the ancient languages were unknown,-men who have risen by the force of their talents, and writers who have written with a purity and ease which hold them up as models for imitation. On the other hand, it is as often said that scholars do not always compose either with elegance or chasteness; that their diction is sometimes loose and harsh, and sometimes ponderous and affected. Be it so. I am not disposed to call in question the accuracy of either statement. But I would, nevertheless, say that the presence of classical learning was not the cause of the faults of the one class, nor the absence of it the cause of the excellence of the other. And I would put this fact, as an answer to all such reasonings, that there is not a single language of modern Europe, in which literature has made any considerable advances, which is not directly of Roman origin, or has not incorporated into its very structure many, very many, of the idioms and peculiarities of the ancient tongues. The English language affords a strong illustration of the truth of this remark. It abounds with words and meanings drawn from classical sources. Innumerable phrases retain the symmetry of their ancient dress. Innumerable expressions have received their vivid tints from the beautiful dyes of Roman and Grecian roots. If scholars, therefore, do not write our language with ease, or purity, or elegance, the cause must lie somewhat deeper than a conjectural ignorance of its true diction.

But I am prepared to yield still more to the force of the objec tion. I do not deny that a language may be built up without the aid of any foreign materials, and be at once flexible for speech and graceful for composition; that the literature of a nation may be splendid and instructive, full of interest and beauty in thought and in diction, which has no kindred with classical learning; that, in the vast stream of time, it may run its own current unstained by the admixture of surrounding languages; that it may realize the ancient fable, "Doris amara suam non intermisceat undam;" that it may retain its own flavor, and its own bitter saltness too. But I do deny that such a national literature does in fact exist, in modern Europe, in that community of nations of which we form a part, and to whose fortunes and pursuits in literature and arts we are bound by all our habits, and feelings, and interests. There is not a single nation from the north to the south of Europe, from the bleak shores of the Baltic to the bright plains of immortal Italy, whose literature is not imbedded in the very elements of classical learning. The literature of England is, in an emphatic sense, the production of her scholars, of men who have cultivated letters in her universities, and colleges, and grammar-schools,-of men who thought any life too short, chiefly because it left some relic of antiquity unmastered, and any other fame humble, because it faded in the presence of Roman and Grecian genius. He who studies English

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literature without the lights of classical learning, loses half the charms of its sentiments and style, of its force and feelings, of its delicate touches, of its delightful allusions, of its illustrative associations. Who that reads the poetry of Gray does not feel that it is the refinement of classical taste which gives such inexpressible vividness and transparency to his diction? Who that reads the concentrated sense and melodious versification of Dryden and Pope, does not perceive in them the disciples of the old school, whose genius was inflamed by the heroic verse, the terse satire, and the playful wit of antiquity? Who that meditates over the strains of Milton does not feel that he drank deep

At "Siloa's brook, that flowed
Fast by the oracle of God;"

that the fires of his magnificent mind were lighted by coals from ancient altars ?

It is no exaggeration to declare, that he who proposes to abolish classical studies proposes to render, in a great measure, inert and unedifying the mass of English literature for three centuries; to rob us of much of the glory of the past, and much of the instruction of future ages; to blind us to excellences which few may hope to equal, and none to surpass; to annihilate associations which are interwoven with our best sentiments, and give to distant times and countries a presence and reality as if they were, in fact, our own. There are dangers of another sort which beset the literature of the age. The constant demand for new works, and the impatience for fame, not only stimulate authors to an undue eagerness for strange incidents, singular opinions, and vain sentimentalities, but their style and diction are infected with the faults of extravagance and affectation. The old models of fine writing and good taste are departed from, not because they can be excelled, but because they are known and want freshness; because, if they have a finished coloring, they have no strong contrasts to produce effect. The consequence is, that opposite extremes in the manner of composition prevail at the same moment, or succeed each other with a fearful rapidity. On one side are to be found authors who profess to admire the easy flow and simplicity of the old style,-the naturalness of familiar prose, and the tranquil dignity of higher compositions. But in their desire to be simple, they become extravagantly loose and inartificial; in their familiarity, feeble and drivelling; and in their more aspiring efforts, cold, abstract, and harsh. On the other side, there are those who have no love for polished perfection of style,-for sustained and unimpassioned accuracy, for persuasive, but equable diction. They require more hurried tones, more stirring spirit, more glowing and irreguar sentences. There must be intensity of thought and intensity of

phrase at every turn. There must be bold and abrupt transitions, strong relief, vivid coloring, forcible expression. If these are present, all other faults are forgiven or forgotten. Excitement is produced, and taste may slumber.

Examples of each sort may be easily found, in our miscellaneous literature, among minds of no ordinary cast. Our poetry deals less than formerly with the sentiments and feelings belonging to ordinary life. It has almost ceased to be didactic, and, in its scenery and descriptions, reflects too much the peculiarities and morbid visions of eccentric minds. How little do we see of the simple beauty, the chaste painting, the unconscious moral grandeur of Crabbe and Cowper! We have, indeed, successfully dethroned the heathen deities. The Muses are no longer invoked by every unhappy inditer of verse. The Naiads no longer inhabit our fountains, nor the Dryads our woods. The river gods no longer rise, like old father Thames,

"And the hushed waves glide softly to the shore."

