasive approaches, even more than they strike by their 
 masculine reasoning. They may, indeed, reprove vice with a 
 
28 
 
 bold and fearless confidence, if it shocks by its grossness or 
 revolting character. They may unmask hypocrisy, and de- 
 nounce error, in good round terms. But they must deal gent- 
 ly with frailties, which are broadcast, and "just hint a fault 
 or hesitate dislike," if it be a favorite folly of the day, which 
 fashion has consecrated, and public opinion tolerates. Now, I 
 think, that I do not exaggerate the difficulties and discourage- 
 ments of the profession in our day, when I say, that the de- 
 mands upon the preacher for ready compositions, and parochial 
 duties, make it almost impracticable for him to attain eminence 
 in biblical criticism, and disable him from writing works, 
 which will be enduring monuments of his learning and abili- 
 ty, when he shall be gathered to his fathers. 
 
 Look again upon the scholar, who seeks eminence in clas- 
 sical studies. What a vast apparatus is now required to enable 
 him to grapple with the intricacies of Grecian and Roman lit- 
 erature, its criticism, and its historical illustrations, or even 
 the niceties of the grammatical structure of the language. It 
 is a startling fact, that many a ripe scholar, even in patient 
 and inquisitive and laborious Germany, will tell you, that 
 there is not time, in any one life, to learn well more than 
 a single language ; that if one devotes himself to Greek, 
 Latin is out of the question ; and, that the study of a whole 
 life may well be dedicated to the mastery of a single classical 
 author, and even then, that much will be left untouched, or 
 unexplained. Nay, Roman jurisprudence, which, after the 
 criticisms of three centuries, seemed to have arrived at a fixed 
 point in its expositions and principles, has now become sud- 
 denly changed in its aspects, and some of its elements have 
 been'displaced by the learned labors of living jurists, aided by 
 the discovery of the Institutes of Gaius. And, as if ancient 
 history itself were not secure against the inroads of modern 
 speculation and industry, we are now told, that the historians 
 of Rome totally mistook many of the facts, which they under- 
 took to narrate from earlier traditions ; and that we, in the nine- 
 teenth century, can, by more profound researches, correct errors 
 and explain transactions, which, for eighteen hundred years, 
 
29 
 
 were unquestioned, or were deemed irretrievably lost. It was 
 not many years ago, that some of us were almost startled out 
 of our proprieties by the doubt, whether any such person as 
 Homer ever existed j and Niebuhr has so shaken the public 
 confidence in the ancient historians, that a widespread alarm 
 has infected our belief in the credibility of their chronicles. 
 
 Nor is the task of the instructor, or of the disciple, in intel- 
 lectual or moral philosophy less formidable. If he could 
 unfold the various systems of metaphysics, or of ethics, 
 where is he to begin, or rather, where is he to end, his re- 
 searches ? His descent into the depths, and his ascent from 
 them, are not among the facile operations of the human mind 
 in our day. 
 
 " In the lowest deep a lower deep, 
 Still threatening to devour him, opens wide." * 
 
 If he has read half of what has been already written on 
 these subjects, he has achieved a most gigantic enterprise. 
 But if he would subdue the whole to his own purposes, and 
 take but a moderate survey of the stores of scholastic logic 
 and philosophy, deposited on the slumbering shelves of the 
 public libraries of both continents, human life would not be 
 long enough to complete his task. Here, at least, we must 
 be content, not only, as Lord Bacon says, to read by deputy, 
 but to think by deputy. 
 
 These are difficulties, which beset all scholars in our times 
 from the profusion, and, as it were, from the very inundations, 
 of learning. There are others, again, which press upon 
 American scholars with peculiar force. Two opposite bands 
 of disciplined troops break in upon our academical pursuits, 
 as well as our literary repose, and threaten a protracted, if not 
 a successful, warfare. They are embodied on one side under 
 the leaders of what is called the Utilitarian System of know- 
 ledge, and on the other, under the clamorous advocates for an 
 American literature, indigenous, exclusive, and national. Upon 
 the former topic I do not purpose to touch. Upon the latter 
 
