iL f r
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 A HISTORY OF CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE. 
 
 By William G. T. Shedd, D.D., Professor of Systematic 
 Theology in Union Theological Seminary, New York. Two 
 vols., crown 8vo. Fif t h edition, cloth $5,00 
 
 HOMILETICS AND PASTORAL THEOLOGY. 
 
 One vol., crown 8vo. Fifth edition, cloth $2.50 
 
 SERMONS TO THE NATURAL MAN. 
 
 One vol., crown 8 vo. Second edition, cloth $2.50 
 
 THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS. 
 
 One vol., 8vo. Enlarged and carefully revised edition, cloth.$2.50 
 
 *#♦ Sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by the Publisliere, 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 
 
 743 AND 745 Broadway, New Yobk.

 
 X?";^/? c/Z-^^
 
 LITERARY ESSAYS 
 
 BY 
 
 WILLIAM G. T. SIIEDD, D.D., 
 
 ROOSEVELT PROFESSOR OF SYSTEMATIC THEOLOGY IN UNION 
 TUEOLOUICAL SEMINARY, NEW YORK. 
 
 /^4 ^ 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 CHARLES SCKIBNER'S SONS, 
 
 murKHHORH TO 
 
 bCRlBNER. AUMSrUONG Sl CO.
 
 Copyright by 
 
 WILLIAM G.-T SHEDD, 
 
 1878. 
 
 Trow's 
 
 Printing and Hookbinding Co., 
 
 205-213 Knst i2tft St, 
 
 NEW YORK,
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In a previous volume, entitled Theological Essays, the writei' 
 brought together a number of disquisitions upon theological and 
 theologico-philosophical topics ; in this, he has collected a series 
 that relate principally to aesthetics and literature. The two 
 volumes thus contain opinions pertaining to a considerable 
 segment of the circle of human knowledge. The reader will 
 find the departments of theology, philosophy, both physical and 
 metaphysical, history, rhetoric, belles-lettres, and fine art, more 
 or less represented. The author is far from claiming that his 
 discussion of such a variety of themes has always been success- 
 ful. His only object in alluding to this variety in the contents 
 of these volumes is, to call attention to the unity and system 
 which, he is confitlent, will be found in the method of discuss- 
 ing the subjects. Rigiit or wrong, the opinions themselves 
 spring out of one intuition. Tlie fine art and the theology are 
 kindred to each other; the philosophy and the rhetoric are 
 homogeneous in their spirit and tendency. So far, however, 
 as his own convictions are concerned, the writer finds some 
 reason for confidence in the general con-ectness of his views, in 
 the fact that they arc thus iuterlocke<l with each other from the 
 first, and that the growth of his own mind has only interlaced 
 them more and more. The opening essay, upon the true nature 
 of Beauty and its relation to hunum culture, was comj)osed in 
 1851, and all of the writer's study of books and observation of
 
 VI PREFACK. 
 
 tiiiin, from that time to the present, has only raatle liim tenfold 
 more certain that the theory of iPsthetics then presented is the 
 true one. A inomcMit's glance ont upon the present condition 
 of society is more than suflicient to show, that a false idea of 
 Beauty and its functions is fatal, not only to cliaracter, but to 
 lofty and noble art. (There is little severity in the current cul- 
 ture, and there is little of the ideal or heroic in it, or its pro- 
 ducts.) In again calling att(Mition to the aesthetics of Michael 
 Angelo and Milton, the author believes that he is doing the 
 state some service. 
 
 We hear much of moral character, and know well what is 
 meant by it. But there is such a thing as intellectual charac- 
 ter. There is a virtue of the head, as well as of the heart ; a 
 temper of the understanding, as well as of the will. It grows 
 out of high theories ; out of exact formulas. Only education 
 of a peculiar type will produce it. It is true, indeed, that in- 
 tellectual character cannot be divorced from moral. Both de- 
 velop best together, even as in the human body the brain and 
 the heart concur in a common life. They grow in pairs like 
 Wordsworth's yew trees : 
 
 " Those fraternal Four of Borrowdale 
 Joined in one solemn and capacious grove ; 
 Huge trunks ! and each particular trunk a growth 
 Of intertwisted fibres serpentine ' 
 
 Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved." 
 
 Still, the imperfect is better than the wholly bad, and it would 
 be well if those who shrink from the severities of religion would 
 remember that there are severities of letters and of art, and, 
 while recoiling from all contact with the doctrines of theology, 
 would resolutely place themselves under the influence of the 
 higher instead of the lower schools of literature. If they can- 
 not begin at the beginning and make their sacrifice to God, let 
 them at least sacrifice to the austerer muses. Tlie elevation of 
 the intellect might be a precursor to that of the heart. 
 
 A higher type of intellectuality is greatly needed in our new
 
 PKEFACE. vn 
 
 America. Strictness and not laxity should characterize our 
 style of thinking, our speculative theories, our judgments, and 
 our tastes. There is imminent danger of the contrary. An 
 easy and indulgent theory of education and refinement is 
 formed among us, and unless counteracted, the only civilization 
 on this' Western continent that is worth anything will go to de- 
 struction. There is just now a great clamor and demand for 
 " culture," but it is not so much culture that is needed as 
 discijyline. Twenty years ago, there was among us no formally 
 stated theory like the Epicurean, but there was too much Epi- 
 cureanism running through society, infusing a debilitating 
 heat, and imparting a hectic flush. But now, the philosophy 
 of Lucretius is distinctly adopted and defended, and the infidel 
 physics organizes the sensual impulse and strengthens the sen- 
 siuxl bent of the masses. We are not so sound and healthy a 
 people as we were a generation ago. The debilitation is seen 
 in vices that prevail over the whole extent of the land, and 
 mortice themselves into the frame-work of society so firmly that 
 society must be shocked and racked before they can be torn 
 out. It is seen in the amusements of the peojile, especially in 
 our large cities, which are fast overflowing their limits, and in- 
 undating the country with their fasliions and spirit. Amuse- 
 ments are an accurate index of the national stamina, and the 
 frivolous, licentious amusements now so common indicate that 
 the American is undergoing an enervating, debauching process, 
 as the cruel gladiatorial amusomonts of the lloman indicated that 
 he underwent a hardening, brutalizing process. And it is dilU- 
 cult to say which is worst, in the sweep of years, and with 
 leference to the perpetuity of society — this modern softening of 
 the brain, or that ancient ossification of the heart. The national 
 decay is seen again, in meicantile deceit and breach of trusts, 
 which have become so wide-spread as to inspire foreign and 
 domestic capital with alarm ; causing a general distrust of both 
 individiial and national credit, and ])roducing a general, stagna- 
 tion. It is .'«;en in the venality and profligacy of politics, mu- 
 nicipal, state, and federal, which luis sunk republican govern-
 
 Mil PUEFACE. 
 
 meut almost to the level of the worst specimens of monai-chy 
 iu the times of the second Charles, and the French Regency. 
 
 A yet worse feature, perhajjs, because it stands in the way 
 of reformation, is found in the dislike of s.tern recuperative 
 theories generally, and the disposition to dilute truth and tone 
 down the austere. The intellectuality of the nation has lost 
 a great deal of its early fibre. In theology, men shrink from 
 thorough statements and absolute punishments, as a weak nerve 
 does from the north wind. In philosophy, even professed stu- 
 dents avoid all the deeper problems, and all the strict science. 
 In poetry, those who read and relish Soi:)ho.cles, Dante, and 
 Milton, are greatly in the minoi-ity. And in art, the lofty 
 abstract ideal has well-nigh vanished, so that in much that 
 goes under this name, sense becomes still more sensuous, and 
 flesh still more carnal. 
 
 The true course is to look these facts in the eye, and to act 
 accordingly. In 1802, a great poet, English to the bone, and 
 loving his country as he loved his own flesh, denominated Eng- 
 land " a fen of stagnant waters," and invoked tlie stern shade 
 of Milton to raise her up, and give her " manners, virtue, free- 
 dom, power." The American Republic needs to-day a similar 
 fidelity, and a similar affection, from all her true sons. 
 
 The author has dwelt the longer upon the opening essay in 
 the volume, because it is the key-note to the whole. The tracts 
 upon Rhetoric and Eloquence are in the same line with the 
 aesthetics; affirming the ethical theory of an art very liable to 
 degenerate into intellectual vanity and display. The views 
 jn-esented upon English Studies, Language and Style, Educa- 
 tion and mental Discipline, are consonant with the general 
 theory, and illustrate it. The two articles upon the Puritan 
 and the African natures, bring together the extremes of human 
 traits, the temperate and the tropical ; and by the sharp con- 
 trast may, perhaps, help to a better comprehension of both. 
 The longest essay in the series, is an attempt to form an esti- 
 mate of the jjhilosophy and theology of one of the most influ- 
 ential intellects of the nineteenth century. It was written in
 
 PEEFACE. IX 
 
 1852, as an introduction to the complete edition of the writings 
 of Coleridge published by the Messrs. Harper, and is by their 
 kind permission republished in this form. At the time of its 
 production, and for years previously, there had been various 
 and discordant opinions, especially in theological circles, re- 
 specting the correctness and value of Coleridge's views. The 
 wiiter has seen no reason to alter the general estimate which 
 he made in his eai'ly life. The points upon which he then 
 agreed, and upon which he then dissented, stand the same with 
 him now. With the excej)tion of a modified view of the doc- 
 trines of atonement and inspiration, he believes the matured 
 and final opinions of Coleridge to be in harmony with the evan- 
 gelical system, as consti'ucted and adopted in England and 
 Aimeiica. The present state of sentiment in the reading and 
 cultivated classes, makes the philosophical opinions of Cole- 
 rid<fe more valuable than ever. He was the first Eiii^lishman at 
 the beginning of the century, to combat the materialism of 
 Hartley, Priestley, and the French Encyclopaedists ; and at the 
 close of the century, the distinctions which he laid down, and 
 the positions wliich he maintained, are still the best answer to 
 the revived materialism of their successors. 
 
 The closing article upon the Confessions of Augustine directs 
 attention to a form of religious experience that is deeply inter- 
 esting to the believer, and not less so to the psychologist. No 
 intellect outside of the circle of inspiration has, on the whole, 
 influenced the human mind so greatly as the North-African 
 father. Theology has moved mankind, both pagan and Chris- 
 tian, more than lias philosophy, or science, or art. Man's re- 
 ligion is, after all, the j)rincipal feature in his history. It ex- 
 plains peace, and it explains war. A great theologian is there- 
 foie a prime mover; and Augustine was eminently such. He 
 shared his influence, in liis own day, in the patristic church, 
 with others ; but subsecpiently, he became the dominant and 
 controlling sjiirit. The theology of the entire Middle Ages was 
 chiefly, thougli imperfectly, moulded by Augu.stine. Anselm and 
 Aquinas were his reverent pupils; and neither of the Scotuses
 
 X TREFACE. y 
 
 would have ventiired formally to oppose him. The theology 
 of the Reformalion was confessedly founded upon the Augus- 
 tinian. Luther listened to Augustine, when he would listen to 
 no other father, and to no schoolman. Calvin, next to the 
 written word of God, fortifies his positions by Augustine ; and 
 wherever in the wide modern world Calvinism has directly gone. 
 or exerted any indirect influence, the thinking and experience 
 of the son of Monica has reappeared. The Roman Catholic 
 still claims him. Petavius, and Bellarmine, and Mohler, all 
 endeavor to prove their orthodoxy, by agreement with the great 
 anti-Pelagian. The roots of all this vast intellectual influence 
 lay in that wonderful experience so powerfully described in the 
 Confessions. At a time when the forces of history are being 
 investigated, and the phenomena of the religious life are being 
 examined even by the skeptic, here is fertile matter for thought 
 and study. 
 
 Union Theolosical Skminakt 
 New Yobk, Sept. 4, 1878,
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FAOa 
 
 The true nature op the Beautiful and its relation 
 
 TO Culture 1 
 
 The influence and method of English Studies 37 
 
 The ethical theory of Khetorig and Eloquence .... 79 
 The characteristics and importance of a Natural 
 
 Rhetoric 123 
 
 The relation of Language and Style to Thought,. 149 
 
 Scientific and Popular Education 187 
 
 Intellectual Temperance 207 
 
 The Puritan Character 229 
 
 The African Nature 245 
 
 Coleridge as a Philosopher and Theologian 271 
 
 The Confessions of Augustine 345
 
 THE TEUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE * 
 
 Gentlemen of the Literary Societies: 
 
 Coming as I do in tlie most beautiful season of the 
 year, into the midst of some of the most beautiful scenery 
 on the continent, and from the midst of scenery differ- 
 ently but equally beautiful ; coming in mid-sunnner into 
 the valley of the River from the valley of the Lake ; you 
 will not be surprised that my subject has connections with 
 the environment in which I wrote and in which I speak. 
 Surrounded, both while thiidviiiy; and while e:ivin<r utter- 
 ance to my thoughts, by Beauty ; composing and speak- 
 ing in the midst of a material nature saturated and suf- 
 fused with this element ; it will not ajjpear forced or 
 unnatural if I find iu it, the theme of our reflections at 
 this hour. 
 
 It is not my purpose however to surrender myself, or 
 to lead others to surrender themselves, to the extreme 
 influence and impression of this quality, and to fall into 
 a vague and rhapsodic train of thought or feeling. On 
 the contrary my aim will be purely and perhaps intensely 
 practical, and I hope with the aid of your own after- 
 
 * A discourse at Amherst College, August 13, 1851.
 
 2 THK TRUE NATlRt: OF THE BRAl'TIFUL, 
 
 thought to make the particular aspect of the general 
 subject of Aesthetics that will be exhibited, contribute 
 to scholarship, and thorough education. 
 f The specilic theme then, to which I would invite your 
 attention, is : The true theory and relative position of the 
 Beautiful, ivith reference more particularhj to culture and 
 to character. In investigating this subject, I think we 
 shall find it one for the times, and the class of men 
 addressed. If I am not mistaken we shall find, in a false 
 theory of Beauty, and, as a consequence, in the false 
 position which it holds as a source and instrument of 
 culture, the root of some of the radical defects, and false 
 tendencies, of the educated class. For if this class need 
 any one thing more than another, it is a rational, sober, 
 and severe estimate of the essential nature of the Beauti- 
 ful, and especially of the relation which it sustains to the 
 True and the Good. In our age there is danger that 
 cultm-e will go the way that Grecian and Roman culture 
 went, and from the same cause ; an undue cultivation 
 of the aesthetic nature, to the neglect of the intellectual 
 and moral. There is always danger lest the most influ- 
 ential class in society, the literary and cultivated portion, 
 form and shape themselves by Beauty more than by 
 Truth, by Art more than by Philosophy and Religion. 
 
 If we accept the Platonic classification, all things in 
 the universe arrange themselves under these three terms : 
 the Beautiful, the True, and the Good. These three 
 ideas cover and include all that can possibly come before 
 the human mind as a worthy object of thought and 
 action. On them, as a foundation, the human mind has 
 built up its most permanent and grandest structures, and 
 with them, in some one or other of their manifold aspects 
 the human mind is constantly occupied. The idea of 
 the Good Ues at the bottom of all religion, and of all
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 6 
 
 inquiries connected with tliis chief concern of man. The 
 idea of the True lies at the bottom of all science, and of 
 the scientific tendency in individuals and nations. The 
 idea of the Beautiful underlies all those products and 
 agencies of the human soul that address the imagination ; 
 all art, and all literature in the stricter signification of the 
 terra, as the antithesis of science. This classification, 
 the work of the most philosophic brain of antiquity, at 
 once so simple and so comprehensive, may therefore well 
 stand as the condensation and epitome of all thought, 
 and the key to all the varieties in human culture and 
 national character. 
 
 But what is the order in which these ideas stand ? — 
 Which is first and which is last in importance ? AVhich 
 is most necessary and absolute in its natiu-c ? Which is 
 the substance, and which is the accident ? The answer 
 to these questions, the theory upon this point, according 
 as it shall be, is either vital or fatal. It will determine 
 the wliole style and character of human culture, both 
 individual and national. If Beauty is placed first, in 
 speculation and in life, and Truth and Goodness are 
 regarded as subordinate, a corresponding style of educa- 
 tion will follow. If the True and the Good are recog- 
 nized as the substance, and the Beautiful as the property 
 and shadow, another and entirely ditl'erent style will 
 result. Here, therefore, the inquirer stands at the point 
 of divergence between the two principal species of civili- 
 zation and culture of which human history is made up ; 
 that of luxury, enervation, decline, and full, on 1h(! one 
 hand, and that of severiiy, strength, growth, and gran- 
 dear, on the other. At this poini, also, he stands upon 
 the line which divides the lower from Ihe higiicr forms 
 of literalnre; the lower from Ihe higher products of art 
 itself; the more shallow and erroneous, from the more
 
 4 THE TRUK NATUKE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 profound and correct, systems of jihilosophy and religion. 
 Here is the summit-level and ridge whence the streams 
 How due east and due west, never to mingle in a common 
 ocean. For if history teaches anything, it teaches that 
 according as a nation and a national mind starts from 
 the one or the other of these ideas, as a point of depar 
 ture and as the guiding thought in its career, will be its 
 etyle of development. 
 
 The true theory of Beauty subordinates it to the True 
 and the Good. Any estimate of it, that sets it above 
 these two eternal and necessary ideas, is both incorrect 
 and uni)hilosophical. The closer we think, and the 
 nearer we get to the essence of these three conceptions, 
 the more clearly shall we perceive that while Truth and 
 Goodness appear more and more absolute and necessary. 
 Beauty, in comparison ivith them, appears more and more 
 relative and contingent. The human mind can never, in 
 its own thinking, annihilate the Trvie and the Good; i. e. 
 it cannot conceive of their non-existence. It cannot 
 abstract them from the Divine nature and from the 
 created universe, and have anything substantial left. — 
 These must be. 
 
 If'these fail, 
 The pillared firmament is rottenness 
 And earth's base built on stubble. 
 
 But not so with Beauty. The mind can abstract it 
 from the nature of God, and if Truth and Goodness still 
 remain, there is still something august, something awe- 
 inspiring, something sublime, left. The mind can think 
 it away from the universe of God, but if that universe is 
 still filled with the manifestations of wisdom and excel- 
 lence, it is still worthy of its architect. It is indeed true 
 that Beauty has a real and immanent existence,both in the
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. O 
 
 being of God and in creation ; but the point we are 
 m-o-inw is, that it is there as subordinate to these moral 
 elements, and these higher ideas. It is indeed tiaie that 
 from eternity to eternity Beauty is a quality in the nature 
 of the First Perfect and the First Fair, and from this foun- 
 tain has welled up and pom-ed over into the whole creation 
 of God like sunset into the hemisphere, but it has been 
 only as the accompaniment and adornment of higher and 
 more august qualities. The Beautiful is not, as some 
 teach, either the True or the Good ; neither is it more 
 absolute and perfect than these. These are the substance, 
 the eternal essence, and it, in relation to them, is the acci- 
 dent. The Beautiful indeed inheres in the True and tht* 
 Good, and it forever accompanies them, even as light, 
 according to the fine saying of Plato, is the shadow of 
 God ; but it is not therefore to be regarded as the highest, 
 of all ideas, or as the crowning element in the universe. 
 