In these respects our poetry is more true to nature, and more conformable to just taste. But it still insists too much on extravagant events, characters, and passions, far removed from common life, and farther removed from general sympathy. It seeks to be wild, and fiery, and startling; and sometimes, in its caprices, low and childish. It portrays natural scenery as if it were always in violent commotion. It describes human emotions as if man were always in ecstasies or horrors. Whoever writes for future ages must found himself upon feelings and sentiments belonging to the mass of mankind. Whoever paints from nature will rarely depart from the general character of repose impressed upon her scenery, and will prefer truth to the ideal sketches of the imagination.

Our prose, too, has a tendency to become somewhat too ambitious and intense. Even in newspaper discussions of the merits or misdeeds of rulers, there is a secret dread of neglect, unless the page gives out the sententious pungency or sarcastic scorn of Junius. Familiar, idiomatic prose seems less attractive than in former times. Yet one would suppose that we might follow with safety the unaffected purity of Addison in criticism, and the graceful ease of Goldsmith in narrative. The neat and lively style of Swift loses nothing of its force by the simplicity with which it aims to put "proper words in proper places." The correspondence of Cowper is not less engaging because it utters no cant phrases, no sparkling conceits, and no pointed repartees.

But these faults may be considered as temporary, and are far from universal. There is another, however, which is more serious and important in its character, and is the common accompaniment of success. It is the strong temptation of distinguished authors

to premature publication of their labors, to hasty and unfinished sketches, to fervid but unequal efforts. He who writes for immortality, must write slowly, and correct freely. It is not the applause of the present day, or the deep interest of a temporary topic, or the consciousness of great powers, or the striking off of a vigorous discourse, which will ensure a favorable verdict from posterity. It was a beautiful remark of sir Joshua Reynolds, "that great works, which are to live, and stand the criticism of posterity, are not performed at a heat." "I remember," said he, "when I was at Rome, looking at the fighting gladiator, in company with an eminent sculptor, and I expressed my admiration of the skill with which the whole is composed, and the minute attention of the artist to the change of every muscle in that momentary exertion of strength. He was of opinion, that a work so perfect required nearly the whole life of man to perform." What an admonition! What a melancholy reflection to those who deem the literary fame of the present age the best gift to posterity! How many of our proudest geniuses have written, and continue to write, with a swiftness which almost rivals the operations of the press! How many are urged on to the ruin of their immortal hopes by that public favor which receives with acclamations every new offspring of their pen! If Milton had written thus, we should have found no scholar of our day, no "Christian Examiner," portraying the glory of his character with the enthusiasm of a kindred spirit. If Pope had written thus, we should have had no fierce contests respecting his genius and poetical attainments by our Byrons, and Bowleses, and Roscoes. If Virgil had written thus, he might have chanted his verses to the courtly Augustus; but Marcellus and his story would have perished. If Horace had written thus, he might have enchanted gay friends and social parties; but it would never have been said of his composition, Decies repetita placebit.

Such are some of the considerations which have appeared to me fit to be addressed to you on the present occasion. It may be that I have overrated their importance; and I am not unconscious of the imperfections of my own execution of the task.

To us, Americans, nothing, indeed, can, or ought to be indifferent, that respects the cause of science and literature. We have taken a stand among the nations of the earth, and have successfully asserted our claim to political equality. We possess an enviable elevation, so far as concerns the structure of our government, our political policy, and the moral energy of our institutions. If we are not without rivals in these respects, we are scarcely behind any, even in the general estimate of foreign nations themselves. But our claims are far more extensive. We assert an equality of voice and vote in the republic of letters, and assume for

and critical expost off e Sonncom Germany and Expand meaty a wagang for the news of mea whore our embers ES f d nes lng us, woo feel tha sficer í m ... poscity, remains uncastered. foremost advocates.

tord. I advert to these consiORTCODE ok or its institutions, or is meas of ezof universal eau Be Stocut h the notion that because PORCOOL E highest learning a win the scope of is neither aim at or compust SIEL more dangerous error that to VICT ence, by encouraging the belief that our ought to be: tat al beyond a sadowy theories of the scientit, or thE DEVEThe admonition wich adresses ser g their deáciencies, ought to awakes DEW They are accustomed to preD THE WIL ..d hold nothing word gesuse of jet attained, as beyond their reads The banner should be. Not times not per.

ture. It may not be our lot to see our that of our putue polity and free institsnnot be far distant. It is scarcely prophe r children must and w enjoy Ther breathing mare, and the speaking picture, science and learning every where paying a American get.us.

ough in our past history to flatter our pride, vertions. We are of the lineage of the Saxof Bacon, Locke, and Newton, as well as of , and Fulton. We have read the history of y were men full of piety, and zeal, and an liberty. They also loved human learning, d only to divine. Here, on this very spot, in erness, within ten snort years after their voldst of cares, and privations, and sufferings. a little school, and dedicate it to God and own; it has flourished; it is the venerable ils her grateful children annually come with on. The sons of such ancestors can never ; the pupils of such schools can never be of letters.

P

in our present circumstances to inspire us