 # See Milton's Paradise Lost, B. 4, 1. 76. 
 
30 
 
 I would say a few words, as it constitutes the staple of so 
 many of our public addresses, and ambitious essays. What 
 do we mean by a National Literature ? Do we mean by 
 it a literature fostered and cultivated by American authors, 
 addressing themselves to themes common to the world of 
 letters ? Or, do we mean by it a literature, which deals 
 altogether in local topics, and busies itself only with institu- 
 tions, and manners, and feelings, and discussions, peculiar to 
 ourselves ? If the former, it would be an idle waste of time 
 to discuss the subject. The cultivation of literature in any 
 country must essentially depend upon general causes, which 
 rarely admit of much acceleration or retardation in their pro- 
 gress. An enduring literature must almost necessarily be of 
 slow growth. It cannot be raised in the hot-beds of patron- 
 age or of power alone. It must spring up spontaneously, and 
 be congenial to the soil. It can acquire excellence only, when 
 the process of ripening is in a healthy air and a robust cli- 
 mate. It presupposes the existence of a large class of edu- 
 cated men, beyond what the steady demands of civil, political, 
 and professional life require, for the advancement of the gen- 
 eral interests of the society. It presupposes, that the rewards 
 of other employments are not more certain and more tempt- 
 ing ; more inviting from their relative facility of being reach- 
 ed j or more sure of conducting the aspirants to the repose 
 and dignity of independence. It presupposes general wealth 
 enough in the community to afford leisure to a large class of 
 scholars to devote themselves to the highest pursuits of ambi- 
 tion, and the attainment of an imperishable fame ; so that 
 they may be content to wait for distant results. It presup- 
 poses, that it will afford a competent livelihood, to repay the 
 exhausting labors of authorship, — for painful days, and wake- 
 ful nights, which move heavily on in the midst of secret and 
 solitary studies, and indifference, and ill-health, and poverty. 
 Until these things exist, — nay, until they in a great measure 
 coexist, and act and react simultaneously upon each other, it 
 is in vain to call for national literature and national authors. 
 There must be patronage, liberal, constant, and comprehen- 
 
31 
 
 sive, as well as genius and talent, in the land. The public 
 must be ready to reward authors, as well as to praise them ; 
 — to protect, as well as to read, their works; — to encourage 
 the domestic manufacture by giving it a reciprocal market 
 abroad. Until this period shall arrive, it will be in vain to 
 ask, or even to hope for a solid advancement in national 
 literature. There may be, and there will be, occasional 
 bursts of literary talent ; but they will be irregular and tran- 
 sitory. There may be, and there will be, here and there, an 
 author of exquisite elegance, or profound research ; but for 
 the most part, the lights will be flickering and faint, and do 
 little more than skirt our horizon. 
 
 But if we mean by a national literature the other alterna- 
 tive before alluded to, a literature devoted to local thoughts, 
 objects, interests, habits, and feelings, which shall stand out, 
 like our lakes and rivers and waterfalls, with a sort of terri- 
 torial magnificence or sovereignty (as is but too often the 
 suggestion of national pride) ; then it might be worth while 
 to consider, whether it were desirable, if attainable ; or if 
 attained, whether it would not sink us down to the level of 
 a provincial dependency, rather than elevate us to the rank 
 of equals in the republic of letters. It is true, that the vanity 
 of possessing the home market might lead us to address noth- 
 ing to foreign minds, or to foreign sympathies ; that we 
 might clothe ourselves with the common fabrics and cos- 
 tumes, manufactured to the order and fashion of the day, 
 without dreaming, that they might possess neither grace nor 
 dignity, and would be rejected by the taste, as well as be 
 unsuited to the good sense, of other ages. To the great 
 author seeking for permanent fame, may be addressed the 
 same language, which has been addressed to the great painter. 
 " He must divest himself of all prejudices in favor of his age 
 or country ; he must disregard all local and temporary orna- 
 ments ; and look only to those general habits, which are 
 everywhere, and always the same. He addresses his works 
 to the people of every country and every age ; he calls upon 
 
32 
 
 posterity to be his spectators ; and says, with Zeuxis, ' In 
 (Bternitatem pingo.' " * 
 