 For where does Beauty reside ? Where is its seat ? 
 Always in the /orw, as distinguished from the substance^ 
 When the human soul swells with the feeling, it is 
 impressed not by the truth and substantial reality of an 
 object, but by something that in comparison with this is 
 secondary and accidental. When, for example, the 
 sense for Beauty is completely filled and deluged by a 
 sun-set or a sun-rise, the essential meaning of this scene 
 is not necessarily in the soul. That which this scene is 
 for Science, its truth for the pure intellect, is most cer- 
 tainly not in the mind; for the poetic vision and the 
 scientific vision are contraries. And that which it is for 
 Religion may be, and too often is, alien to the soul; for 
 (his feeling for the Beauty that is in the sun-rise, is by 
 no means identical with the feeling fortJKj (Joodness that 
 is there. In every instance it is the form and not the 
 substance, it is the beauty and not the truth, that
 
 6 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL., 
 
 addresses the aesthetic nature, while in every instance it 
 is the substance and not the form, it is tlie true and not 
 the beautiful, that addresses the intellectual and moral 
 natures. 
 
 ' And why should it not be so ? If, as we have seen, 
 the Beautiful is a subordinate quality ; if it is only the 
 glittering garment of the universe ; to what part of man's 
 natm'e should it appeal, but to that luxviry rather than 
 necessity of the human soul, the aesthetic sense. And 
 so it is. Over against that Beauty which the Creator 
 has poured with lavish, I had almost said indifferent 
 hand, over his creation, he has set a portion of man's na- 
 ture, whose function it is to drink it in, and as He never 
 intended that this mere decoration of his works should 
 engross the soul to the exclusion of the wisdom and 
 goodness displayed iji them, so He never intended that 
 the sense for the Beautiful should absorb and destroy 
 the sense for the True and the Good. 
 
 /"^ We shall see still more clearly the correctness of this 
 theory of the Beautiful, by considering for a moment the 
 nature and influence of that department which is based 
 upon this idea, viz : Fine Art. The aim and end of 
 Art is fine form, and nothing but fine form. I do not 
 forget that in every work of Art there is a truth at the 
 bottom, and that the power of a painting or a statue is 
 dependent upon the meaning' everywhere present in it. 
 Still this significant thought at the base, this intellectual 
 expression in the product, is not that which constitutes it a 
 work of Art. It is the beauty of this thought, the fine 
 form of this idea, which is the end of Art, and which 
 renders its products different from those of Science. For 
 if Art were merely and purely an expression of truth, how 
 would it differ from Science, and why would not every 
 subject that had meaning in it be a fit one for the artist?
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 
 
 Art, it is true, has a significance, and it is high and ideal 
 in proportion to the depth and fuhiess of the idea it em- 
 bodies, yet it differs from Science and Religion by em- 
 ploying both the True and the Good as means only. Its 
 own sole end is Beauty, to which it subordinates all 
 else. It embodies Truth and Virtue only that it may 
 exhibit the beauty in them, and addresses the intellect andy 
 heart only that it may reach the imagination. After all 
 its connection with the substance, Art is still formal. 
 And tills is no disparagement to it. It is no undervalu- 
 ation to draw jtharp lines about a department of human 
 effort, and strip off what does not essentially belong to it. 
 Fine Art has its own proper and important vocation, and 
 Science and Religion have theirs, and each is honored by 
 being strictly defined, and rigorously confined to its own 
 aim, end, and limits. 
 
 jSow such being the nature of Fine Art, considered as \ 
 a department of human effort and an instrument to be 
 employed in educating the human mind, what must be 
 its influence if left to itself ; if unbalanced and uncom- 
 pleted by other departments ? What style of culture 
 will the idea of the Beautiful originate in the individual 
 and national mind, when severed from the ideas of the 
 True and the Good ? The answer to this question is to be 
 found in historv. One of the 2;reat historical races, in 
 liie plan of Providence, received its training and develop- 
 ment under the excessive and exorbitant influence of 
 Beauty, and for a moment I invite your attention to an 
 examination of the results. 
 
 The Greek mind was eminently aesthetic, and the 
 Greek nature was controlled by a too strong and intense 
 tendency to the Beautiful. If the liunian mind is truth- 
 ful and solenin anywhere, it is so within the sphere of re- 
 ligion ; but we may say of the Greek, as was said of one
 
 N 
 
 8 Tin: TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAIT1KUI-, 
 
 of Ihe most genial of modern errorists by one of the most 
 [)ro found of modern thinkers, that lie was more in love 
 with the beauty of religion than its truth. The Greek 
 religion was the worship of Beauty, and the whole life 
 of the people ; private and public, literary and political ; 
 was formed by this idea to an extent and thoroughness 
 never witnessed before or since. But the Greek mind, 
 with all the charm and influence it has exerted upon the 
 modern mind, and will continue to exert to the last syl- 
 lable of recorded time, had one great and radical defect. 
 The True and the Holy did not interest it sufficiently. 
 These ideas did not mould it and form it from the cen- 
 tre. Hence the Greek nature was not a deep and sol- 
 emn one. It never felt, unless we except the heroic 
 period in its history ; a period that is hardly historic ; the 
 influence of that which is higher than Beauty, and which 
 has an affinity with a more profound part of the human 
 constitution than the aesthetic sense. 
 
 The truth is, that as the intellectual and moral nature 
 of man is his highest endowment, so the True and the 
 Good, as the highest ideas, aredts proper correspondent. 
 When, therefore, as in the case of the Greek, a relatively in- 
 ferior portion of the soul became superior, and a relatively 
 inferior idea became ultimate and engrossing, it was not 
 possible that the highest development of human nature 
 should take place, or the highest style of culture should 
 be originated. The influence which the Greek mind has 
 exerted upon the modern world, great as it has been, and 
 beneficial as it has been, has nevertheless not been of the 
 absolutely highest order, unless we set the aesthetic 
 above the intellectual and moral. Art before Science and 
 Religion, and tiie culture springing from the form above 
 ^tha.t springing from the substance. 
 
 Far be it from me, on such an occasion and before
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 9 
 
 such an audience, to undervalue classical education. I 
 have not the slightest sympathy with that Jacobinism in 
 literature which would throw aside the study of the an- 
 cient classics, and shut out the modern mind fi-om the 
 beauty, and symmetry, and cultivating influence, of 
 Greek and Roman letters. Still it should be remembered 
 that no single literature can do everything for the human 
 intellect. On the contrary, each and every literature that 
 is historic has one particular function to perform. In 
 the education of the modern mind, classical literature 
 has its own peculiar office to discharge, and this is, to in- 
 fuse that beauty and symmetry which it possesses in so 
 high degree into modern thought ; to furnish a fine Form 
 for the modern Idea. For it must not for a moment be 
 supposed that the modern mind is to go back to the 
 ancient for the substance of literature. The Chris- 
 tian world cannot go back into the Pagan world in 
 search for the True and the Good, but it ever must go 
 back there for the Beautiful. For the sphere of cognition, 
 and consequently of reflection and feefing, in which the 
 ancient mind moved, was narrow and contracted, com- 
 pared with the "infinite and sea-hke arena" on which 
 the modern careers. Not that minds may not be 
 found in the ancient world of equal depth, grasp, and 
 power, with any that have adorned modern literature, 
 but the materials on which they were compelled to labor 
 fell far short of that which is the subject of modern effort, 
 in depth, richness, and compass. The range of thought 
 and feeling, in which the ancient mind moved, in respect 
 to ihe great subjects pertaining to man's origin and des- 
 tiny, was "cal)ined, criblx'd and confined," comparec' 
 with that vast expanse in which it is the privilege of 
 the moch-rn to think and (eel. The Christian Revela 
 tion, while it imparted more dcterminateness and signili-
 
 10 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 cancc io those doctrines of natural religion upon which 
 Plato and Aristotle had reflected with such truthiulnesa 
 and profundity, at the same time lodged in the mind of 
 the modern world an amount of new truth, that widened 
 Infinitely the lield of human vision, and the scope of iiu- 
 man reflection. We have but to compare Homer, Aes- 
 chylus, and Virgil, with Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton, 
 to see how immensely the range of the human mind was 
 augmented by a Divine Revelation. In these latter 
 instances, it moves in a region large enough for it, 
 and feels the influence of those " truths dee]) as the 
 centre " with which it is connected by origin and des- 
 tiny ; while in the former instances, though the vague 
 yearnings, and obscure anticipations, and unsatisfied 
 longings, evidence the heaven-born nature of the human 
 spirit, yet they serve only to reveal still more clearly the 
 helplessness of its bondage, and the closeness of its con- 
 finement to this " bank and shoal of time." * 
 
 But although the Christian Religion so widened the 
 sphere of human thought and feeling, and so deepened 
 and spiritualized the processes of the human mind, and so 
 enriched it in the material for literature, it indirectly 
 diminished its artistic ability, and rendered it less able to 
 embody its conceptions. This very opulence in the ma- 
 terial, and this very elevation of the theme, embarrassed 
 the mind. For in proportion to the richness and intrin- 
 sic excellence of the thought, does the difficulty increase, 
 
 * Hence that undertone of melancholy in the more serious portions ot 
 classical literature, (as the Histories of Tacitus, and the Morals of Plu 
 tarch) unrelieved Uy any notes of hope or triumph stnick out hy thcknowl- 
 ed},fe, and the prospect, of the final consummation. The gloom of Danto 
 is far different from the gloom of Aeschylus; for while, like his, it springs 
 from the conscioni-ness of the life-long conflict hctween good and evil, it is 
 illumined hy the knowledge of the final issue. In the case of the Pagaa 
 'H« gloom is made thicker by the total ignorance of the great hereafter.
 
 L 
 
 / 
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 11 
 
 of putting it into a form worthy of it. The problem of 
 Art, in every instance, is to attain an exact correspond- 
 ence between the matter and the form ; to embody the 
 idea in just the right amount of material, so that the 
 idea shall not overflow and di-own the form, nor the form 
 overlay and crush the idea. Hence, among other quali- 
 ties, the cleanness, the niceness, of a successful work of 
 Art. But this problem, it is plain, becomes more diffi- 
 cult, in proportion as the idea, or guiding thought, is 
 more profound or significant in its nature. For by rea- 
 son of its depth and expanse it becomes vastly more 
 comprehensive and pregnant, and less capable of being 
 brought within the limitation of Art, within the boundt* 
 of a form. The nearer the subject-matter approaches 
 the infinite; the more vast and unhmited the idea in the 
 mind ; the greater the difficulty of exhibiting it in the 
 finite shapings of Art. 
 
 Now the ancient mind had these advantages. In the 
 first place the material, the truth, upon which it labored, 
 was far more wieldy and compassable than that which 
 is presented to the modern mind, and in the second 
 place it was (especially in the instance of the Greek) a 
 much more artistic mind, in and of itself; The resuli, 
 consequently, was a far closer correspondence between 
 the substance and the form, and hence a much more 
 successful solution of the problem of Fine Art, than has 
 ever been attained by any other j)e()ple. 
 ' The modern mind Ihcreforc, the Clirislian world, while 
 it cannot go back inlo llic Pagan world for lhe subsiance 
 of literature, for the True and the (lood, must ever go 
 back there for the form, for the Beaiiliful. And it was 
 precisely because IIk^ FiUroj)(';iii iiiiiid. in llu^ fifteenth 
 century, felt ihr need of ihis aesllielic clcinciil in culture, 
 which it was conscious of not possessing, that it betook
 
 12 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 itself 1o cliissical liteva+nre. At that period, when the, 
 human mind was wakinj^ up from the dormancy of Ihe 
 middle ages, and was beginning to feel the fresh im- 
 piilses of the Christian Religion, it was filled, to overflow- 
 ing, with ideas and principles, thoughts and feelings. Its 
 powers and energies were being almost preternaturally 
 roused by this influx of new truth, the natural tendency 
 of w^hich is to stir the human soul, preconforraed as it is 
 to its influence, to its iimiost centre. But this season 
 of mental fermentation was no time for serene contem- 
 plation, and beautiful construction. The whole materiel 
 for a new literature was originated ; but originated in a 
 mind agitated to its lowest depths by the energy and 
 force that was pouring through it, and which for this 
 very reason was not master of itself, or of the material 
 with which it was laboring. Foj'm, rounded symmetri- 
 cal finished Form, was needed for this Matter, and 
 hence the modern betook himself to the studv of that lit- 
 erature preeminent above all others for its artistic per- 
 fection. The study of the serene and beautiful models 
 in which Grecian thought embodied itself tamed the 
 wildly-working mind of the Goth, and imparted to it 
 that calm, artistic, formative power by which the intel- 
 lectual chaos was to become cosmos.* 
 
 * It is indeed true, that in the higher forms of Greek literature there is a 
 remarkable depth and seriousness of sentiment which seems to militate 
 against the position taken. Here the Beautiful is more in the back-ground, 
 and the True mainly in the fore-ground. But it should be remembered 
 that the real nature and tendency of the Greek appears far more in the 
 lighter forms of the literature, and especially in that wilderness of works of 
 Art that covered all Greece, than in the deep-toned poetry of Homer and 
 Aeschylus, or the profound sentiment of Plato and Thucydides. This por- 
 tion of Greek literature derived its tone and matter from that elder period,' 
 that heroic age; (.when the national mind was impressed, as the elder mind 
 always has been, more by the essential than the formal, more by Truth 
 than by Beauty, j
 
 AXD ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 13 
 
 But if the literature of the Greeks is predominantly 
 aesthetic, and performs this aesthetic function in the sys- 
 tem of modern education, the national character was 
 still more so. The student of Grecian history, especially 
 of the internal history of the Greeks, is struck with the 
 disparity between the national character and the na- 
 tional literature; between the products of the Greek 
 mind, or rather of a few choice Greek minds, and the 
 Greek himself The more the student becomes acquaint- 
 ed with that extremely imaginative and extremely tasteful, 
 but too lively and too volatile, race of men, the more 
 does he wonder that so much depth and truth of senti- 
 ment should be found in the literature that sprang up 
 among them ; the more docs he wonder that the native 
 bent and tendency of the national mind did not overrule, 
 and suppress, all these higher elements. It is only on 
 the supposition that the great men of Greece were above 
 their race, and breathed in a more solemn and medita- 
 tive atmosphere than that sunny air in which the Athe- 
 nian populace lived, that he can account for the remark- 
 able diflcrence between the profound, severe, and moral, 
 spirit of tiie Greek tragedy, and the fickle, gay, and alto- 
 gether trilling temper of tlie Ionic race. 
 
 Whatever this excessive tendency to the Beautiful 
 may have wrought out for the Greeks, in some respects, 
 it is certain that it contributed to the enervation and de- 
 struction of all strong character in tlie nation. That 
 Ionic race, instead of following indulgently and extrava- 
 gantly, as th(;y did, their native bias, ought to have sub- 
 jected it to the most severe education and restraint. 
 Those two other ideas which dawned in such solemnity 
 and power ui)on the intellect of their greatest philoso- 
 pher, ought to have rained down inllnence upon them. 
 Those more serious and awe-inspiring objects of reflection,
 
 li THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAtlTIFUL, 
 
 the True and the Good, ought to have dawned upon the 
 popular mind in a clearer light and with a more overcom- 
 ing pow(>r. How diU'erent, so far as all the grand and 
 heroic elements of national character are concerned, were 
 the Greeks of that golden age of ancient Art, the age of 
 Pericles, from the Romans of the days of Numa ! We 
 grant that there is but little outward beauty, in that 
 naked and austere period in Roman history, but there is 
 to be found in that character, as it comes down to us in 
 the legends of Livy and has been reconstructed in the 
 pages of Niebuhr, the strongest, and soundest, and 
 grandest, and sublimest, nationality in the Pagan world. 
 And tiiis was owing to the fact that the early Roman 
 was intellectual and moral, rather than aesthetic. I am 
 speaking, it will be remembered, of a Pagan character, 
 and my remarks must be taken in a comparative sense. 
 Bearing this in mind, we may say that the strength and 
 grandeur of the national character of the first Romans, 
 sprang from the fact that it was moulded and shaped main- 
 ly by the ideas of Truth and Virtue. The aesthetic nature 
 was repressed, and, if you please, almost entirely suppress- 
 ed, but the intellect and the moral sense were developed 
 all the more. Hence those high qualities in their na- 
 tional character ; courage, energy, firmness, probity, pat- 
 riotism, reverence for the gods and the oath ; qualities 
 that were hardly more visible in the ancient, than they 
 are in the modern, Greek. 
 
 And this brings us to the more distinct consideration 
 of what we suppose to be the influence of Fine Art, 
 when it becomes the leading department of effort, and 
 the chief instrument and end of culture, for the individ- 
 ual or the nation. The efiect of the Beautiful upon the 
 human soul, when unmixed, uncounteracted, and exorbi- 
 tant, is enervation. And this, from the very nature of
 
 AND THE RELATION TO CULTURE. 15 
 
 the element itself. We have seen that it cannot be 
 placed upon an equality with the other two elements that 
 enter into the constitution of the universe. It cannot be 
 regarded as so substantial and so necessary in its nature, 
 as the True and the Holy. It is only the property and 
 decoration of that which is essential and absolute. It is 
 only the form. It consequently does not address the 
 highest faculties of the human soul, and if it did, could 
 not waken or generate power in them. When, therefore, 
 it is made to do the work of the higher ideas ; when it is 
 compelled to go beyond its own proper sphere, the aesthet- 
 ic nature, and to furnish aliment for the intellectual and 
 moral nature ; it is set at a work it can never do. The 
 intellect and moral sense demand their own appropriate 
 objects ; they require their correlatives, the True and the 
 Good ; they cry out for the substance and cannot be sat- 
 isfied with the form, however beautiful. When there- 
 fore Beauty is selected as the great idea, by which the 
 individual or national mind is to be moulded, the result 
 is of necessity mental enervation. The human intellect 
 cannot, any more than the human heart, be content with 
 mere form. Like the heart, it cries out, in it^s own way, 
 for the living God ; for Truth and Goodness, the most 
 essential qualities in the Divine nature ; for Wisdom and 
 Virtue, the most essential elements in the moral universe 
 He has made. And what is there in tiie very process of 
 Art itself, when it is isolated from the other and highei 
 departments of human effort, that goes to render man' 
 more intellectual ? The very vocation of Art is to sen- 
 sualize ; using th(; term technically and in no bad sense. 
 Its processes, so far as they are merely artistic, are not 
 spiritnalizing, but the contrary. The vocation of Art, is 
 to bring down ;in idea of the liniiian niiiid; a purely in- 
 tellectual, purely inniiaterial, entity ; into the sphere of 
 
 J
 
 16 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 sense, and there materialize it into colors, and lines, and 
 outlines, and proportions, for the sense, ^'he very call- 
 iing of Art, as a department of effort, is to render sensu- 
 ous the spiritual.'N And the fact that it does this, in the 
 case of all high Ai-t, in an ideal manner; that in the gen- 
 uine product, the idea shines out everywhere through the 
 beautiful form ; does not conflict with the position. If, 
 therefore, in a general Avay and for the purpose of char- 
 acterizing the departments, we may say that in Science 
 and Religion the mental process is spiritualizing, we 
 may affirm that in Art the process is sensualizing. If in 
 the analysis and synthesis of the True and the Good, the 
 mind passes through an increasingly intellectual .procesf, 
 in the embodiment of the merely Beautiful, it passes 
 through an exactly opposite one. If Philosophy and Re- 
 ligion tend to render the mind more intellectual. Fine Art 
 tends to render it more material and sensuous by fixing 
 the eye on the form. 
 
 Now such an influence as this upon the human mind 
 and character, if unbalanced and uncounteracted, is, 
 enervating. There may be, and generally has been, 
 great outward refinement and a most luxurious ele- 
 gance thrown over the culture that originates under 
 such influences, but it is too generally at the expense of 
 strength and virtue and heroism of character. However 
 high the aims of the individual or the nation may have 
 been in the outset, history shows too plainly, that the 
 nerve was soon relaxed and the mind slackened all away, 
 at first, into a too luxurious, and finally, into a voluptu- 
 ous culture. When the Artist, l)y the very theory and 
 :netaphysical nature of his vocation, is compelled to keep 
 nis eye on Beauty, on Fine Form, on the sensuously 
 Agreeable, he must be a strong and virtuous nature that 
 'is not mastered by his calling. If he can preserve an
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 17 
 
 austere tone ; if he can even keep himself up on the high 
 ground of an abstract and ideal Art, and not sink into a 
 too ornate and licentious style ; we may be certain that 
 there was great moral stamina at bottom. 
 
 But speculation aside, let us appeal to history again. 
 What does the story of Art in modern times teach in 
 relation to the position that the unmixed, unbalanced, 
 effect of the Beautiful, is mental enervation ? The most 
 wonderful age of Art Avas that of Leo X. The long 
 slumber of the aesthetic nature of man, during the bar- 
 barism and warfare of those five centuries between the 
 dismemberment of the Roman empire and the establish- 
 ment of the principal nations and nationalities of modern 
 Europe, was broken by an outburst of Beauty and Beauti- 
 ful Art, as sudden, rapid, and powerful, as the bloom and 
 blossom of spring in the arctic zone. Such a multitude 
 of artists and such an opulence of artistic talent, will 
 probably never be witnessed again in one age or nation. 
 But did a grand, did even a respectable, national charac- 
 ter spring into existence along with this bloom of Art, 
 this shower of Beauty ? We know that there were other 
 influences at work, and among others a religious system 
 whose very natm-e it is to carnalize and stifle all that is 
 distinctively sj)iritual in the human soul; but no one can 
 study the history of the period, without being convinced 
 that this excessive and all-absorbing tendency of the 
 general mind of Italy towards Beauty and Fine Art con- 
 tributed greatly to the general enervation of soul. Most 
 certaioly it did not work counter io it. Read the me- 
 moirs of a man like Benvenuto CeUini ; an inferior man 
 it is true, but an artist and rcncc-ling Hie general features 
 of his time ; and see how utterly unlit both the individual 
 and national eullnre of that period was for any lolly, 
 high-minded, truly liistoric, achievement. The solenni
 
 / 
 
 IS THE TRUE NATUUl', OF Till', BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 truths of Religion, and the lofty truths of Philosophy, 
 exerted little or no iniiuence upon that group of Italian 
 artists, so drunken with Beauty. They possessed little 
 of that intellectual severity which enters into every great 
 character; little of that strung muscle and hard nerve 
 which should sujiport the intellect as well as the will. — 
 And therefore it is that we cannot fuid in the Italian his- 
 tory of those ages, any more than in the Italian character 
 of the present day, any of that high emprise and grand 
 achievement which crowds the history of the Teutonic 
 races, less art-loving, but more intellectual and moral. — ■ 
 These races and their descendants have sometimes been 
 charged with a destitution of the aesthetic sense, and the 
 inferiority of their Art, compared with that of Italy, has 
 been cited as proof of their inferiority as a race of men ; 
 but it is enough to say in reply, that these Goths, educa- 
 ting themselves mainly by the ideas of the True and the 
 Good, have given origin to all the literatures, philosophies, 
 and systems of government and religion that constitute 
 the crowning glory of the modern world. The Italian 
 intellect was enfeebled and exhausted by that unnatural 
 bu'th of Beauty upon Beauty. Ever since the fourteenth 
 century, it has been wandering about in that world of 
 fine forms, like Spenser's knight in the Bower of Bliss, 
 until all power of intellect is gone. 
 
 Every truly great and grand character, be it individual 
 or national, is more or less a severe one ; a character 
 which, comparatively, is more intellectual and moral, 
 than aesthetic* This position merits a moment's exam in- 
 
 * According to the etymolofry of the old Grammarians, favored by Doe- 
 
 dcrlein, the severe is the intensely true. Doederkin i. 76, praiferenduni cen- 
 
 set vett. Gramm. scntentiam qua severus co;,'nationem haheat cumber ««; 
 
 ita ut se, ex more Gr. a priv., intensivam vim contineat. 
 
 — Fucciolati's Lexicon in loc.
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 19 
 
 ation. And in the first place, look into political history 
 and see what traits lie at the bottom of all the best 
 periods in national development. Out of what type of 
 mind and style of life has the venerable, the heroic^ age 
 always sprung ? Ai'e men enervate or are they austere, 
 are they aesthetic or are they intellectual and moral 
 in culture, during that period when the national virtue 
 is formed and the historic renown of the people is 
 acquired ? 
 
 The heroic age of Greece, as it comes down to us in 
 the Homeric poems, was a period of simplicity and strict- 
 ness. The Greeks of that early time were intellectual 
 men, moral men, compared with the Greeks of the days 
 of Alcibiades. Turn to the pages of Athenaeus, and get 
 a view of the in-door life and every-day character of a 
 still later period in Grecian history, and then turn to the 
 corresponding picture of the heroic period contained in 
 the Odyssey, mark the difference in the impression made 
 upon you by each representation, and know froin your 
 own feelings, that all that is strong, and heroic, and 
 simple, and gi-and, in national character springs from a 
 severe mind and a predominantly moral culture, and all 
 that is feeble, and supine, and inelFicient, and despicable, in 
 national character, springs from a luxurious mind and a 
 predoiriinaMliy aesthetic culture. 
 
 And how stands the case with Rome ? Which is the 
 venerable period in her history? Is it to be sought for 
 in i1m' hixnrious and (so far as Rome ever had it) the 
 aesthetic civilization of the em|iire, or in the intellectual 
 and moral civilization of the monarchy and republic? 
 Ail 1h<; strength and grandeur of the Roman character 
 and of tiic Roman nationality lies back of the third Punic 
 war. Nay, if Ronn; had been concpiered by Carthage, 
 and had gone out of j)()litical existence, its real glory, it«
 
 20 
 
 TIIF, TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 proper liistoric renown, would have been greater than it 
 is. If in the idea called up by the word Rome, there 
 were wanting, there could be eliminated, the physical 
 corruption and the luxurious but merely outward refine- 
 ment of the empire, and there were left only the stern 
 virtue, the sublime endurance, and the moral grandeur, 
 of the monarchy and republic, the idea v^ould be more 
 ^■sublime in history and more impressive in contemplation. 
 And whence originated that Sabine element, that tough 
 core, that hard kernel, in the Roman character, that lay 
 at the centre and kept Rome up, during her long agony 
 of intestine and external conflict? It had its origin, 
 among the mountains, amid the great features of nature, 
 and it was purified by the privation and hardship of a 
 severe life in the forests of central Italy, on that spine of 
 the Ausonian peninsula, until it became as sound, sweet, 
 and hard, as the chestnuts of the Appenines upon which 
 Jt was fed. Intellectual and moral elements, and not an 
 aesthetic element, were the hardy root of all the political 
 power and prosperity of Rome. 
 
 There is no need, even if there were time, to cite- 
 instances corroborating the view presented, from modern 
 political history. The Puritanism of Old England and 
 of New England will readily suggest itself, to every one, 
 as the one eminently austere national character, with 
 which the power and glory of the Enghsh and xinglo- 
 American races, and the highest hopes of the modern 
 world, are vitally connected. It will be sufficient to 
 say, that the more profound is our acquaintance with 
 political history, the more clearly shall we see that 
 all that is powcrfid, and permanent, and impressive, in 
 the nations, nationalities, and governments of the 
 world, sprang directly or indirectly from a nature in 
 which the aesthetic was subordinate to the intellectual
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 21 
 
 and moral, and for which the True and the Good were 
 moie supreme ideas than the Beautiful. 
 
 Furthermore, the position taken holds true in the 
 sphere of literature also. The great works in every 
 instance are the productions of a severe strength ; of 
 " the Herculeses and not the Adonises of literature," to 
 use a phrase of Bacon. When the aesthetical prevails 
 over the intellectual and moral, the prime qualities, the 
 depth, the originality, and.the power, die out of letters, 
 and the mediocrity that ensues is but poorly concealed 
 by the elegance and polish thrown over it. Even when 
 there is much genius and much originality, an excess of 
 Art, a too deep suffusion of Beauty, a too fine flush of 
 color, is often the cause of a radical defect. Suppose 
 that the poetry of Spenser had more of that passion in it 
 which Milton mentions as the third of the three main 
 qualities of poetry ; suppose (without however wishing 
 to deny the great excellence of the Fairy Queen in regard 
 to intellectual and moral elements) that the proportion 
 of the aesthetic had been somewhat less, would it not 
 have been more powerful and higher poetry ? Suppose 
 that the mind and the culture of Wieland and Goethe 
 had been vastly more under the influence of Truth, and 
 vastly less vuider tiiat of Beauty ; that the substance, 
 instead of the form, had been the mould in which these 
 men were mouldc^d and fitted as intellectual workmen ; 
 might not the first have come nearer to our Spenser, and 
 might not the latter have produced some works that 
 would perhaps begin to justify his ardent but ignorant 
 achnirers in placing iiim in the same class with Shaks- 
 peare and Milton ; a position to which, as it is, he has 
 not the slightest claim. 
 
 Ah a crowning and conilusivc jjroofof the correctness 
 of the view presented, I will refer you to only one mind.
 
 22 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 1 refer you to John Milton, one of those two minds which 
 tower high above all others in the sphere of modern lite- 
 rature. If there ever was a man in whom the aesthetic 
 was in complete subjection to the intellectual and moral, 
 without being in the least suppressed or mutilated by 
 them, that man was Milton. If there ever was a human 
 intellect so entirely master of itself, of such a severe typ{;, 
 that all its processes seem to have been the pure issue of 
 discipline and law, it was the intellect of Milton. In 
 contemplating the grandeur of the products of his mind, 
 we are apt to lose sight of his mind itself, and of his 
 intellectual character. If we rightly consider it, the dis- 
 cipline to which he subjected himself, and the austere 
 style of intellect aiid of Art in which it resulted, are as 
 worthy of the reverence and admiration of the scholar as 
 the Paradise Lost. We have unfortunately no minute 
 and detailed account of his every-day life, but from all 
 that we do know, and from all that we can infer from 
 the lofty, colossal, culture and character in which he 
 comes down to us, it is safe to say that Milton must 
 have subjected his intellect to a restraint, and rigid deal- 
 ing with its luxurious tendencies, as strict as that to 
 which Simon Stylites or St. Francis of Assisi subjected 
 their bodies. We can trace the process, the defecating 
 purifying process, that went on in his intellect, through 
 his entire productions. The longer he lived and the 
 more he composed, the severer became his taste, and the 
 more grandly and serenely beautiful became his works. 
 It is true that the theory of Art, and of culture, opposed 
 to that which we are recommending, may complain of 
 the occasional absence of Beauty, and may charge as a 
 fault an undue nakedness and austerity of form. But 
 one thing is certain and must be granted by the candid 
 critic, that whenever the element of Beauty is found in
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 23 
 
 Milton, it is found in absolute purity. That intense 
 refining process, that test of light and of fire, to which all 
 his materials were subjected, left no residuum that was 
 not perfectly pm-e. And therefore it is, that throughout 
 universal literature, a more absolute Beauty and a more 
 delicate aerial gi-ace, are not to be found than appear in 
 the Comus and the fourth book of Paradise Lost. 
 
 But we are not anxious on this point of Beauty, 
 especially in connection with the name of Milton. Sub- 
 limity is a higher quality, and so are Strength and Gran- 
 deur ; and if Beauty does not come in the train, and as 
 the mere ornament, of these, it is not worth while to seek 
 it by itself and for its own sake. And much will be 
 gained when education, and culture, and authorship, shall 
 dare to take this high stand which Milton took ; shall 
 dare to pass by Beauty, in the start, and to aim at deeper 
 elements and loftier qualities, in the train, and as the 
 ornament of which, a real Beauty and an absolute Grace 
 shall follow of themselves. ^ 
 
 Returning then to the intellectual character of Milton, 
 let me advise you to study that character until you see 
 that the strict, and philosophically severe theory of the 
 Beautiful and of Art lies under the whole of it. Milton 
 had no aflinities for excessive sensuous Beauty. He was 
 no voluptuary in any sense. So far as the sense was 
 concerned he was abstemious as an ascetic, and so far as 
 the soul was concerned he knew no such Ihing as luxury. 
 He devoted himself to poetry, an Art which, glorious as 
 it is, yet has tendencies that need counteraction, which 
 tempts to Arcadi-.iii and indulgent vi(!ws of Iniiimii life 
 and human character, and which, as literary hisU)ry 
 shows, has too often been llic medium Hirongh which 
 dreamy and unconirollcd nalrncs have communicated 
 themselves to the world. But as a poet, he constructed
 
 24 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 with all the truth of Science and all the purity of 
 Religion. The j^oetic Art, as it appears in Milton, is 
 spiritual and spiritualizing.* 
 
 If this element of severity is entirely wanting in a 
 man ; if he is entirely destitute of austerity ; if his nature 
 is wholly and merely aesthetic, constantly melting and 
 dissolving in an atmosphere of Beauty ; whatever else 
 may be attributed to him, strength and grandeur cannot 
 be. We do not deny that there is a sort of interest in 
 such natures, but we deny that it is of the highest sort. 
 If a man is born with a beautiful soul, and it is his ten 
 dency (to use a Shaksperean phrase) " to wallow in the 
 lily beds;" to revel in luxurious sensations, be they 
 wakened by material or immaterial Beauty ; unless he 
 subject his mind to the training of higher ideas, and of a 
 higher department than that of Fine Art, his career will 
 end in the total enervation of his being. This tendency 
 ought in every instance to be disciplined. The individ- 
 ual in whom it exists, ought to superinduce upon it a 
 strictness and austerity that will check its luxuriance, 
 and bring it within the limits of a severer and therefore 
 purer taste. 
 
 The least injurious and safest form which an undue 
 aesthetic tendency can take on, is a quick sense for the 
 Beautiful in natm-e. But even here, an unbalanced, 
 uneducated, tendency is enervating That dreamy mood 
 of young poets, that dissolving of the soul in " the light 
 of setting suns," must be educated and sobered by a 
 stern discipline of the head and heart, or no poetry will 
 
 * We may say of Milton, in reference to the highly ideal character of his 
 Art, as Fuseli has said of the same feature in Michael Angelo ; " he is the 
 salt of Art." He saves it from its inherent tendency to corruption, by a 
 larger infusion of intellectual and moral elements thau exists in the average 
 nroductions of the department.
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 25 
 
 be produced that will go down through all ages. It is 
 not so much a deep tendency as a transient mood of the 
 soul, and needs the infusion of intellectual and moral 
 elements, in order that it may become " the vision and 
 faculty divine." Turn to a great collection, like Chal- 
 mers' British Poets, and observe how large a portion of 
 this mass of poetry is destitute of the power of produ- 
 cing a permanent impression upon the human imagina- 
 tion ; how little out of this great bulk is selected to be 
 read by the successive generations of English students ; 
 how small a portion of it, compared with the whole 
 amount, is profoundly and genuinely poetic ; and at the 
 same time notice how very much of it was evidently 
 composed under the influence which the Beautiful in 
 nature exerts upon an undisciplined, and uneducated, 
 aesthetic sense, and you will have the strongest possible 
 proof of the enervating, enfeebling, influence of this 
 quality when isolated from the intellectual and moral. — 
 The mind needed a deeper culture, and a discipline 
 wrought out for it by higher ideas, that could use and 
 elaborate these obscure feelings, these dim dreams, this 
 blind sense, for the purposes of a higher and more genuine 
 Art. It is often said, we know, that science is the death 
 of poetry.; that the study of the Kantean philosophy 
 injured the poetry of Schiller, and the study of all philo- 
 sophies the poetry of Coleridge ; that the charm, and 
 ihe glow, and the flush, and the fulness, and the .uxuri- 
 ancc, and the gorgeousncss, were all destroyed by the 
 acid and blight of science. But we do not believe this. 
 These poets might have written more, had their imagina- 
 tion not been passed through these severe processes of 
 the intellect, they might have been more (luent, but that 
 they would have written more that will have a las/iiii^ 
 poetic interest remains to he seen. Their Art is all the
 
 26 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 .'li^lior, for the check and restraint imposed upon their 
 poetic nature. And who will not say, to take a plain 
 example, that if the young soul of Keats could have been 
 corded with a stronger muscle, and overshaded with a 
 severer tone of feeling and sentiment; that if a more 
 masculine culture could have been married with that 
 genuinely feminine soul ; a higher poetry and a still 
 purer Beauty would have been the offspring of this 
 hymeneal union ? * 
 
 And this brings us to the more positive side of the 
 subject. Thus far we have spoken in a negative way of 
 what the Beautiful is not, and of what it cannot do for 
 the human soul and human culture. We now affirm 
 that only on the theory which subordinates Beauty to 
 Truth can the highest style of Beauty itself be originated, 
 and that only when the department of Aesthetics is sub- 
 ordinate to those of Philosophy and Religion, does a 
 genuinely beautiful culture, either individual or national, 
 spring into existence. Without this check and subor- 
 dination, the aesthetic quality will destroy itself by 
 becoming excessive. The more staple elements that 
 must enter into and substantiate it, will all evaporate ; 
 as if the "warm organic flesh should all turn into the fine 
 flush of the complexion ; as if the air and the light and 
 the foliage and the waters, all the material, all the solidity/, 
 of a beautiful landscape, should vanish away into mere 
 crimson and vermilion. For, as we have already 
 observed, true Beauty in a work of Art, is conditioned 
 upon the presence in it of some intelligible idea. There 
 must be some truth and some ex):)ression, in order to the 
 existence of the pure quality itself. Beauty cannot stand 
 alone. There must be a meaninji: underneath of which 
 
 '& 
 
 * If the school of Tennyson needs any one tiling, it is an austerer 
 ii.anner.
 