 Nay, I will go farther, and venture to affirm, that no author 
 of any nation has ever attained permanent celebrity, whose 
 works have not in fact been addressed to sentiments, feelings, 
 sympathies, and experiences, common to the human soul in all 
 countries, and all ages. There may be found a few persons, 
 whose works paint transactions, which are purely local, or 
 transient, and who may thus enlist the curiosity of the diligent 
 antiquarian ; but it is rather as specimens, than as models. 
 The mass of authors in ancient, as well as in modern times, 
 who are familiarly read, or extensively known, — are read and 
 known, because their thoughts belong to all generations, and 
 have inflamed the genius, and warmed the hearts of the 
 instructed, as well as of the rude. The orators, the poets, 
 the philosophers, and the historians of Greece and Rome are 
 admired, not merely for the exquisite language, in which 
 their works are clothed, but for the lessons of wisdom, which 
 they teach ; for the truths, which they expound ; for the 
 beautiful and sublime imagery, which they exhibit ; and for 
 the large results of human passions and human actions, which 
 they narrate or suggest. These are just as striking, and just 
 as important and useful now, as they were thousands of years 
 ago. The works of Aristotle and Cicero have probably fur- 
 nished more materials for instruction upon all the topics, of 
 which they treat, than those of any other authors, who have 
 flourished before or since their times. There is not a single 
 page of Sallust or Tacitus, even when professedly discussing 
 motives, or recording events, which now seem almost evanes- 
 cent points of history, which are not replete with sound phi- 
 losophy, with profound reflection, with acute analysis, of 
 character, manners, and government, and with principles of 
 universal application, which deserve to be treasured up as 
 among the most valuable benefactions to the human race. 
 To no nation on earth are the truths there unfolded, and the 
 
 * Sir Joshua Reynolds's Discourses, p. 59. 
 
33 
 
 commentaries there condensed, of more importance than to our- 
 selves. We may there see, how factions are engendered and 
 how republics are ruined. How men in free governments 
 become base, and servile, and corrupt, as well as, how they 
 must act, in order to maintain the strength, the glory, and the 
 well-balanced liberty of the State. Who does not read the 
 common fate of republics, when Sallust, with searching severi- 
 ty, says ; " Ubi labor e atque justitia Respublica crevit, — scsvire 
 Fortuna, ac miscere omnia coepit. Qui labor es, pericula, 
 dubias atque asperas res facile toleraverunt, Us otium, di- 
 vitice, optandce aliis, oneri miseraique fuere. Igitur primo 
 pecuniae, deinde Imperii Cupido, crevit ; ea quasi materies 
 omnium malorum fuere"* Who does not see in his brief, 
 but startling sketch of Catiline, the profligate demagogue of 
 every age and country, at once crafty, selfish, variable, bold, 
 and ambitious. " Animus audax, subdolus, varius, cujuslibet 
 rei simulator ac dissimulator, alieni appetens, sui profusus, 
 ardens in cupiditatibus, satis eloquential, sapiential pa- 
 rum." f Who does not see the fawning sycophants and base 
 retainers, waiting upon power and patronage, who pursue 
 its triumph and partake its gale, in a single passage of Taci- 
 tus, of terrific grandeur, alluding to a period, when even fallen 
 Rome yet affected liberty. " At Romce ruere in servitium, 
 Consules, Patres, Eques. Quanto quis inlustrior, tanto 
 magis falsi ac festinantes, vulto composito, ne laiti excessu 
 Principis, neu tristiores primordio, lacrimas, gaudium, quais- 
 tus, adulatione miscebant" % 
 
 These great men wrote not to foster the pride, or the tastes, 
 or the prejudices of their own country. They wrote not for 
 Rome, but for the World ; not for their own age, but for all 
 posterity. Sallust avows this to be his own motive ; con- 
 scious (as he says) that virtuous fame alone is immortal. 
 " Mihi rectius esse videtur, ingenii, quam virium opibus, 
 gloriam quarere, et quoniam vita ipsa, qua fruimur, brevis 
 
 * Sallust. Bell.Catil. § 10. f Ibid. § 6. 
 
 \ Tacit Annal. Lib. 1, cap. 7. 
 
 5 
 
34 
 
 est, memoriam nostri, quam maxzime longam efficere. Nam 
 divitiarum etformce gloria fluxa atque fragilis ; virtus clara 
 cetemaque habetur." * I have reserved (said Tacitus) a more 
 fertile and secure subject for my old age, when, owing to the 
 rare felicity of the times, you are at liberty to think what 
 you please, and to speak what you think. " Uberiorem secu- 
 rioremque materiam senectuti seposui, rara temporum felici- 
 tate, ubi sentire quce velis, et quce sentias dicer e licet." f A fit 
 lesson to be learned even in this favored land ; for, here, 
 no mean courage is sometimes required, to speak what we 
 think, when it strikes at some prevalent delusion ; or to ab- 
 stain from flattering the prejudices of the people, when the 
 truth might offend them. 
 