 AXD ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 27 
 
 it is the clothing. There must be an intellectual concep- 
 tion \\dthin the product, to which it can cling for sup- 
 port, and from which it derives all its growing, lasting, 
 highest charm for a cultivated taste. Hence it is, that 
 as ^ve go up the scale. Beauty actually becomes more 
 ideal, more and more intellectual and moral. It under- 
 goes a refining process, as it rises in grade, whereby the 
 sensuous element, so predominant in the lower products 
 of Art, is volatilized. There is more appeal to the soul 
 and less to the sense, as we go up from the more florid 
 and showy schools of painting, e. g., to the more ideal 
 and spiritual. The same is true of the Beautiful in na- 
 ture. As we ascend from the inferior to the higher veg- 
 etation, we find not only a more delicate organization, 
 but a more delicate Beauty. The gaudy and coarse col- 
 oring gives place to more exquisite hues, in proportion 
 as miiul ; in proportion as the presiding intellig-ence of the 
 Creator ; comes more palpably into view. In the words 
 of Milton, all things are 
 
 more refined, more spirituous, and pure, 
 As nearer to Ilini placed, or nearer tending, 
 Till body up to spirit Avork. 
 
 So from the root 
 Springs lighter the green stalk ; from thence the leaves 
 More aery ; last the bright consuinniiUe flower 
 Spirits odorous breathes ; flowers and their fruit, 
 Man's nourishment, by gradual scale sublimed 
 To vital spirits aspire, to animal, 
 To intelUctuuL* 
 
 And all things grow more highly beautiful as wc keep 
 pace with this upward step in natun;, until we pass ovci 
 into the distinctively spiritual spiiere, and reach the 
 
 * Pur. Lost. V. 475.
 
 28 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 crown and completion of all Beauty ; the beauty of char- 
 acter, or the " beauty of holiness." Observe that all 
 along this limitless line we find a growing severity ; that 
 is, an increase of the intellectual or moral element. Sen- 
 suous beauty is displaced, or rather absorbed and trans- 
 figured, by intellectual beauty ; the ideas of the True and 
 the Good more and more assert their supremacy, by em- 
 ploying the Beautiful as the mere medium through which 
 they become visible, even as light, after traversing the 
 illimitable fields of ether without either color or form, on 
 coming into an atmosphere, into a medium, thickens in- 
 \ to a solid blue vault. 
 
 A reference to the actual history of Fine Art will also 
 verify the position here taken. As matter of fact, we 
 find this spiritualizing process ; this advance of the sub- 
 stance and this retreat of the form ; going on in every 
 school of Art that grew more purely and highly beautiful, 
 and in the soul of every artist who went up the scale of 
 artists. That school which did not grow more ideal, 
 invariably grew more sensuous and less beautiful, and 
 that artist who did not by study and discipline become 
 more strict and pure in style, invariably sunk down 
 into the lower grade. All the w^orks of Art that go dowai 
 through succeeding ages with an ever-growdng beauty as 
 well as an ever-towering sublimity; all the great models 
 and master-pieces ; owe their origin to a most exact 
 taste and a most spiritual idea. The study of the great 
 models in every department of Art, be it painting, or 
 sculpture, or poetry, will convince any one that the im- 
 agination, the artist's faculty, when originating its great- 
 est works imposes restraints upon itself; in reality is 
 rigorous with itself. If the artist allows his imagination to 
 revel amid all the possible forms that will throng, and 
 oress, through this wonderfully luxuriant and productive
 
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 29 
 
 power , if he suffers it to waste its energy in an idle play 
 with its thick-coming fancies ; if, in short, he does not 
 preserve it a rational imagination, and regulate it by the 
 deeper element and higher principle inherent in it, his 
 productions wiU necessarily be in the lower style. It 
 is for this reason that the artist betakes himself to study. 
 He would break up this revelry of a lawless, uneducated, 
 imagination. He would set limits to a vague and aim- 
 less energy. He would ^vield a productive talent that 
 lies lower down ; that works more calmly and grandly ; 
 more according to reason and a profounder Art. The 
 educating process, in the case of the artist, is intended to 
 repress a cloying luxuriance and to superinduce a beau- 
 tiful austerity ; to substitute an ideal for a material beau- 
 ty. Hence we see that the artist, as he grows in power 
 and high excellence, grows in strictness of theory and 
 severity of taste. His products are marked by a graver 
 beauty, and tiie presence of a purer ideal, as he goes up 
 the scale of artists. 
 
 As an example, we may cite the instance of IMichael 
 Angelo. For grandeur, sublimity, and power of perma- 
 nent impression, he confessedly stands at the head of his 
 Art, and although in regard to beauty, Raphael may dis- 
 pute the palm with him, and by some may be thought his 
 superior, yet no one can deny that (as in the case of Mil- 
 ton) whenever this element does appear in " the mighty 
 Tuscan," it is of the most absolute and perfect species." 
 
 * Winckclmann. looking from his point of view, which was that of classic 
 Art merely, has expressed a disparafjint; opinion in regard to Angelo, so far 
 as the Beautiful is concerned, and seems to have laid the foundation for tiie 
 Buperfieial and too general opinion, that in respect to this ([iiality he was hy 
 nature greatly inferior to Kaphacl. But the al)le editors of his works justly 
 call attention to the fact, that Winckelmann is wrong in judging of modern 
 Art in this servile way, and allude to a scarce and hut little known poem 
 jf Angclo's, in which a most delicate and feminine appreciation of heautj
 
 30 TMF, TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 Yet all his productions are characterized by an austere 
 manner. The form is always subservient, and perhapa 
 sometimes somewhat sacrificed, to the idea. And, at 
 any rate, the man himself, compared with the Italian 
 artists generally, compared wiih Raphael especially, was 
 a spiritual man both in culture and character. We con- 
 fess that we look with a veneration bordering upon awe 
 upon that grand nature, abstinent, abstract, and ideal, in 
 an age that was totally sensuous in head and heart, and 
 in a profession whose most seductive and dangerous ten- 
 dency is to soften and enervate. By the force of a strong 
 heroic character, as well as a hard and persevering study 
 both of Ai't and of Nature, he counteracted that ten- 
 dency to a sensuous and a sensualizing beauty, which 
 we have noticed as the bane of Art, and in that nerve- 
 less age, so destitute of lofty virtue and stern heroism, 
 stands out like the Memnon's head on the dead level of 
 
 is apparent. " In this poem," say they, " the great Jlichael Angelo reveals 
 himself in a manner that appears striking and wonderful to such as have 
 known him only from iiis paintings and statues. Heartfelt admiration for 
 beauty, love too deep to be disclosed to its object, a gentle touching sadness 
 wakened by the sense of an existence that cannot satisfy an infinite affec- 
 tion, and a melancholy longing, growing out of this, for dissolution and 
 freedom from the bonds of earth, form the ground-tone of this warmly-glow- 
 ing poem, in which Angelo gives an expression of the feminine element in 
 his great and mighty nature, that is all the more lovely from the fact that 
 the masculine principle is the prevailing and predominant one in his works 
 of Art." — Winckelmann^s Werke von Meyer und Schulze, iv. 43, and Anmerk. 
 p. 262. 
 
 Consonant with this are the following remarks of Lanzi. " We may here 
 observe that when Michael Angelo was so inclined, he could obtain distinc- 
 tion for those endowments in which others excelled. It is a vulgar error to 
 suppose that he had no idea of grace and beauty ; the Eve of the Sistino 
 Chapel turns to thank her Maker, on her creation, with an attitude so fiaa 
 Bnd lovely that it would do honor to Raphael." 
 
 History of Paintinij, (Rcxoe's Trans.) i. 176.
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 31 
 
 the Nile, grand and lonely, yet with " elysiaii beauty 
 and melancholy grace." 
 
 And, in this connection, I cannot refrain from calling 
 your attention to that greatest of American artists, who 
 is at once a proof and illustration of the truth of the gen- 
 eral theory advanced. No man will suspect Allston of 
 an underestimate of the Beautiful. In the whole cata- 
 logue of ancient and modern artists, there is not to be 
 found a single one in Avhose mind this element existed 
 in more unmixed and absolute purity : — beauty 
 
 chaste as the icicle 
 That's curded by the frost from purest snow, 
 And hangs on Dian's temple. 
 
 , But this spirituality was the fruit not only of a pure 
 nature, but of a high theory. He recognized and felt the 
 supremacy of the True and the Good, over the Beautiful. 
 The reader of his lectures on Art, is struck with the re- 
 ligious carefulness with which he insists upon the supe- 
 rior claims of Truth over those of mere Art, and the 
 earnestness with which he seeks to elevate and spiritual- 
 ize the profession which he honored and loved, by making 
 it the organ and proclamation of Truth and Holiness. 
 By this, we think the fact can be explained that he pro- 
 duced so Uttle, compared with the exhaustless fertility of 
 the Italian artists. His ideal was so high, the Beautiful 
 was so spirilualhj beautiful for him, that color and form 
 failed to embody his conceptions. His imiform refusal 
 to attempt the representation of Christ, a far too com- 
 mon attempt in Italian Art, undoubtedly rested upon 
 this fact. It was not because his intensely spiritual 
 mind had a less adequate idea of the Divine-Man, than 
 that which floated before the Catholic imagination, but
 
 82 THE TRUE iXATUUE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 because there beamed upon his ethereal vision, a form 
 of such high and awful beauty as could not be put upon 
 a material canvas. It was because he saw so much 
 that he did so little. 
 
 ]?nt, Gentlemen, there is a still more practical and im- 
 portant side to this whole subject. The department of 
 Art sustains a relation to the growth and development 
 of the human mind, and human society. Like all other 
 departments of human effort, it should therefore be sub- 
 servient to the great moral end of human existence, and 
 if there were no other alternative, it would be better that 
 the aesthetic nature, and the whole department of Art, 
 and the whole wide realm of the Beautiful, should be 
 armihilated, than that they should continue to exist at 
 the expense of the intellectual and moral, of the True 
 and the Good. We are not at all driven to the alterna- 
 tive, if there be truth in the general theory that has been 
 presented, but if we were, we acknowledge boldly that we 
 would side ^^dth the Puritan iconoclast and dash into 
 atoms the Apollo Belvidere itself. Rather than that the 
 department of Art should annihilate Philosophy and Re- 
 ligion ; rather than that an enervate beauty should eat 
 out manly strength and severe virtue from character ; 
 rather than that a sensualizing process should be inti'o- 
 duced into the very heart of society, though it were as 
 beautiful as an opium dream ; we would see the element 
 struck out of existence, and man and the universe be left 
 as bald and bare as granite. We honor therefore, that 
 trait in our ancestors, (so often charged uj)on them as a 
 radical defect in nature, and so often tacitly admitted as 
 such even by some of their descendants), which made 
 them afraid of Fine Art; afraid of music and painting 
 and sculpture and poetry. They dreaded the form, but 
 had no dread of the substance, and therefore were the mosi
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 
 
 33 
 
 philosophic of men. They dreaded the material, but had 
 no dread of the ideal, and therefore were the most intel- 
 lectual of men. They dreaded the sensuous, but had no 
 dread of the spiritual, and therefore were the most reli- 
 gious of men. The Pm-itan nature owed but little, 
 comparatively speaking, to aesthetic culture. It was not 
 drawn upon and drawn out, as some natures have been, 
 by Literature and Art, for in the plan of Providence its 
 mission was active rather than contemplative ; but we 
 do not hesitate to say, that the contents and genius were 
 there, and that even on the side of the imagination, that 
 jiature, had it been unfolded in this direction, would 
 have left a school and a style of Art, using the term in 
 its widest acceptation, second to none. And as it is, we 
 see its legitimate tendency and influence in the poetry 
 of Milton. The Miltonic style of Art is essentially the 
 Puritan Art ; beautiful only as it is severe and grand ; the 
 Beautiful superinduced upon the True and the Holy. 
 
 Gentlemen' : 
 
 In the opening of my discourse, I alluded to the fact, 
 that the style of civilization and culture peculiar to the 
 individual or the nation is determined by the theory, 
 which is consciously or unconsciously assumed, of the 
 nature and relative position of the Beautiful; and at tjie 
 close of it, I would call your attention to it again. My 
 aim is not iconoclastic. My aim, in all that I have said, 
 has been, not to destroy or in the least to disparage the 
 department of Aesthetics, but to establish and recommend 
 a high and strict and |)liiloKophic theory of it, for the pur- 
 pose of putting it in its right place in the encyclopaedia, 
 and thus of promoting its own true growth, and what is 
 of still more importance, the growth of the human mind. 
 Called upon to address scholars, I desire to do something
 
 r 
 
 34 THE TRUE NATURE OF THE BEAUTIFUL, 
 
 that will contribiite to hi^h-toncd culture, hii2;li-toned 
 thinking, and high-toned character. And I know of no 
 better way, on such an occasion as the present, than to 
 bring out distinctly before the youthful and recipient 
 student, a philosophic, precise, and lofty, theory in regard 
 to that whole department of Art, so fascinating to the 
 young mind and so liable to be employed to excess by it. 
 Depend upon it, Gentlemen, the older you grow and the 
 /riper scholars you become, the more exact will be your 
 tastes and the more austere will be your literary sympa- 
 thies. You will come to see more and more clearly, that 
 neither music, nor painting, nor sculpture, nor architecture, 
 nor poetry, can properly be made the main instrument 
 of human development ; that the human intellect and 
 heart demand ultimately a " manlier diet ; " that you 
 must become powerful minds and powerful men, mainly 
 through the culture that comes from Science and Reli- 
 gion. You will never, indeed, lose your relish for the 
 Beautiful ; on the contrary, you ^vill have a keener and a 
 nicer sense for it, and for all that is based upon it; but 
 you will find a declining interest in its lower forms. — 
 Schools of Poetry and of Art that once pleased you, will 
 become insipid, and perhaps offensive, to your purer 
 taste, your more purged eye, your more rational imagina- 
 tion. There will be fewer and fewer works in the aes- 
 thetic sphere that wall throw a spell and work a charm, 
 while the deep and central truths of Philosophy and 
 Religion will di'aw, ever draw, your whole being to them- 
 selves, as the moon draws the sea. 
 
 And in this way, you will be fitted to do the proper 
 work of educated men in the midst of society. 1 have 
 alluded to the downward movement, the uniform decay, 
 of the ancient civilizations. History teaches one plain 
 and mournful lesson ; that man cannot safely be left to
 
 AND ITS RELATION TO CULTURE. 35 
 
 his luxurious tendencies, be they of the sense or the soul, 
 There must be austerity somewhere. There must be a 
 strong head and a sound heart somewhere. And where 
 ought we to look for these but in the educated class ? In 
 whom, if not in these, ought we to find that theory of 
 education, that style of culture, and that tone of intellect, 
 which will right up society when it is sinking down into 
 luxury, or hold it where it is if it is already upright and 
 austere ? Educated men, amid the currents and in the 
 general drift of society, ought to discharge the function 
 of a warp and anchor. They, of all men, ought to be 
 characterized by strength. And especially do our own 
 age and country need this style of culture. Exposed as 
 the national mind is to a luxurious civilization ; as 
 imminently exposed as Nineveh or Rome ever were ; the 
 Beautiful is by no means the main idea by which it j 
 should be educated and moulded. As in the Prome- 
 theus, none but the demi-gods Strength and Force can 
 chain the Titan. Our task, gentlemen, as men of cul- ^ 
 ture, and as men who are to determine the prevailing 
 type of culture, is both in theory and practice to subject 
 the Form to the Substance ; to bring the Beautiful under 
 the problem of the True and the Good. Our task, as 
 descendants of an austere ancestry, as partakers in a 
 severe nationality, is to retain the strict, heroic, intellec- 
 tual, and religious spirit of the Puritan and the Pilgrim, 
 in these forms of an advancing civilization. In order to 
 this ; in order that the sensuously and luxuriously Beauti- 
 ful may not be too much for us ; strength and reserve are 
 needed in the cultivated classes. They must be reticent, 
 and, like the sculptor, chisel and re-chisel, until they cut 
 ofl'aiid cut down to a sirni)le st.'itnes(|ue beauty, in Ai-t 
 and in Literature, in Religion and in Life.
 
 THE INFLUENCE AND J^IETIIOD OF ENGLISH 
 
 STUDIES.* 
 
 That the philological structure and history of the 
 English language is a branch of investigation very greatly 
 neglected by all to whom this tongue is vernacular, will 
 hardly be questioned. If one examines the public or pri- 
 vate libraries of this country, he finds them better supplied 
 with works in almost every other department of knowl- 
 edge, than with those that relate to the origin and early 
 progress of the literature of the Englishman and Anglo- 
 American, llow little is known of the lexicogra])hical 
 labors of Junius, Lye, and Spelman ; of the critical re- 
 searches of Ilcarne, llitson, Pinkerton, Tyrwhitt, Wright, 
 and Price ; and even of the histories of Warton, and Ellis. 
 The publications of the Camden and Percy societies rarely 
 make their way over the Atlantic. The small but increas- 
 ing stock of Anglo-Saxon literature, well edited b}' schol- 
 ars like Conybeare, Thorpe, Posworth, Ivcmble, and Car- 
 dale, and still more, the Anglo-Norman literature brought 
 to light by Michel and other French scholars, is a ten-a 
 incognita to many whose explorations in classical and 
 oriental regions have been extensive and accurate. Not- 
 withstanding the genial and thorough criticism of Cole- 
 ridge, llazlitt, and Schlegcl, it can hardly be aflirmed that 
 
 * Reprinted from the Bibliotheca Sacra, April, 1856.
 
 r 
 
 3S TTIE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 the literature of the Elizabethan era has made that pro- 
 found impression upon the thinking and composition of 
 the present age which its intrinsic merits entitle it to. 
 That heart}^ and idiomatic, yet flowing and graceful, style 
 o°f English, which is one result of the study of this ])or- 
 tion of the lano-uage and literature, is confined to a com- 
 paratively small circle of writers. The conimou English 
 diction of the day, has heen formed more by the age of 
 Queen Anne, than by that of Shakspeare and Bacon. 
 The orator, reviewer, and paragraphist, puts on the 
 " learned sock," not of Jonson the dramatist, but of 
 Johnson the moralist, and the pompous and measured 
 diction of Gibbon is preferred to the more natural and 
 flexible, but not less flnished and musical phrase of 
 Hooker. 
 
 The critical study of the English language and litera- 
 ture, as a special discipline in the general system of 
 modern education, is consequent]}^ a topic that needs to be 
 frequently and earnestly discussed, in order that a pro|)er 
 interest may exist in reference to it. The readers of this 
 journal will bear testimony, that, from time to time, 
 attention has been directed to this department of inquiry; 
 and it is in the line of these preceding efforts that we 
 would labor, and move forward. 
 
 The Eno^lish lano-uao-e is the language into which we 
 are born, and the English literature is the literature in 
 which we are brought up. From the beginning of our 
 existence, onward, through all the several ages of life, and 
 through all the multiplied experiences of head and heart, 
 we are continually receiving and propagating that fine and 
 volatile influence which emanates from the national lan- 
 guage and literature, upon every individual of the nation. 
 A literature, therefore, in which we have an interest by 
 virtue of our very birth and origin, and which penetrates
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 39 
 
 SO pervasively our daily life, has claims npon our best 
 powers, ill order that we may come to apprehend, with a 
 distinct consciousness, its jpeculiar character and worth, 
 and thereby experience more and more of its sjpecifiG in- 
 Vfluences and impressions. For the objection that meets 
 lis, whenever we recommend the analytic study of a ver- 
 nacular tongue, viz. that we are recommending a super- 
 fluity, inasmuch as tlie mother tongue is imbibed with 
 the mother's milk, vanishes the moment we remember 
 that the purpose of study, in nearly all instances, is to 
 substitute a clear knowledge for an obscure one. There is 
 meaning and truth in the Platonic dictum, that learnino; 
 is reminding. One of the principal processes in mental 
 cultivation consists in acquiring a distinct perception of 
 that by which we are spontaneously, and therefore unre- 
 flectingly, influenced or actuated. What the common 
 mind sees as in a glass darkly, the educated mind sees 
 face to face. The most of men are the creatures of the 
 moulding and shaping ideas that are mercifully inlaid in 
 tlieir mental constitution, and of those institutions and 
 permanent circumstances amidst which they live ;" and, 
 inasmuch as these ideas are ideas of reason, and these in- 
 stitutions and permanent circumstances are arrangements 
 of divine providence, no practical injury results to the in- 
 dividual, even when he surrenders himself to their influ- 
 ence and actuation, without phih)sopliic reflection upon 
 their nature and qualities. The citizen, for example, will 
 suffer no injury, wlio yields himself up most implicitly 
 and obediently, to the moral or the civil law, without 
 analyzing the contents of this i(l(;a, or becoming mctaphy- 
 sically aware of its vast implication. Let him allow the 
 jiiinciplc and spirit of law to take possession of his whole 
 being, and sull'ei- all his faculties and energies to be 
 absorbed in this august and beneficent power, and he wil
 
 40 TIIK INFLUKNCE AND METHOD 
 
 experience no detriment, intellectually or morally, even 
 thougli he reflects but little upon the nature of the agen- 
 cies by which he is moulded. In like manner, the indi- 
 vidual may surrender himself to the influence of the 
 literature and civilization of the nation to "which he 
 belongs, and, if these be truthful and sound, his compara- 
 tive unacquaintauce with what is constantly pressing 
 upon him, and shaping and forming him, on all sides, 
 will not prevent his being rightly shaped and formed. 
 He is under and within a divine constitution, and, 
 whether consciously or unconsciously, must feel its power, 
 and receive its influence. But while this is said, it must 
 not be inferred that pJiilosoj)JiiG reflection upon that 
 which exerts an influence upon us, whether we will or 
 not, is of no worth ; that analytical study into the nature 
 and qualities of that w^hich actuates us, whether we think 
 or not, is superfluous and unnecessary. Powerful as ideas, 
 principles, and institutions are, even in relation to the 
 unthinking man ; and at times, for instance in political 
 revolutions, they are as powerful as fire in gunpowder, and 
 accompanied wnth nearl}^ as little distinct knowledge ; 
 they yet receive a vast accession of power, when their 
 operancy is accompanied with the clear intuitions of rea- 
 son, and the lucid perceptions of self-consciousness. 
 
 These remarks upon the general relation of analytic 
 study and philosophic reflection to that which is innate in 
 our mental constitution, or intrinsic to those permanent 
 circumstances whicli exert a constant and unperceived in- 
 fluence upon us, independent of our reflection, apply with 
 full force to subjects so close to us, and influences so spon- 
 taneous and irresistible, as those of our own mother 
 tongue and our own native literature. For although none 
 /^can help speaking their vernacular, and feeling more or 
 less of the influence of the literature embodied in it, yet
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. " 41 
 
 only those few feel its selectest influence and drink in its 
 most essential spirit, who pass beyond the every-day use 
 of the language to the critical and philological study of it. 
 It is indeed true, that, whether the Englishman or the 
 Ano-lo-American has studied his national language and 
 literatnre, or not, he has, nevertheless, been so moulded 
 and affected by it, that, if those elements in his culture 
 which have come in from this source, should be with- 
 drawn, it would lose its most vital if not its finest consti- 
 tuent ; still he cannot feel, and he has not felt, the 
 freshest, heartiest, healthiest, and most eifective influence 
 from this source, unless, by study and reflection, he has 
 made himself unusuall}' conscious of the intense power 
 of tlie En<>'lish laniruaij-e, and the vast wealth of the 
 English literature. 13ut in order to this intimate acquaint- 
 ance, something more is needed than that easy and passive 
 j)erusal of the current literature of the present period, 
 which, in the case of one's native language and literature, 
 so often passes for study. The full power of the English 
 language cannot be adequately apprehended short of an 
 acquaintance with it in all the periods of its history. The 
 life of a language, like the soul of a body, is all in every 
 part ; and its highest intensity must therefore be sought 
 for by a laborious and patient study of the language, 
 back, through all its change and growth, to the lowest 
 
 I'Oot. 
 
 There is a special reason for this close and minute 
 study of our vernacidar, founded on the fact that, speak- 
 ing it, and writing it, and thinking in it, as we do con- 
 tinually, we unavoidably acquire a moderate knowledge of 
 it, which we are too willing to regard as pliilological and 
 thorougli. In Ihocaseof a foiXMgn tongue, we arc com- 
 [telled to the lexicon and the grammar, because we can- 
 not iLixderatand it without such study ; and iiencc we in-
 
 42 THE INFLUENCE AND METUOD 
 
 evitably acquire, in a greater or less degree, a critical 
 knowledire of it. But it is not so in the case of our own 
 languag-e. The majority of words we have some ac- 
 quaintance with, without any study on our part. It is 
 true that this acquaintance is not close and accurate, like 
 tluit wliich springs from etymological and careful analy- 
 sis ; but it is sufficient for all the purposes of practical 
 life, and of an easy, passive perusal of books. 
 
 The only remedy for this superlicial knowledge is to be 
 found in the study of the language in all its periods, and 
 especiall}'^ in those elder forms which have passed out of 
 use, and which, consequently, sustain sometiiing of the 
 relation of a foreign tongue to the modern Englishman. 
 Not that these earlier forms are really alien to us, like 
 the French or the Latin tongues, for they still have an 
 existence in the heart and pith of the English of the 
 present day ; but they require, in order to their being 
 miderstood by the modern reader, a minute plu'lological 
 study, like that expended upon the- Greek and Latin, 
 which brings the mind into close and invigorating contact 
 with them. For, to carefully trace a word, through its 
 whole history, up to the root from wliich its true force 
 and significance are, in the majority of instances, derived, 
 is the only sure M^ay of imbuing the mind with the spirit 
 of a language. By this slow analysis, the power of the 
 word is brought out and felt. 
 
 •' The same remarks hold true respecting the scope and 
 riches of our national literature. He who is conversant 
 with it in only one or two of its periods, can have but a 
 meagre conception of its opulence. The national mind 
 finds a full expression only in tlie totality of the national 
 literature. Like the individual mind, it passes through 
 great varieties of being; through a great multiplicity of 
 moods ; through various stages of development ; and
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 43 
 
 therefore its complete expression and manifestation must 
 be sought for in the tohole literature to which it has given 
 origin. It often happens that the earlier literature of a 
 people contains elements not to be met with in any of the 
 after periods of its history. The national mind often 
 shows a phase, in some one particular period, which cen- 
 turies of existence would not bring round again. Should 
 the English nation, for example, continue in existence, 
 and the English mind continue to undergo change and 
 development until the end of time, it is not probable that 
 another period would occur in its history, in which the 
 drama would reach such a height of life and power, and 
 such a breadth and depth of passion, as characterize the 
 Elizabethan drama. And can we ever expect the re-ap- 
 pearance of the fresh, hale, and lifesome spirit of " merrie 
 England," as it appears in Chaucer 'I The beautiful van- 
 ishes and returns not ae^ain in the same form. Each a^e 
 has its own excellences ; and not until we have passed all 
 the ages in review, can we know and feel the endless 
 variety and opulence of a national mind, 
 
 Witli these general remarks upon tlie neglect, and tlie 
 importance of tlie philological study of the English lan- 
 guage and literature, we proceed to consider the quality 
 of the influence which flows from this particular branch 
 of discipline, and to indicate the best method of pursuing 
 it. 
 
 I. The first effect of a thorough acquaintance M'ith 
 English literature, is the vimfication of the culture that 
 jioiOH into the modern mind from the classic world^ and 
 the preventicm, thereby, of a dry and artificial classical- 
 ity. This undoubtedly was the purpose aimed at, by those 
 who constructed the modern system of education. A 
 department of instruction in the English language and 
 literature is established in ;ill lhu>c institutions which
 
 44 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 propose to impart a symmetrical and complete discipline, 
 in order that the youthful student, while in the liexile 
 process of education, may be in communication with the 
 modern mind and the modern woi'ld, as well as with the 
 ancient mind and the classic world. Those who planned 
 that system of liberal instruction by which the modern 
 scholar is ti'ained up, selected the vernacular tongue of 
 the pupil himself, as one of the concurrent branches of 
 knowledge to be pursued in order to a harmonious mental 
 development, because it fui-nishes an element needed in 
 modern culture, and derivable from no other source. 
 They "yoked," as has been said of the education of Leib- 
 nitz, " all the sciences abreast," that the mind might be 
 subjected to the widest possible intellectual influence, 
 and, by binding the ancient and the modern world to- 
 gether, threw in upon the modern scholar the combined 
 influence of both. 
 
 The difference between the ancient and the modern 
 mind is exhibited in the following extract from Coleridge, 
 with remarkable comprehensiveness and conciseness. 
 " The Greeks," he says, " idolized the finite, and therefore 
 were the masters of all grace, elegance, proportion, fancy, 
 dignity, majesty ; of whatever in short, is capable of being 
 definitely conveyed by defined forms or thoughts ; the 
 moderns revere the infinite, and affect the indefinite as a 
 vehicle of the infinite ; hence their passions, their obscure 
 hopes and fears, their wandering through the unknown, 
 their grander moral feelings, their more august conception 
 of man as man, their future rather than their past, in a 
 word, their sublimity." * But this native difference has 
 been still more increased by the influence which Chris- 
 tianity has exerted upon the modern world, and the new 
 
 * Works, Vol. IV., p. 29. Harper's Ed.
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 45 
 
 species of development that has been introdnced thereby. 
 Consequently it is onh^ a particnlar and peenliar element 
 of culture, and not the entire culture itself, which the 
 modern is to derive from the cultivated pagan. It is the 
 form only, and not the matter, of literature, that is to be 
 furnished by the Greek and Roman. The Christian 
 world cannot go back to the pagan for ideas and thoughts. 
 The humblest modern mind that lives within the pale of 
 revelation, moves in a sphere of thought and feeling 
 infinitely transcending that of the loftiest heathen sage. 
 It is not, therefore, for infonnation and for living force, 
 that the modern devotes himself, as he has ever since the 
 revival of classical learning, to the study of the beautiful 
 models of Greece and Rome. The function of classical 
 discipline is aesthetic. 
 
 On the other hand, the modern mind is full of matter, 
 and overfull of force. It is not naturally master of it- 
 self or its materials. Its vitality and energy require di- 
 rection and a serene flow. The Goth needs to become 
 an artist. Hence the cooperation of the Pagan with the 
 Christian in the process of modern education ; a coopei-jv 
 tion that will be beneficial, only so long as the former is 
 confined to its proper function of refinement, and justifi- 
 able, only in proportion as the latter does not permit its 
 vigor and vitality to be killed out by the seductive grace 
 of the former. Upon the due projjortiun and the right 
 mingling of the wsfhetic element derived from clasdvcd ^ 
 literature^ with the j'hilosojjhical and theological elements 
 derived from the world of modern Christian thought, 
 d(q>end the harmony a)ul 2>erfection of modern education. 
 Fi^r if the form and the giace become ])rcd<)minant to the 
 neglect (;f the idea and the thouglit, the vitality and the 
 force, culture becomes foi-mal, artilicinl, and spiritless. 
 It will not even make the imi)res8ion of the model itself,
 
 4:6 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 to which it has heeii so servile. It M^ill exhibit the sym- 
 metry, and finish, and ele^-ance of the works of the Gre- 
 cian and Roman mind, in the manner of a mere copyist, 
 and with none of the genuine classic feeling and spirit. 
 The peculiar vigor and energy which characterize modern 
 literature, and which must characterize it, in order that 
 it may produce a permanent impression upon the modern 
 mind, will he wanting in the productions of such an un- 
 vivified classicality, and they will be out of place in the 
 midst of all the motion and energy of the modern world. 
 For proof of this, we need only look at those periods in 
 the history of literature, which were marked by an exclu- 
 sive devotion to classical studies, to the neij-lect of modern 
 thought. The eighteenth century was a pci'iod in English 
 literary history characterized by excessive classicism. 
 The elder literature of England was gi-eatly neglected 
 and undervalued, by the literary men of this period.* 
 The English mind during this century having almost no 
 communication with the modern European mind, con- 
 tented itself with a by no means genial and reproductive, 
 but servile and mechanical, study of Greek and Roman 
 models. Much is said of the influence of French models, 
 and canons of criticism, upon this period in English liter- 
 ary history; but what were the French models tliem- 
 selves, but cold copies of the classic age, with no modern 
 
 * The estimate in which Shakspeare was held by a mind like David 
 Hume, is an example in point. The criticisms of Johnson, meritorious 
 as his services in other respects were in regard to the earlier English 
 literature, display little profound sympathy with the elder English 
 spirit, as one feels on passing from them to the English and German 
 criticism of the present century. The endeavor of Addison, in the 
 Spectator, to awaken an interest in Milton and the Old Ballads, though 
 more appreciative an 1 genial than that of any other critic of the eigh- 
 teenth century, was on the whole a failure, so far as the popular mind 
 of that day is concerned.
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 47 
 
 new-born life in them ; and what were the canons of 
 criticism but the substantially correct rules of ancient art 
 tnechamcaUy applied, and that too under totally different 
 circumstances, and amidst entirely foreign relations ? For 
 as Schiller truly remarks: "The French, wholly misap- 
 ])rehending the sjnrit of the ancients, introduced upon 
 the stage a unity of place and time, according to the 
 cornnion emjnrical sense of the ter'ins, as if in the drama 
 there could be any other place than mere ideal space, 
 and an}^ other time than the mere progress and sequence 
 of the action." * 
 
 The truth is, the literary men of such periods started 
 from the wrong point of departure. Instead of gener- 
 ating within themselves the stuff and material of litera- 
 tui'e, and employing classical culture as a formal or in- 
 strumental agency, in order to the symmetrical and 
 linished presentment of it, they isolated themselves from 
 the great process and movement of modern thought, 
 violently threw themselves back into the ante-christian 
 world, and sought the matter, where they should have 
 souglit only the form, of literature. The result ought not 
 to surprise us. For a genuine literature, one that is des- 
 tined to live in otlier ages, and to impress other nations 
 can originate only in the midst of present actual realities ; 
 only in the stir and throng of daily interests and feelings ; 
 only in the most intense and concentrated nationality. 
 The tiaining, the elaboration, the stimulation, may be 
 brought from foreign climes, and from all ages, but the 
 central root must grow up out of native soil. All the 
 modern endeavors to revive the l*agan cult ire have failed, 
 because tliey were attempts to find the principle and sub- 
 Gtance of literature in a stage of hunuin history that haa 
 
 * Uclier den Gebraiich deb ChiJra in der TragiJdie.
 
 48 TTIK INFLUENCK AND ISLETnOD 
 
 Imd its day, find -which cannot, therefore, furnish any- 
 thing beyond the artistic and the formal. A return to 
 the culture and poetic polytheism of the classic world, 
 such as Shelley strove for, and Schiller yearns after in his 
 poem entitled. Die Gutter Griecheulands, would be as 
 impossible and irrational, as would be the attempt tore- 
 construct the fauna, or reanimate the flora, of the primi- 
 tive geological periods.* 
 
 The proper method of counteracting the tendency to 
 formalism, which seems to be as natnral in literature as 
 it is in morals, is, not to give np the study of the great 
 ancient masters and models of form, but, along with this 
 studv, and coincident with it, to pursue with equal thor- 
 oughness and diligence, the study of modern literature. 
 And inasmuch as, in most instances, a selection must be 
 made from the several literatures that are comprised 
 within this denomination, there are strono; reasons for the 
 selection of that of Eno-land. 
 /- In the first place, the English literature is the most 
 nniversal and generic in its character of the literatures of 
 modern Europe. It may be regarded as the one, among 
 them all, in which the distinctive peculiarities of the 
 modern mind have found the most full and forcible ex- 
 pression. For the English race itself is the most com- 
 prehensive of any. It is a mixture and cross of all the 
 best of the modern stocks. At the bottom of it lies the 
 Celtic, a portion of that great Scythian people which was 
 the first to move westward from Central Asia, the cradle 
 and birthplace of the human family. Judging from the 
 
 * The history of the efforts of the New Platonics to re\ive Pag-anism 
 in its religious aspects is equally instructive with these attempts to re- 
 vive it in its literary i^haso, and ought to be pondered by that circle of 
 religionists, of the present day, who seera to be repeating that futile 
 endeavor.
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 49 
 
 relics of it, still to be found amoncj the mountains of 
 Wales, the highlands of Scotland, the bleak and unculti- 
 vated district of Britanny in France, and in the eloquent 
 and impetuous Irishman, it was a race eminently fitted to 
 constitute the ground- work of a national character. Bold, 
 fearless, and possessing an indomitable love of freedom, 
 as the Commentaries of Caesar evidence; the Briton still 
 lives in the modern Englishman ; and, by a singular yet 
 natural coincidence, gives his name to England itself, 
 whenever the elements of power and empire are sought 
 to be made prominent. For they are '''■Britons who 
 never will be slaves ; " and it is Britannia who 
 
 needs no bulwark, 
 No tower along the steep, 
 Whose march is o'er the mountain-wave. 
 Whose home is on the deep. 
 