 But I need not refer to the ancients. All countries and 
 all ages furnish the same illustrations. There is not (I repeat 
 it) a great author, who has come down to us with literary 
 celebrity, whose pages are not addressed to interests, affec- 
 tions, and principles, common to all mankind. Tell me the 
 author, who, since the revival of letters, has attained and 
 still holds a settled eminence, in Italy, or Germany, or France, 
 or England, whose writings are not felt to be the inheritance 
 of the world ? His works may have a strong flavor of the soil, 
 where they were produced j they may be tinctured with the 
 colors of the age, in which they lived ; they may even be 
 soiled and stained by its vices, or its follies, or its affecta- 
 tions. But these blemishes and peculiarities are accidental 
 and unfelt, and serve but to present in a broader light their 
 intrinsic excellences, — as the blur in the diamond reveals its 
 imperfections, without diminishing the vivid sparkles from its 
 transparent surface. Who, for a moment, could imagine, that 
 Dante, or Tasso, or Shakspeare, or Milton, or Locke, or 
 Klopstock, or Goethe, or Schiller, or Racine, wrote solely for 
 their own times and their own country ; and did not possess 
 the proud consciousness, that they would be read by future 
 generations in every nation, where letters should be cherished, 
 however refined and however remote. ".My name and mem- 
 
 # Sallust. Bell. Catil. § 1. f Tacit. Hist. Lib. 1. cap. 1. 
 
35 
 
 ory," (was the affecting and melancholy language of Lord 
 Bacon, in his last will), "My name and memory I leave to 
 foreign nations, and to mine own countrymen, after some time 
 be passed over." 
 
 There could not, indeed, be a more dangerous delusion, 
 than the attempt on the part of American authors to build up 
 an exclusive national literature in the sense, to which I have 
 last alluded. Our just ambition should be to make our litera- 
 ture a component part of the literature of the world, for the 
 use of all nations and all ages. Let it have the bold impress 
 of American genius, and the masculine vigor, and the brave 
 spirit of inquiry and expression, which fitly belong to a free 
 government, and an unshackled press. But let it rise to the 
 dignity and elevation of an appeal to the highest minds in 
 their highest studies, wherever their nativity may be cast. 
 Let it speak a universal language, and address passions, feel- 
 ings, sympathies, and principles, which glow with equal 
 fervor at the poles and at the equator. Let the thoughts be 
 such, as may save the language itself from perishing. Let 
 them live on, and bless, and improve mankind, and unfold 
 to them their duty and their destiny, until the period shall 
 arrive, when tyrants and barbarians shall consign all books to 
 a common destruction, as an incumbrance upon anarchy or 
 despotism. 
 
 And this leads me to say a few words, and but a few 
 
 words, for 
 
 " On our quickest decrees 
 The inaudible and noiseless foot of time 
 Steals, ere we can effect them," 
 
 upon the duties of scholars in our day, and especially of 
 American scholars. Much of what has been already said 
 points its moral to this end and object. We have seen some 
 of our dangers and difficulties. They may not be disguised, 
 or concealed ; but they must be met and confronted with a 
 firm confidence and steady perseverance. The time has 
 come, when the study of the ancient classics, of the great 
 writers of Greece and Rome, is required to be reasoned out 
 
36 
 
 and vindicated anew. While it is advancing with a steady 
 pace among a select class of minds, we cannot fail to see, that 
 it is in a proportionate degree holding a less comprehensive 
 influence with the community at large. The sympathies, as 
 well as the attractions, of other pursuits, and the brilliant 
 achievements of physical science, have cast it with the 
 multitude into comparative obscurity. But a more sweeping 
 and impetuous cause is the strong tendency of the day to 
 popular education and popular schemes of instruction. Know- 
 ledge, it is now thought, may be acquired with far less labor 
 and in a more brief space. Compendious systems have suc- 
 ceeded the tardy progress and rough discipline of former 
 times. The youthful mind is now required to be crammed 
 with all sorts of learning and science, at a period of life when 
 it can scarcely digest any. We hurry on the work of educa- 
 tion with an eager and crowded impatience, and seek to con- 
 dense the labor of years into that of months. All things are 
 to be taught at the same moment ; Dum fervet opus. And 
 the appointed course once run over, the preparations of active 
 life are deemed complete; the prizes of life are already with- 
 in reach ; and superfluous study is dismissed, as equally with- 
 out pleasure and without profit. 
 