 Into tliis living and solid root was then grafted one of the 
 very finest shoots of the great Germanic race — the Anglo- 
 Saxon. The second wave of Asiatic emigration thus 
 rolled over upon the first, and mingled with it. Widely- 
 differing national characteristics, originating in the same 
 centre of the world, but separated by centuries of rude 
 and savage, yet real and thorough development during the 
 various fortunes of emigration and warfare, of conflict 
 with man and with material nature, were thus commingled 
 in the Saxonized Briton. And, lastly, into the nation and 
 character thus formed, an infusion of the Homan nature 
 was introduced by the invasion and armed occupancy of 
 the land by the Normans. 
 
 Constituted in this manner, the English mind became 
 an exceedingly com[)rehensive one. Containing the quali- 
 ties and characteristics of all the principal races tliat have 
 made Europe their homo, with the exception of the Scla- 
 
 3
 
 50 THE INFLUKNCE AND MKTIIOD 
 
 vonic, a race which, perhaps, is to play an important part 
 in the future history' of the world, l)nt which, as yet, has 
 had no development, and, until recently, has been a mere 
 cipher in European history — containing, we say, such 
 widely-different and yet substantial characteristics, tiie 
 English mind is the most adequate representative of the 
 Universal-European or Modern Mind. 
 
 But, in the second place, besides this peculiar confor- 
 mation of the Eno-lish race and mind, there is still another 
 feature in its histor}^ which contributes to render the study 
 of it, and its productions, of more worth than that of any 
 other of the literatures of modern Europe. We allude to 
 the peculiar and powerful influence which the Christian 
 religion has had upon its formation and development. 
 We have already alluded to the fact that one great cause 
 of the difference between Ancient and Modern culture, 
 civilization, and literature, is to be traced to the influence 
 of divine revelation. Christianity imparted a depth and 
 spirituality to the thought and feeling of the modern 
 world, whicli could not arise under the predominantly 
 sensualizing tendency of paganism, and those literatures 
 which imbibed its spirit most deeply and purely, other 
 things being equal, are most worthy of attention. For 
 they harmonize best with the tone and spirit of the mod- 
 ern world; they best prepare the scholar to enter vividly 
 and with a vital consciousness into the career and move- 
 ment of modern society ; they afford more that awakens 
 and strengthens and nurtures tlie individual mind ; they 
 are less liable to be exhausted of their contents and to be 
 outgrown and left behind in the jn-ogressive development 
 of human nature. But of all the literatures of modern 
 Europe, the English felt the influence of Christianity in 
 its purest form. The literatures of Southern Europe 
 grew up under the influence of a nominal Christianity
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 51 
 
 that had in it far more of the sensualism of paganism than 
 the spiritnalitv of the gospel. The effects of it are to 
 be seen, this clay, in the nerveless, emasculated national 
 character, and the feeble, decaying, dying literature. 
 The English mind and heart, on the contrary, have in the 
 main, been exj^osed, age after age, to the spiritualizing 
 influences and discipline of the Christian religion. Even 
 those periods in English history when a false Christianity 
 prevailed, only served to make the recoil more violent, 
 and to subject the nation to a still purer and still more 
 spiritual form of truth. The rich, healthy genius and 
 strono: sense of Eno-land have, for a longer and less inter- 
 rupted period than has been the case with any other peo- 
 ple, been slowly, and from the centre, unfolding them- 
 selves under the cultivatin£>\ elevatinir, humanizinii: intlu- 
 _ences of the Christian religion. 
 
 In the English literature, then, by virtue of the com- 
 prehensive representative character of the English mind, 
 and the strength, depth, and purity of the influence ex- 
 erted upon it by the Christian religion, is the modern 
 student to find the most eftectual preservative against that 
 literary formalism which an unbalanced, and in reality 
 nngcnial study of classical literature is sure to produce. 
 The modern scholar ought to be a man of power and of 
 impression. lie ought also to be a man of wull-propor- 
 tloned, symmetrical, elegant culture, lint he is more 
 likely to be the latter, if he is already the former, than he 
 is to be the fcjrmer, if he is, first, the latter. For, wherever 
 there is matter and power to start with, there mai/ be 
 beauty, and gra'ce, and elegance. The same degree of 
 careful effort devoted to the artistic and fornuil flnish of 
 a work aftei\ instead of before, the pro])er diligence and 
 care have been devoted to its material origination within 
 the mind, will elaborate it into a high beauty and an ex-
 
 62 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 qnisitc grace, that are absolutely beyond the power of one 
 who lias not thus beguti at the beginning ; who has not 
 first gendered the work in his own soul. 
 
 In the thoughtful opulence and the throbbing life of 
 the English literature, the niodern student should, then, 
 seek for mental wealth and power ; for that vigorous and 
 masculine principle that will vivify all his other culture 
 from whatever source it come. In so doing, he is going 
 to Ophir for gold, to the gorgeous East for barbaric pearl, 
 to the very heart of nature for the forces of life. For let 
 him bring before his mind, for a moment, the series of 
 productions in the several departments of literature, which 
 the English mind has been originating and throwing off 
 with freedom, and force, and wonderful variety, during 
 the last half millennium ; let him remember the wisdom 
 of Bacon, and Hooker, and Burke; the satire of Hall, of 
 Butler, of Dryden, of Swift ; the humor of Chaucer, of 
 Goldsmith, of Sterne, of Lamb ; the brilliancy and art of 
 Pope ; the magnificence and architecture of Milton ; the 
 sweetness, and fluency, and flushed beauty, of Spenser ; 
 the meditativeness of Wordsworth, and the intensity of 
 Byron ; let him think, lastly, of that wonderful being in 
 whom all these qualities existed in their prime and purity, 
 and found their full expression in the immense -range and 
 expanse of the Shaksperean drama, in the portraiture of 
 the whole human being in its myriad minds and moods : 
 let the modern student recall all this, and feel its full 
 impression, and believe that, in pursuing the close and 
 thorough ptudy of English literature, he is pursuing the 
 study of the richest and the most thoughtful, the most vigor- 
 ous and the most vitalizing literature of the modern world. 
 
 II. Tiie second principal effect of English studies is 
 seen in the excellence of the style of thought aiid expres- 
 aloii that results from, their prosecution.
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 53 
 
 Tlie mode of thinkino; induced into a mind bv a 
 course of education is a matter of the highest importance. 
 If it cannot be said that it is of as great moment hoio the 
 mind thinks, as wJiat it thinks, it can be asserted with 
 positiveness, that the tnatter of its thoughts is very closely 
 connected with the manner of them, and, in this respect, 
 the style of thinking becomes worthy of attention and 
 cultivation. 
 
 By the style of thinhing, is meant the particular and 
 j^eculiar manner in which thought is produced in the 
 mind when left to its spontaneous, unwatched workings. 
 This peculiar manner undoubtedly has its lowest founda 
 tion in the peculiar structure of the individual mind ; bur, 
 it is also modified, and, to a certain extent determined, by 
 the class of minds and kinds of thought, in other words, 
 by the species of literature, with which it is familiar. 
 Besides, so far as the style of thinking is founded upon, 
 and determined by, the structure of the human mind 
 itself, it is a correct one, and all deviations therefoi'c, in 
 the wrong direction, must be traced to external influences. 
 For the mind itself is well made, and when its laws and 
 constitution are perfectly obeyed, nothing, either in its 
 mode of action, or in its products, requires emendation 
 or correction. 
 
 When, liowever, a mind is exposed to the influence of 
 other minds, whose way of thought is unnatural, affected, 
 artiflcial, extravagant, or whatever the bad quality may 
 be, it is very liable to be drawn into the satne false man- 
 ner. Especially is this true, in case there be in the 
 individual mind ti bent of the same general character. 
 In this case, the student, while in the i)lastic process, 
 and before he has reached " the years that bring the 
 philosoi)hic mind," is extremely liable to attach himself 
 to some school in letters, in which the false mode of
 
 54 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 thought has cmhodied itself in all probability in dazzling 
 glare, and M'ith a species of imposing power difficult to be 
 resisted. Falling in, as it docs, with his own particular 
 tendency, it is no wonder that his whole intellect is taken 
 captive by it, and he acquires a fixed style of thinking, 
 in which the most glaring faults of his model appear. 
 
 But the age, as well as the single individual, always has 
 a style of thinking that is peculiar to itself, and this also 
 exerts a controlling iufiuence upon the individual. For 
 that must be an extremely intense and determined indi- 
 viduality that can keep itself out of the great main cur- 
 rent and tendency of the age in which it lives, and, in 
 strong contrast, exhibit a style of thinking purely sui- 
 generic. Such individualities, when genuinely original, 
 become the creators of new schools in literature, and of 
 new eras in art. The great mass of men, however, natu- 
 rally share in the general intellectual characteristics of the 
 age in which they live, and no one can ]-id himself of the 
 faults of his age, unless he carefully study and imbibe 
 some of the better characteristics of other periods. If lie 
 contents himself with the literature of the present, and 
 suffers himself to be the mere creature and copy of its 
 good and Itad qualities alike, he will not attain the best 
 development of his own mind, and will help to perpetu- 
 ate what is defective in the existing type of thought and 
 culture, 
 
 /" The influence of English studies, and especially of the 
 /study of the earlier English, in reference to the point 
 imder consideration, is most excellent. For, if we were 
 called upon to mention the distinguishing characteristic 
 of these elder writers, we should mention the sincerity 
 and thoroughness of their mental processes. They never 
 write for merely momentary effect, but absorb themselves, 
 with great self-forgetful ness, in the subject of their re-
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 55 
 
 flections. They had, it is true, one advantage over writ- 
 ei-8 of the present day : they composed before criticism 
 (eitlier as theory or practice) became a constituent part of 
 the national literature, and hence wrote without restraint. 
 But, aside from this, the elder English mind was a singu- 
 larly thoughtful and even-tempered one. When stirred 
 deeply, it proved itself to be a mind full of powers and 
 energies, as the political history of England shows. But 
 this force was under the control of strong English sense, 
 and of that more profound faculty which is the parent of 
 ideas and the discoverer of laws. This temperance of in- 
 tellect, this moderation of soul, invariably accompanies 
 depth and richness of thought, and manifests itself in a 
 grave and commanding style of reflection and expression. 
 Turn, for example, to the poetry of Spenser and Milton, 
 to the philosophy of Bacon, to the history of Kalcigli, and 
 notice the entire absence of that quality so much strained 
 after by the modern belle-lettrist, the striking and the 
 startling. The charm lies not in individual passages — 
 and hence no compositions suffer more when judged of by 
 " ek'gant extracts" from them — but in the continuous and 
 continual flow of the main current of thought, which 
 pours onward in gentleness, in quietness, and in broad, 
 Vdeep strength. This same cliaracteristic is seen in every 
 department of literary composition, l^^vcn in autobiog- 
 raphy, where the writer would ];e specially tenqited to 
 throw a brilliant hue over his own personal history, the 
 same sedateness and balance of judgment is exhib- 
 ited. The Memoii's of Lord Herbert of Cherbury, for 
 cxani[>le, contain the history of on(! of the most rare and 
 acconi[)lished gentlemen, as well as one of the most 
 learned and tliou;;htful students, of the aire in whic.li 
 he lived. They also contain an account of chi\;ilrouii 
 adventures.
 
 50 THE INFLUENCE AND METIIOn 
 
 of most disastrous chancea, 
 Of moving accidents, by Hood and field ; 
 Of hair-breadth scapes i' the imminent deadly breach. 
 
 And yet the imrnitive is eqiiublo and tranquil, tlie lan- 
 guage Jiiild, melodious, and ilowing; and the coloring 
 over the whole, not glaring and showy, but sober, suffused, 
 and rich. Indeed, what Ileminge and Condell, the edi- 
 tors of the first edition of Shakspeare, say of this author, 
 apjdies to the early English writers generally : " As he 
 was a happy imitator of nature, so he was a most gentle 
 expresser of it. His mind and hand went together ; and 
 what lie thought, he nttered with that easiness, tliat we 
 have scarce received from him a blot in his papers." 
 
 These characteristics in the mode of thought and expres- 
 sion arose from the singular sincerity and gravity of the 
 English character and mind, in these earlier stages of its 
 history. By sincerity we mean the pure outgoing or issue 
 of the mind, unmodified by any outward references. As 
 has been already remarked, the Englishman of this period 
 had not the fear of the critic before his eyes. English 
 literature, therefore, though it suffered undoubtedly for 
 the want of a sound philosophic criticism, and was some- 
 what lacking in those excellent qualities, conciseness and 
 perspicuity, which the sharp analysis of a later day has 
 superinduced upon it, did, nevertheless, attain to a sweet 
 fiuency, and rich copiousness, and sober gravity, and wise 
 thoughtfulness, that have never been surpassed. Again, 
 the anthor of these periods did not Avritc for all grades 
 and capacities of intellect. He was not a society for the 
 diffusion of nseful knowledge among all classes of men, 
 but he was a retiring, studious pei'son, who thought as he 
 listed, and wrote without much regard to an immediate 
 sensation, for a "fit audience though few." Far be it' 
 frorn us to speak disj^aragingly of the useful knowledge 
 
 /^
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 57 
 
 diffused so Avidelj at the present day, oi' of that body of 
 sound and useful literature which has been called into 
 existence by the wants of the people. In reference to all 
 the solid characteristics and qualities of literature, it is 
 more worthy of the name than much of the so-called 
 polite literature and belles-lettres of the times. Like the 
 elder literature of which we have been speaking, it is an 
 honest and sound production. It came into being owing 
 to a felt want, and it meets a felt want of an intelligent, 
 sound-hearted body of men, and therefore it is to be 
 respected by every one who respects the human mind. 
 Still, the somewliat insulated position of the earlier English 
 wi-iters, by freeing them from all side influences and by 
 aims, gave them an opportunity to free their mind as 
 slowly, as lengthily, as copiously, as thoroughly as they 
 pleased. They were at liberty, in tlie retirement of their 
 closets, and addressing a limited public of similar culti- 
 vation with themselves, to pay no attention to time, place, 
 or circumstances, in the development of a subject. That 
 slutrt method, rapid movement, and striking statement in 
 which we of the present excel them, and which is a neces- 
 sary quality in oratory, is not to be found in them. AVe 
 must look to modern English literature for the best speci- 
 mens of oratorical composition. 
 
 The whole influence of such a thoughtful and sincere 
 literature upon the mind is educating in the highest 
 degree. The reader is not violently excited by a rapid 
 series of single striking thoughts and inuiges, which, in 
 the phrase of De Quincey, "can hardly have time to 
 glance, like the lamps of a mail coach, before his hurried' 
 and bewildered understanding," but he is gradually pene- 
 trated and permeated by warm currents of rich and genial 
 reflection, lie acquii-es, insensibly, the same temperate 
 and composed style of thinking ; learns to com7/iune, long 
 
 o-X-
 
 5S TIIK INFl.l'KNUl'; AND METHOD 
 
 ;iik1 patiently, witli the subjects that come hcfore liia 
 luiiui ; and, like these his teacliers and models, linds all 
 themes wonderfull}' fertile. For, along with this sim- 
 plicity, there is a remarkable copiousness in the literature 
 of whicli we are speaking. Instead of being made poor 
 by this freedom and pi'odigality, these minds, like a living 
 fountain, only became more ebullient the more they were 
 drawn from. Call to mind, for example, the wonderful 
 fertility of the English mind in the Eh'zabethan age. 
 What an immense amount of rich and weighty thought, 
 that was ricli and weighty enough to come down to our 
 day, and which will have a permanent interest for the 
 hunuui mind in all time, was originated during the fifty 
 years between 1575 and 1625. During this short fifty 
 years, Englisli literature was enriched by the productions 
 of Spenser, Sidney, Raleigh, Bacon, Hooker, Shakspeare, 
 Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Chapman, Marlowe, 
 AVel)ster, Middleton, and Ford. The catalogue reminde 
 one of the dazzlins; treasure vault of Marlowe's rich Jew 
 of Malta : 
 
 Infinite riches in a little room, 
 
 Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, 
 
 Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, 
 
 Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds. 
 
 And seld-seen costly stones of so great price, 
 
 As one of them, indifferently rated, 
 
 And of a caract of this quality, 
 
 May serve, in peril of calamity. 
 
 To ransome great kings from captivity. 
 
 This fertility of the English mind was, at once, the 
 cause and effect of the prevailing st}'le of thinking at that 
 period. The striking, startling, brilliant mode, which has 
 reached its acme in the modern novel, nol drawing upon 
 the meditativeness and reserve of the intellectual charac-
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 59 
 
 tor, is utterly incompatible with such a wiioji of quantity 
 with high quality, as appears in this Elizabethan litei-a- 
 ture. On the contrary, that calm and composed metliod 
 which characterized these men, and which is worth toiling 
 after, is most conformed to the nature of the human 
 liiind, to that "large discourse of reason which looks be- 
 fore and after," and consequentl}' may be presumed to be, 
 more than any other one, the mode in and through whicli 
 the contents of the mind may be discharged in ricliest 
 abundance and with least self -exhaustion. 
 
 In this connection, it is worthy of notice that the prin- 
 ciple here advanced holds good in other departments be- 
 sides tliat of letters. The highest and most productive 
 genius in Fine Art is also the calmest and gravest. Ra- 
 pliael died at the early age of tliirty-seven, yet he filled 
 all Europe with master-pieces before he died. And into 
 each one of these works he threw, with all the prodigality 
 of nature herself, a world of life, motion, and expression. 
 Many of his pie(;es are groups, and groups within groups ; 
 and yet each individual in them is itself a study. His 
 creative talent finds no j^arallel but in Shakespeare him- 
 self : and there is certainly no distant similaritv between 
 that universality and wealth of artistic power which pro- 
 jected itself in the paintings of Raphael and that which 
 (Mubonied itsell' in the vastness of the Slmksperean drama. 
 But Raphael's genius was mild and serene. His tempera- 
 ment bordered u])on the feminine ; and his activity as an 
 sirlist was delii;crate, equable, and sustained. Indeed, the 
 history of literature, generally, sliows that ages of great 
 productive power have not been marked by violent and 
 spasmodic action. The intellects of that wonderful age, 
 the age of Rericles, were grave arul ti'an(juil in their na- 
 ture and actings. Soecpiablu and calm was their intellec- 
 tual manner, that the Crreek })r(jse of this jicriod, es[)e- 
 
 /
 
 60 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 cially that of Plato, is rhythmic and sweetly musical, and 
 their thouc^ht is so utterly destitute of everything start- 
 ling or glaring, tliat the modern student, brought up, as 
 he has been, amid the animation, and brilliancy, and sen- 
 sation of the present age, must school himself, and acquire 
 a classic taste, a taste for Platonic beauty, before he can 
 feel its hidden charm. 
 