 It is for American scholars to rouse themselves for the 
 coming events, which cast their shadows before. They 
 must press upon the public attention, with a fearless spirit of 
 expostulation, the utter folly of all such expectations ; they 
 must proclaim the solemn fact, that facile methods of educa- 
 tion are mere delusions, which cheat us out of our time, as 
 well as impair the vigor of our understandings ; that they will 
 make us at once superficial and conceited, and enervate with- 
 out filling the mind. It has been eloquently said, that " These 
 noble studies preserve, and they alone can preserve, the un- 
 broken chain of learning, which unites the most remote gen- 
 erations ; the grand catholic communion of wisdom and wise 
 men, throughout all ages and nations of the world."* 
 
 * Life of Mackintosh, Vol. I. p. 119. 
 
37 
 
 But a duty still higher, and more imperative, and urgent, is 
 to stand forth as champions of truth, of sound morals, sound 
 principles, and sound learning. It has been often suggested, 
 as a matter of reproach, by foreigners, that our scholars and 
 statesmen do not speak out to the public their real opin- 
 ions. That they do not say, what they think, nor think, what 
 they say. That our public harangues, and set pamphlets, and 
 newspaper essays, are abundantly overlaid with flattery of 
 vulgar errors, or popular delusions. That the people have per- 
 petually trumpeted in their ears, the praise of their wisdom 
 and virtue and intelligence, when it is apparent, that there is 
 the most sincere distrust of them all, and often the belief, that 
 we are on the downward path of ruin. In short, that the 
 whole body of our passing literature, and the spirit of our public 
 discussions, are moulded and fashioned to suit the ever vary- 
 ing forms of the popular will, and thus bring discredit upon 
 our judgments, as well as upon our sincerity. 
 
 Admitting, that there is much of false and exaggerated 
 statement in these suggestions, still there is truth enough at 
 the bottom to challenge inquiry and demand reform. Has our 
 literature in general a bold, healthy, solid, reflective, mascu- 
 line character ? Does it possess a fearless spirit of expostula- 
 tion, or reproof, and a lofty avowal of principles, suited to the 
 exigencies of our times ? Does it tell the truth, the whole 
 truth, and nothing but the truth, without fear, favor, affection, 
 or hope of reward ? Does it combat error, and expose folly, 
 and resist visionary but captivating theories, by stirring ap- 
 peals to the sober sense of the community, and the enlighten- 
 ed judgments of the wise ? When the fundamental princi- 
 ples of republics, nay, of all governments, are assailed with 
 presumptuous rashness, and the rights of property, and the se- 
 curities of constitutions are assailed and questioned, does our 
 literature come out, and unmask the deceit, and vindicate the 
 truth, or does it lie by, and with indolent ease sleep over the 
 evils, or silently evade its duty by hoping for the best, or soft- 
 ly whisper regrets, lest it should rouse opposition, or encoun- 
 ter obloquy ? To these interrogatories let every scholar an- 
 
38 
 
 swer for himself. But let him remember, that these are not 
 times to blink at questions, or to push aside inquiries. Not 
 only is the schoolmaster abroad, but the skeptic is by his side, 
 and the importunate reformer with his nostrums, and the en- 
 thusiast with his idealities and abstractions. Christianity itself 
 is called upon, on one side, to buckle on its armour, not to 
 maintain the mere creeds and dogmas of a peculiar church or 
 sect, but to establish its facts and its miracles, nay, the reality 
 of the character, if not the personal existence, of the Founder 
 of its hopes and its consolations. On another side, Protestant- 
 ism is again required, at the distance of three centuries after 
 its noble triumphs, to show its title deeds and its rights. It 
 is put upon its defence, and asked for reasons and authority, — 
 for its faith and its observances, —for its priesthood and its ordi- 
 nances. The assaults come not from Rome alone. The battle- 
 ments of Oxford frown upon its heresies, and forbid the banns 
 of its alliance with the church. The warders upon her tow- 
 ers rebuke its backslidings, and demand a surrender of its ban- 
 ners and a renunciation of its errors. The blood of the mar- 
 tyrs has been spilled in vain. The warnings of the prophets 
 have been proclaimed in vain. The Taylors, the Cudworths, 
 the Chillingworths, the Barrows, and the Clarkes, have been 
 but blind leaders of the blind. The Puritans and the Covenan- 
 ters, the Presbyterians and the Congregationalists, the Calvin- 
 ists and the Lutherans, are to lay down their spiritual arms, 
 and submit to the sentence of the Vatican, pronounced on the 
 banks of the Isis. These, then, are not the days for scholars, 
 and least of all, for American scholars, to relapse into indolent 
 indiiference, or to send forth doubtful responses from their ora- 
 cles, inviting double interpretations. The contest is no long- 
 er one with ignorance, or folly, or illiterate skepticism. The 
 voices come from the seats of learning, from the deep studies of 
 the closet, and from the bold speculations of gifted minds, ca- 
 pable of dealing with human rights and human belief. Learn- 
 ing must now be met by learning, talent by talent, genius by 
 genius. The demand is for logic and reasoning, and historical 
 truth, and not for mere dogmas or authority. Vague decla- 
 