 But while this feature in the elder English mind and 
 literature is brought out, it is necessary to guard against 
 the notion that this calmness was accompanied witli dul- 
 ness, that the body of thought thus originated is destitute 
 of vitality and energy. The life and the power run very 
 deep, and they are felt with tremendous force, by that 
 mind, and only that mind, which by a genial and some- 
 what reproductive study, has adopted the same style of 
 thinking. For when the student has once snnk down 
 into the element, and the depth, where these minds think, 
 and can repeat their processes, he knows of a vitality and 
 an energy not to be found nearer the surface. The lit- 
 erature of which we are speaking, is in no sense languid 
 or lifeless. The minds that produced it were deeply ear- 
 nest, inspired with a serious purpose, and at no rare inter- 
 vals glowing with enthusiasm. Nay, they seem to have 
 found their most congenial sphere in the drama ; the de- 
 partment of all niost aloof from coldness, tameness, and 
 lifelessness. The subject-matter in which they seem to 
 have taken the liveliest pleasure was human passion ; 
 and that this most vivid part of human nature found a 
 powerful painter in them, the Elizabethan drama is a 
 proof. For if we look through universal literature, we 
 cannot find anything more passionate than this drama. 
 Saying nothing of its immense range and expanse, it 
 being nothing less than the whole human consciousnesSj 
 an infinite canvas which would seem to require an infi-
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES.. 61 
 
 nito rather than a finite power to fill up ; saying nothing 
 of its vast extent, nowhere do we find such an intensity 
 of life, breath, and motion ; and this too at every point, 
 and in every part and particle. Take the play of Ham- 
 let, for example. "We do not find the violent, volcanic 
 energy of a modern melodrama, or of a modern French 
 novel ; but he must be stone-dead in the depths of his 
 being who does not find beating throughout this organisin 
 the deep life of nature and reality, and beating with a 
 stronger pulse the more he knows of it. Take again, a 
 play like the " White Devil," of Webster, and see with what 
 terrible strength the fundamental passions of human na- 
 ture are shown workins;. Notice the rousino; effect of 
 the play upon the niind. This production of this same 
 reserved and thoughtful period is intensely passionate. 
 It has a most profound aftinity with the human imagina- 
 tion, and raises storms of feeling and j)assion in the mind 
 of the reader. 
 
 The truth is, the literature of this period is alive all 
 through^ and hence the depth and calmness of its life. 
 The more that is known of it, the more will it be felt to 
 be a powerfully educating instrument, No literature im- 
 parts a more distinctive and higldy determined character 
 to the culture of one who studies it; and this not for one 
 stage of the intellectual life, but for all stages. It is 
 characteristic of a less reserved and more strikino; mode 
 of thinking, that it seizes with violence upon the mind at 
 a particular period, and takes possession of it altogether 
 during this ]>erio(l. It exerts a greater influence than it 
 lias a right to, because no one style is absolute and perfect 
 enough to justify this monopolizing of all the powers and 
 capacities of the human soid, to the exclusion of all other 
 forms of literature, or modes of thought. Even in the 
 case of the higher and more perfect species of literature
 
 63 Tllli INFLlIlONCli AND METHOD 
 
 of which we are spealving, the influence exerted is not 
 to the exchision or at the expense of that of other excel- 
 lent species, such as the classic, for exainj^le, hut in co- 
 incidence and harmony with it. It is therefore an un- 
 favorahle sii'n in relation to the character of a mode of 
 thouf>-ht, or a school in letters, if the mind, during one 
 particular period in its history, and. especiallj^ if it is an 
 unripe one, become so absorbed in it as to be dead to all 
 other forms. A reaction must come eventually, and the 
 favorite author will become as intensely repulsive, as he 
 was once intensel}' attractive. 
 
 But the influence of the literature under consideration 
 iS eminently catholic and liberalizing. The mental ten- 
 dency produced by the study of it does not in the least 
 unfit the student for a genial appreciation of other forms. 
 Nay, we afiirm that it is one of the very best preservatives 
 against narrowness in criticism, and bigotry in literary 
 (^feeling. The calm, self-possessed, thoughtful spirit, 
 which reigns in English litei'ature, taken as a whole, tends 
 to extii'pate all exclusive sympathies, and to render the 
 intellectual afiinities more comprehensive and far-reach- 
 ing. Whenever we meet a mind, one of the deep bases 
 of whose culture has been laid in a thorough apprehen- 
 sion and genial admiration of English thought in its 
 best forms, we meet one of enlarged and catholic views 
 of literature generally. Such an one is far better qualified 
 to sit in judgment upon a false and exaggerated mode of 
 thinking, than he who is whoUv involved in it can le. 
 The admiration which he feels towards a dazzling schtol 
 or author is far more correct, because it is far more mode- 
 rate and intelligent, than that of a servile disciple. lie 
 is not blind to its faults, and therefore best knows the 
 actual woi'th of its excellences. 
 
 And more than all, and better than all, the style of
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 63 
 
 thinking produced by tlie study of the literature in ques- 
 tion is essentially permanent in its cliaracter. By this is 
 not meant, that it is a stiff and rigidly fixed style, incom- 
 patil)le with mental freedom ; a style that is a mechanical, 
 rather than a vital process, and keeps the thinker con- 
 stantly running in his old ruts. The style is 2'>ernianent, 
 in the sense of beinj? broad enouirh, and calm enouo-h, to 
 make room for all the moditications that mav be intro- 
 duced into it by the growing culture of the student, with- 
 out changing or deranging the ground-worh. The mind 
 has not been committed, so to speak, to intensity of any 
 sort, to any violent manner, but is impartial, grave, and 
 judicial in its tone and temper. Hence it is not com- 
 pelled, in order to change at all in its style of thought or 
 expression, to change altogetlier and take on some entirely 
 new f(n-m of intensity or mental violence, thus going 
 through a round of particular and transient manners, or 
 rather rnojinerisms, but never acquiring any one perma- 
 nent and standard style. For it is noticeable, that a con- 
 stant hankerinu; after the most intense and striking:; form 
 is destructive of all true form. An intellectual restless- 
 ness is produced in tliis way, that keeps the mind in a 
 ceaseless chase after the novel and the startling, in neither 
 of which can it ever find permanent satisfaction and rest. 
 The truth of these remarks may be seen by a reference 
 to the style of the modern jcjurnalism. The journal must 
 bo strikingand brilliant, or it is nothing. That repose and 
 reserve of manner which ap[)ears in the treatise, in the 
 methodical organized ])i'oduct that makes a positive addi- 
 tion to the sum of human knowledge, is death to the jour- 
 nal. Hence the journalist must i)e ever on the alert for 
 forms of expression, and turns ol" i)eriods, and peculiari- 
 ties of manner, that will make a sensation in distinction 
 from an inqiression. lie is compelled to lead an intense,
 
 64 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 excited, unnatural intellectual existence, and to find ever 
 new, and ever clianiyiiiir forms for it. But how little of 
 standard style, of finished, noble form, is there in the cur- 
 rent journal literature ! There is not mental repose lon<^ 
 enoug-h to allow the mind to settle into one pernuuient 
 manner. The production of fixed form, the crystalliza 
 tion, is prevented by the perpetual jar and agitation. 
 
 Such then, we conceive, is the influence of English 
 studies upon the style of thinking. They induce a calm, 
 grave, sincere, profound, exhaustive, and commanding 
 manner of mind. And inasmuch as it is the great end of 
 education to enable the mind to tliink its very best thought, 
 and to express it in its very best manner, the great wortlt 
 of this literature for educational purposes becomes appai- 
 ent. It is a powerful organ and instrument of culture. 
 It is to be recommended to the modern student, as an 
 extremely influential means of bringing out into full action 
 his best capacity. If there be any literature that can stii, 
 and stimulate, and elicit, while at the same time it nur- 
 tures and enriches, it is the English. And it is, whatever 
 may be our theory on the matter, the literature to which 
 we betake ourselves when we wish to feed our mind with 
 sweet and wholesome food ; when we wish to have its best 
 powers roused ; when we wish to think for our own satis- 
 faction, or to ffive out thouf;ht for others. If we are 
 scholarly now, we keej^ Milton, and Shakspeare, and 
 Chaucer, and Bacon, and Hooker, by us ; and if we shall 
 continue to be scholars, these minds will continue to mould 
 and educate our minds. For this literature is home-bred, 
 and, apart from its intrinsic excellence, speaks in our own 
 tongue, and addresses our own nationality, and our own 
 individuality. To feel its influence, we need only to keep 
 a healthy English spirit, and a sound English heart 
 within us; we have but to open our mouths, and draw
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 65 
 
 in the fresh bracing element and atmosphere we were 
 born for, 
 
 III. In our discussion thus far, we have devoted 
 ahnost exchisive attention to the elder English writers ; 
 and it might, perhaps, be inferred that we would discard 
 the productions of the later authors, and do them injustice. 
 Tliis would be a mistaken inference : for, although we 
 l)elieve that if a line were drawn between the literature 
 preceding, and that succeeding, Milton, the weightier and 
 more precious portion would lie on the further side of it, 
 we would not say one word that could possibly lead to the 
 neglect of any portion of a literature that we desire to have 
 studied as a sum-total. From his contemporaneous posi- 
 tion, and immediate relation to it, however, the modern 
 will not be likely to undervalue modern English author- 
 ship ; while, on the other hand, there is much need of 
 effort and urgency to prevent him from remaining as 
 ignorant of Chaucer, and even of Spenser, as if, instead 
 of being the " wells of English undetiled," they belonged 
 to a foreign literature. The purpose, therefore, of the 
 remainder of this discussion will be, to give some practi- 
 cal directions respecting the best method of pursuing 
 English Studies philcjlogically and critically. 
 
 One principal reason why tlie language and literature 
 of Enghmd, wliich really forms the connecting link be- 
 tween the student and the great modern world into which 
 he is soon to enter and become a constituent part, lias ex- 
 erted so little comparative influence in the system of pub- 
 lic instru(ttion, and in connection with classical, mathoma- 
 lical, and philosophical (lis(Mpline, lies in the fact that it 
 has not been matle the suljject of eiijiiioUxjmil study and 
 l>ldlolo(i'ic(d analysis. No language, no literature, as wo 
 remarked in the outset, can exert a thoroughly educating 
 pmver, unless the mind works its way into it by the study
 
 GO THE INFLUENCK AND METHOD 
 
 of its individual words and radicals; unless its force and 
 life are felt tlirougli the slow process of decomposing and 
 recoinbining its rudiniental elements. The first practical 
 rccoiumendation tliereforo is this : Select an old English 
 autht)r from a period so remote that his language and 
 style shall be so strange and unknown, as to require close 
 glossarial and grammatical study in order to a bare under- 
 standing of him. The common error is, to select a writer, 
 Milton or Shakspeare, for example, so near to our own 
 time as to require but little study of this sort in order to 
 reach his general meaning. But, in reality, such autliors 
 as tliese should be studied only after a pi'cparatoiy disci- 
 pline of the sort we are recommending. The wonders of 
 their English style can be appreciated only by one who 
 has analyzed tlie language in its roots, and has acquired a 
 knowledge of its history ; only by one who has traced 
 words up to their origin, and down again, through all 
 their changes and uses ; only by one who has investigated 
 the various styles of thinking to be found in the literature 
 as a whole, and knows, in some good degree, all the vari- 
 ous types and manners the national mind has taken on. 
 For these great masters are highly national in their literary 
 character, and their productions contain the concentrated 
 essence of the general Englisli mind and heart, and the 
 general English culture. In oi-der to their profound ap- 
 prehension, a very extensive knowledge of English litera- 
 ture is required; and the truly philosophic study of them 
 caimot be commenced, even, without much previous prepa- 
 ration. The student must, then, select Cliaucer to start 
 with. lie must go back of the prolific and somewhat 
 familiar sixteenth century, across the almost totally sterile 
 and barren fifteenth century, and plant himself in the very 
 heart of the fourteenth. In this waj', he will have put a 
 gulf between his present knowledge of English and that
 
 OF ENGLISPI STUDIES. 67 
 
 knowledge M'hich he proposes to acquire, over which lie 
 cannot pass without some more earnest and thorough 
 study than is implied in an easy and passive perusal of a 
 form of English like that of Shakspeare or Spenser. 
 He will be made aware that the Englishman of 1350 used 
 a form of English that is, to a great extent, unintelligible 
 to the Englishman of 1850 ; and yet a form which thor- 
 ough philological study will show is not so wholly ditfcr- 
 ent frona that employed by himself, as he might imagine 
 in his present ignorance of it. Increasing acquaintance 
 witli it will evince that, after all, it is genuine, hearty, 
 idiomatic English, and has a most close and vital affinity 
 with the best portion of his own vocabulary, and with the 
 raciest, heartiest trains of thought in his own mind. 
 
 An additional reason for selecting Chaucer is found in 
 the fact that in his works the English language first ap- 
 ])ears in a tolerably fixed form. Trevious to Chaucer, it 
 liad been passing through those intermediate stages whicli 
 marked the transition from the pure Saxon to the English 
 pi-oper. Hence, the literature of the nation may be said 
 t<j have sprung into existence with him. For, Layamon's 
 translati(;ii of Wace, the metrical Chronicles of: Ilobert of 
 Cloucester and Itobert Mannving, and the Vision of Piers 
 i'lowman — the principal productitjns that mark the prog- 
 ress of the language and literature of England during the 
 two centuries between 1150 and 1350 — all l)ear evident 
 marks of imuiaturity and instability. While the range of 
 thougiit is trivial and niean,* the form of the language 
 and the ciiaractcr of the style indicate tliat the national 
 mind, during this p(M-iod, was un(;ultivated and uniornicd. 
 It was feeling the effects of the Noi'inan conquest. Eor, 
 althouirli the Noi'man was more culliNulcd than the Saxon 
 
 ♦ Thin remark is not true of the ViHion of Piera Tlowman, which Ih a 
 vigorous aud lively picture of life iiud mauucrs.
 
 68 THE INFLUENCK AND METHOD 
 
 whom he coDqucred, still the Saxon serf could derive to 
 liimself but little of the culture of his Norman lord. The 
 relation existing between the two parties precluded any 
 civilizing and cultivating influence of one upon the other. 
 Only in proportion as the Saxon recovered his rights and 
 [)(>litical freedom, did he profit by the culture which his 
 conquerors possessed. During the two centuries of which 
 we are speaking, the English nation was slowly recovering 
 its freedom, and the English mind was slowly emerging 
 from the ignorance and barbarism of a servile condition. 
 The literary productions of this period, although they 
 must receive, sooner or later, the careful study of every 
 one who wishes to obtain a complete knowledge of the 
 English language and literature, are crude in their matter, 
 ineleirant and even barbarous in their form. There is the 
 same objection, therefore, to commencing with them that 
 there is to commencing with the Saxon, in order to a com- 
 plete knowledge of English. They are too naked and 
 bald for the mere beginner. They are not thoughtful and 
 attractive enough to waken the interest of the student, in 
 the first period of his English studies. They need to be 
 examined in the light thrown back upon them from a suc- 
 ceeding age, and under the interest excited by their seen 
 relation to forms of English that have already been 
 studied and mastered. For it is plain that the natural 
 method for the Englishman to pursue, in the study of liis 
 nsotlier tongue, is retrogressive. lie should work his way 
 back, from the present form of the language, step by step, 
 until he reaches its heart and root. Instead, therefore, 
 of leaping from the last and newest form to the first and 
 oldest ; from the present English to the Saxon of Beowulf 
 or Caedmon ; he should study, one by one, the interme- 
 diate forms, until, by a natural and imperceptible progress, 
 he arrives at the beginning. All that is needed is, that
 
 OF ENGIJSH STUDIES. • 09 
 
 he study the subject by distinctly-marked periods ; that 
 he investigate authors who are sufficiently far apart to ena- 
 ble him to see and realize that the language has undergone 
 a great change. 
 
 As one of the first steps, then, in English study, let 
 Chaucer be taken up as an author to be studied critically 
 and for years to come. This is a better method than 
 merely to peruse a history of the language and literature, 
 like those of Warton and Ellis, and there stop. It is true, 
 that such histories afford a selection of extracts from the 
 principal writers of each period, from which some general 
 notions and views may be formed ; but they are the last 
 works to be put into the hands of a beginner. He who 
 has already mastered the few leading authors of the differ- 
 ent periods may make use of them, as an aid in epitomiz- 
 ing and generalizing his knowledge. For, by this inde- 
 pendent and accurate study of individual authors, he has 
 obtained a clew that will lead him through the maze and 
 perplexity of a historical series, and leave him in posses- 
 sion of distinct and well-methodized information. But 
 without this clew and previous preparation, the vast 
 amount of material contained in such a historv as that of 
 Warton will only confuse and overwhelm the mind, leav- 
 ing it full of obscuritv and vagueness. In selecting a 
 particular author, and devoting the whole attention to him 
 for the time being, the student has only a single end in 
 view. He is busied with one individual mind, and in en- 
 deav(M*ing to penetrate into its nature and spij-it his own 
 mind moves in one straight line, and all his acquisitions 
 are simple and homogeneous in their character. And if 
 the authcji' whom he selects be worthy of such an undivid- 
 ed attention ; especially if he be one in whom the general 
 culture and spirit of his age found expression ; llu; Iciiowi- 
 edge acquired is not only thorough, but extensive. Eor
 
 70 TIIR INT-LUENCE AND TVrKTIIon 
 
 such minds are very broad as well as deep, and there need 
 he no fear of beconiin<i^ narrowed by such exclusive study 
 of one writer. That close and undivided attention wliicli 
 the Greeks, in all ages of their history, devoted to their 
 Iloiner, contributed, as much as any one tiling, to tlie 
 lil)eral and expanded feeling so characteristic of Greek 
 literature. The Greek, unlike the Englishman, did not 
 allow the dialect or the poetry of the father of his nation- 
 al literature to become strange or obsolete. His works 
 were familiar alike to the educated Greek of the Attic 
 and Alexandrine periods. In the words of lleeren : 
 " The dialect of Homer remained the principal one for 
 epic poetry, and had an important influence on Grecian 
 literature. Amidst all the changes and improvements in 
 the language, it prevented the ancient from becoming an 
 tiquated, and secured it a place among tlie later modes 
 of expression." * And had the Englishman been as care- 
 ful to prevent the lano:na<2:e and works of the Eno-lish II'o- 
 mer from becominfi: obsolete and unknown, the Enirlish 
 language and literature would have been different from 
 what it now is, b}' a very important modification. If that 
 stream of sweet, fresh, and limpid thought had been kept 
 running, for four centuries past, into the great main 
 volume of English thought, there would be more of nature 
 and less of art in it. If that simple, expressive, nervous, 
 and (notwithstanding all that has been said to the contrary 
 by critics who had not imbued themselves with Chaucer) 
 that melodious diction had come along down as a familiar 
 foi-m of the language, the English of the present day 
 would be a higher type of the language than it is. 
 