 w 
 
39 
 
 mation will not suffice. There must be close, forcible, clear, 
 convincing argumentation. 
 
 I might add, if time would allow me, that there are other 
 duties, devolving upon our scholars and statesmen, which 
 come home, at this very moment, to our business and bosoms. 
 To master the great questions, which now agitate, not merely 
 our public councils, but the minds of the whole nation, upon 
 topics of political economy, — of national rights and duties, — 
 of constitutional obligations, — and of social interests, there are 
 required all the resources of our knowledge and experience, 
 the powers of eloquence, the lights of history, the most thor- 
 ough investigations of the principles of international law. 
 Have there been, and are there now brought to the task, free 
 from the admixture of all extraneous and impure ingredients, 
 the profound and honest judgments of our best scholars and 
 statesmen ? Or have the passions and prejudices and interests 
 of the day mingled in the strife, and disturbed all the just in- 
 fluences, which ought to govern the discussions ? Has it been 
 left to the great minds, and the enlarged experience, and the 
 learned studies of our best men, to expound subjects, so full of 
 delicate and difficult relations ? Have not rash men leaped 
 into the arena, where angels might almost fear to tread, and 
 eagerly sought to forestall the public judgment, by appeals to 
 popular or local interests, or by lofty denunciations of all, who 
 dared to promote calm inquiry, or the severe analysis of prin- 
 ciples ? One should have thought, that the very gravity of 
 such topics would have suppressed all arrogant assertion, and 
 put to flight all dogmatism and theories ; that we should 
 have consulted the oracles of other times, and sought instruc- 
 tion from their wisdom ; that we should have invoked the 
 aid of Grotius, and PufTendorf, and Vattel, and Burke, and 
 Adam Smith, and the Authors of the Federalist, to enlighten 
 our judgments, and purify our souls from debasing generalities. 
 
 And, again, it is the duty of our scholars to elevate the 
 standard of our national literature ; to engage it in themes more 
 worthy of our destiny and rank in the republic of letters ; to 
 lift it above the petty strifes, the wild fantasies, and the 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
 029 895 525 8 
 
 vague novelties of the day. If we may not aspire to the 
 highest efforts of human genius, to the sublimer walks of po- 
 etry and philosophy, which dazzle by excess of light, we may 
 yet seek a more elevated region, and breathe a purer air, than 
 broods over the barren plains and misty valleys of common 
 life. 
 
 " Largior hie campos Mther, et lumine vestit 
 Purpureo, — Solemque suam, sua sidera norant." 
 
 Gentlemen, — I have done. As I close this discourse I 
 cannot but turn my eyes to our venerable University, and ask, 
 what she demands of us, her children, for the cause of 
 religion, of letters, and of learning. She has stood forth 
 for centuries, the glorious defender of truth, — unshaken, 
 — unseduced, ■> — unterrified. She has nourished in her bo- 
 som the wise, the eloquent, the renowned, the holy. In the 
 days of her adversity, she has borne the brunt and burthen 
 without fear or faltering. In the days of her prosperity, she 
 has been content to cultivate learning, and promote tfee arts of 
 peace. Shall not her children rise up. and call her blessed ! — 
 At this very moment I seem to see the shades of her departed 
 sons pass slowly before me, — the long procession of two hun- 
 dred years. They point with deep thoughtfulness to the past, 
 and with earnest solicitude to the future. Their silence, more 
 expressive than any human speech, addresses to us, at once, 
 the language of admonition, — of exhortation, — of encour- 
 agement, — of entreaty. Methinks, as their shadowy forms 
 glide away, the silence is for a moment broken, and I hear 
 their united voices, in unearthly tones, utter, from beyond the 
 grave, 
 
 " O ! Socii, — Antiquam exquirite Matrem." 
 
Holling 
 
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
 
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