 Another reason for selectlno- Chaucer, and making 
 him the subject of exclusive and close study for a long 
 
 * Ancient Greece. Chapter VI. Bancroft's Translation.
 
 OF EXGLISIT STUDIES. 71 
 
 time, is found in the fact, that in this way alone can he 
 1)0 understood and appreciated. To read a few extracts 
 from his works in a compendium, in connection with a 
 few extracts from all the other leading writers of England, 
 is not the way to a M'orth}' and fruitful knowledge of him. 
 Indeed, the first effect of Chaucer upon the modern is to 
 repel ; and it is only the first effect that is experienced 
 uj^on the perusal of extracts. The immediate impression 
 of an old writer upon an uncultivated mind, generally, 
 is that of disappointment. The unschooled reader finds 
 nothins: hut strano-eness of diction, excessive simplicity of 
 sentiment bordering upon triviality, pathos that is bathos, 
 and a verse from which no ingenuity can extract either 
 melody or harmony. All this is true, in its full extent, of 
 Chaucer. Even such clear heads and sensible minds as 
 Dean Swift and Alexander Pope saw no poetry or charm 
 in him ; if their burlesques and travesties of hiui afford, 
 as they unquestionably do, any index of their real opinion. 
 Ihit it is the effect of the critical and prolonged study of 
 (Jhaucer, to so imbue the mind with liis matter and man- 
 ner, that his truthfulness, and charm, and power, as a 
 poet, are felt vividly and fully. Perhaps the point upon 
 which the sceptic would hold out longest in relation to 
 him would be his verse ; it being an unquestioned asser- 
 tion, in some very respectable schools of criticism, that it 
 is destitute of both melody and liarmony. But we do 
 not hesitate to atlirui, that when the student has by long 
 continued intercourse become yt«;/^'i7i'/<'/;■ with him ; wIkmi 
 his antique strangcniess has worn off, and the ear has 
 become accustomed to certain variations fi-oin the modern 
 custom in )U'onunciati(Mi ; when, in short, he has so culti- 
 vated liimself, that Chaucer is to hiui what he was to the 
 ear and the poetic feeling of his own age, we aHinii that 
 moi-e melodious and harmonious verse is not to be found
 
 73 TUE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 in the literature. It can be read longer, and not weary 
 the ear, than the verse of Scott or Moore can be ; because 
 the melody is ever subordinate to the harmony ; because 
 the sentiment is natural, and the measure undulates with 
 the sentiment. But such a g-enial and truthful apprecia 
 tion of Chaucer is not the work of a day. The scholar 
 must gradually grow into it, and grow up to it. Time 
 alone imparts the sense and vernacular feeling of his ex- 
 cellence. 
 
 When this author has been completely mastered, the 
 student is prepared for those still earlier and ruder forms 
 of English, of which we have spoken. Once at home in 
 the English of Chaucer, the passage to that of the metri- 
 cal chrt)niclcs and scripture paraphrases is easy and natur- 
 al ; and when these have been studied, the few remains 
 of Saxon that are left furnish the matter for the final 
 Btud}' in this direction.* 
 
 The second pi-actical reconnnendation respecting the 
 best manner of pursuing the study of the English lan- 
 guage and literature is this : Select from leading periods 
 in the history of the literature those productions in which 
 the power of the great minds found its fullest expression, 
 
 * An English Chrestomathy is a desideratum. Beginning- with 
 selections from Gower's Confessio Amantis (1415), followed by most of 
 the Canterbury Tales (1390), then with extracts from Langland's Piers 
 Plowman (KWO), from Lawrence Minot (lo4!)), from the hybrid form of 
 the language in Robert de Brunne's Chronicle (looD), and Robert of 
 Gloucester's (1280), from Layamon's translation of Wace (1165), and 
 ending with specimens of the Saxon in all its periods ; such a reading 
 book, provided with a full glossaiy, and a brief Anglo-Saxon Grammar, 
 would do great service towards imparting an etymological and critical 
 knowledge of English. For the study of Saxon alone, the life of Alfred, 
 by Pauli, in Bohn's Antiquarian Library, which is supplemented by a 
 very correct edition of the text of Alfred's Orosius, together with a 
 glossary and a concise Anglo-Saxon Grammar, furnishes a very conve- 
 nient apparatus.
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 73 
 
 and rei^ard them as models to be studied. As examples, 
 may be cited such productions as Bacon's Advancement 
 of Learning, the first book of Hooker's Ecclesiastical 
 Polity, Milton's Speech for the Liberty of Unlicensed 
 Printing, Locke's Conduct of the Understanding, Burke's 
 Retlections on the French Revolution. 
 
 Productions like these are eminently English. They are 
 highly characterized by the solid sense, the strong under- 
 standing, and the thoughtful spirit of England. These 
 qualities, it is true, are characteristic of all genuine pro- 
 ducts of the English mind, but they are found in their 
 greatest energy, only in the productions of leading minds. 
 AV"ith these, therefore, the student should imbue himself. 
 He may peruse the second-rate writers without being 
 greatly affected by these characteristics, but he caimot 
 meditate upon such treatises as the above mentioned, 
 witliout becoming more thoroughly English in the process. 
 The importance of a national spirit in culture cannot be 
 overestimated, and to tliis point we would direct attention 
 for a moment. The individual mind is not individual 
 merely ; it is also national in its structure. It partakes 
 of the peculiarities of the particular race of mankind to 
 whi(;h it belongs. As the state is in tlie individual, as 
 really as tlie individual is in the state, so the nation is in 
 the individual, as really as the individual is in the nation. 
 ]iy virtue of a political nature and element in his consti- 
 tution, the individual contains the groundwork and inward 
 I'cality of the commonwealth of which he is outwardly a 
 member ; and bv virtue of a national and idiomatic ele- 
 ment in his mind, the individual contains the gi-onndwork 
 and inward reality oi' the nation of which he is outwardly 
 a member. In neither case could any conceivable height- 
 ening of the merely and Htrictltj iiulividnal, possibly [)ro- 
 duce the national. No degree, however intense, of private 
 4
 
 74 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 and iiulividual feeling conld possihly produce patriotism. 
 Private interest and private feeling spring out of the 
 individual in the man, and public interest and public feel- 
 ing spring out of the state in the man. Both natures 
 coexist in one subject, in harmony when human nature is 
 in a normal condition, and in antagonism when it is not ; 
 but each has its distinct characteristics, and forms the 
 basis of a distinct activity. 
 
 These remarks hold true in relation to literature, as 
 well as politics. In respect, therefore, to culture and to 
 authorship, the national is, or should be, in the individual. 
 While the individual opens his mind and heart to all that 
 is true and genial in the productions of foreign minds, he 
 should retain his own nationality in its most independent 
 and determined form. The Eno-lishman should think 
 like an Englishman, and compose like an Englisliman. 
 
 Now the thoughtful, and ever repeated, perusal of such 
 products of tiie great English minds as have been speci- 
 fied above, contributes to strengthen and develop that 
 which is national and idiomatic in the individual intellect. 
 And in the present influx of foreign literature, of foreign 
 modes of thought and expression, the conservative iniiu- 
 ence of these great English masters and models should be 
 felt more than ever. It is only by a more profound acquain- 
 tance with these, that the good elements in other litera- 
 tures and other national minds can be assimilated, and the 
 bad rejected. An ardent attention to French literature, 
 for example, would induce an excessive materialism, and 
 an ardent attention to German literature a hyper-spirit- 
 ualism, in the English mind and literature, if each were 
 not counteracted by the sober sense and calm reason of 
 ! our own thinkers. 
 
 The influence of German literature n])on the student, in 
 this connection, merits a moment's consideration. At thia
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 75 
 
 late day, no respectable scholar will deny that this litera- 
 ture ranks among the very first, as a source of knowledge 
 and an instrument of culture. Probably none exerts a 
 more profound influence upon the stuff and substance of 
 literature, upon thoug-iit itself, than this. Eminently 
 speculative and thoughtful, it seizes with a strong grasp 
 upon the laws of thought, and habits of thought, and 
 style of thought, and exerts a wonderfully modify- 
 ing, moulding, and internally revolutionizing power. 
 But it cannot safely be made the principal instrument of 
 education. It must be kept in check and subordination 
 by others. Its strong spiritualizing tendency must be 
 counteracted by opposite tendencies; and this in order 
 that this very spiritualizing tendency itself may do its 
 best work. For this bias, if left to run on indefinitely, re- 
 sults, as the history of some of the most interesting schools 
 of philosophy and literature shows, in the sheerest and 
 merest materialism. Any tendency if excessive, ainiihi- 
 lates itself by turning into its own contrary. And the 
 Englishman, especially, is liable to this result. If his 
 large roundabout sense and sober reason are once over- 
 mastered by the tendency and influence in question, he 
 becomes the most ultra of spiritualists. The wines and 
 luxury of the south of Europe entering into the strong 
 and coarse nature of the northern tribes generated an in- 
 toxication and a debauch, at which the Southron himself 
 stood airhast. When Caliban feels the fumes, the drunk- 
 eiiness is absolute. 
 
 In furnishing a proper counteraction to tliis tendency, 
 and to all other forctign tendencies, and tluis j)reserving 
 the true nationality of the scholar, the works in (piestiou 
 arc invaluable and indispensable. They are by no means 
 destitute of 8})eculation, but they are remarkable for their 
 sobriety and sense. Even when they verge strongly in the
 
 76 THE INFLUENCE AND METHOD 
 
 direction of materialisui, they are valuable aids ; especially 
 in the reference now nnder consideration. Take, for 
 example, tlie treatise of Locke on the Conduct of the 
 Understanding-, the best tract yet written upon education. 
 It is less a model product of the English mind than some 
 others in the list, because it sprang from a root that had 
 too strong a tang of earth ; because it grew out of an ex- 
 travagantly sensuous system of philosophy, and a culture 
 corresponding thereto. But it furnishes a most excellent 
 and efficacious corrective to a wan and bloodless hyper- 
 spirituality. If the Englisliman or Anglo-American has 
 weakened himself by too much dreaming over such inter- 
 esting, but, after all, somewhat effeminate products, as 
 those of the German Novalis, or the French Chateaubriand 
 and Lamartine, or the English Tennyson, let him trans- 
 fuse into his veins the blood of John Locke. If he has 
 become thin and pale in the process, let him feed upon 
 the pulp and brawn of as masculine a mind as ever lived. 
 The preservation of nationality, in all respects and rela- 
 tions, is of the highest importance in this age of the world, 
 when the ease, and frequency, and intimacy of inter- 
 communication are erasing some lines that ought to be 
 scored still more deeply rather than obliterated. The 
 extinction of nationality, like the extinction of individu- 
 ality, would be the death of all the great interests of the 
 liuman race. The confusion of tongues, and the origina- 
 tion of many languages, though primarily a curse, yet 
 like the curse of labor, brings many blessings in its train. 
 Tiie formation of nations and of languages has unques- 
 tionably contri])uted to a more profound and exhaustive 
 development of the fallen human soul, than could have 
 been attained without it. And thefurther jorogress of the 
 race in art, in science, in literature, in philosophy, and in 
 religion, is dependent upon the preservation, and the
 
 OF ENGLISH STUDIES. 77 
 
 quickening collision, of this variety in unity. The mo- 
 ment a mind loses its nationality, it loses its charm and 
 power for other minds ; even for that other mind in which 
 it has servilely sunk its own nationality. 
 
 By this thoughtful and prolonged perusal of the pro- 
 ducts of the master-minds of the literature, the student 
 will preserve and strengthen what is national and idio- 
 matic in his mental structure, while at the same time he 
 will more genially appreciate, and heartily relish, what is 
 national and idiomatic in other literatures. And, what is 
 not less important, he will be storing his intellect with 
 the best sense and reason of the nation to which he be- 
 longs ; lie will be plantiug the seeds and germs of all 
 noble and ennobliug truths, thereby preparing himself to 
 be an orii^inal and influential thinker and author in his 
 own day and generation. For the words of Chaucer are 
 as true now as ever : 
 
 Out of the oldc fieldes, as men saithe, 
 
 Cometh all this newe corn fro yere to yere ; 
 
 And out of olde bookes, in good faithe, 
 
 Cometh all this newe science, that men ler j. 
 
 J
 
 THE ETHICAL THEOEY OF RHETOEIC AND 
 
 ELOQUENCE.* 
 
 The proper product of Rhetoric is Eloquence, and the 
 pui'pose of a rhetorical education is to produce an elo- 
 quent thinker, and an eloquent writer or sj^eaker. So far 
 as it comes short of this, therefore, Rhetoric conies short 
 of its true end. 
 
 Hence it becomes important to inqnire, first of all, into 
 the essential nature of Eloquence itself ; and, particularly, 
 to define it in such a maimer as to detect all false pro- 
 ducts, and preclude all specious methods and models. For 
 nothing exerts a more injurious influence upon the taste, the 
 studies, and the mental habits of an educated man than a 
 false idea of Eloquence. All educated men desire to be 
 eloquent, and at times make greater or less effort to be so. 
 An eloquent man is, universally, an object of admiration 
 and of imitation. The idea of Eloquence is, consequently, 
 one that exerts a higiily formative and modifying influ- 
 ence upon both individual and national culture. When 
 an educated man has been seized by this idea, when he 
 has become possessed with the desire and the aim to influ- 
 ence public opinion by free and fluent speech, how won- 
 derfully are all his thoughts, and feelings, and acquii-e- 
 
 * Publishefl in 1859, aa an introduction to the writer's tianslation of 
 Theremin's Die Bcredsamkeit eiue Tugend.
 
 80 THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 nients pressed into the service of it. If he has the trne 
 idea, lie ahnost invariably becomes eloquent ; if he has 
 tbe false idea, he invariably becomes over-ornainentcd, 
 and <4-litterin<;-, and dei;'enerates into inflation, and boni- 
 l)ast, — so energetic and intlnential is the idea itself, 
 whether truly or falsely apprehended. It enters the 
 mind with an interest and inflnence peculiar to itself, and 
 works there with all the potency of a plastic principle. 
 The thought of becoming a philosopher, or a poet, or an 
 artist, or a man of science, when once formed, indeed 
 exerts a controlling influence upon the whole intellectual 
 life ; but the thought of becoming an eloquent man, a 
 man who " wields at will the fierce democracie and shakes 
 the arsenal," exerts an overmastering influence, so that the 
 mind either becomes the most passionate of the passion- 
 ate, or else the feeblest of the feeble, according to the 
 truth or falsity of its idea of Eloquence, and its ideal of 
 an Orator. 
 
 I. In proceeding to discuss the true nature and essen- 
 tial pj'ojyer'ties of Eloquence, it is deserving of notice, that 
 nearly as many definitions have been given of Eloquence, 
 as of Poetry, and so far as a perfectly exhaustive defini- 
 tion is concerned, with about the same success. Perhaps 
 no one definition that shall include all the essential quali- 
 ties of what are strictly vital products of the human 
 mind can be given. We must be content to reach the 
 inward nature of Poetry, and of Eloquence, by approxi- 
 mations ; by several definitions, each of which contem- 
 plates some particular aspect of the subject, and specifies 
 some peculiar characteristic omitted by the others. The 
 more uiechanical and common products of the hvurian 
 understanding may often be clearly comprehended in a 
 single conce])tion, and fully defined in one statement ; 
 but its rarer, richer, and more living productions, such as
 
 OF KIIETOKIC AND ELOQUENCE. 81 
 
 Poetiy, and Eloquence, being more mysterious in their 
 origin, are more difficnlt of comprehension, and conse- 
 quently of definition. ^Ve may lay it down as a general 
 rule that in proportion as a product takes its origin in the 
 more salient, impulsive, and original agencies of the mind ; 
 in proportion as it is less the work of mere experience, 
 and trial, like a product of useful art, or of mere memory 
 and classification, like a manual of science ; in proportion 
 as its nature is living, and its origin is fresh, will it be 
 more difficult to bring it within the limits of a concise 
 and full definition. Like the definition of life itself, the 
 definition of Poetry, and Eloquence, must be an approxi- 
 mation only. 
 
 Socrates, according to Cicero,* was wont to say that all 
 men speak eloquently when they have a thorough knowl- 
 edge of their subject. The duty and office of Rhetoric, and 
 hence of Eloquence, according to Bacon,f is to apply rea- 
 son to imagination for the better moving of the will. 
 Style, says Buifon — by which he means an eloquent style 
 — is the man himself : a definition corresponding with the 
 remark of Pascal, that a simple and natural style, the elo- 
 quence of nature, enchants us for the reason that while 
 we are looking for an author we find a man. Eloquence, 
 says D'Alembert, :j; is the ability to cause a sentiment 
 with whicli the mind is deeply penetrated to pass with 
 rapidity into the souls of others, and imprint itself there 
 with force and energy. Eloquence, says Campbell, § 
 adopting the definition of Quinlilian, is that art or talent 
 by which the discourse is adapted to its end, and the end 
 of discourse is to move the will. 
 
 • Do Oratore, I. 14. 
 
 f Advaiiccincnt of Learning, Book II. 
 
 X ReflectionH 8ur I'clocutiou oratoire. 
 
 § PhiloBophy of Rhetoric, Book I. Chap. 1. 
 
 '4*
 
 82 THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 If we examine these definitions we shall find that the^ 
 all presuppose a common nature and properties in Elo- 
 quence, and are all of them approximate definitions of it. 
 Kcither of them is sufficient of itself to exhaust the sub- 
 ject; perhaps all of them together are insufiicient; but 
 they all look one way, and give the mind of the inquirer 
 one general direction. They all teach or imply, that truth 
 is the substance, and principle, of all genuine Eloquence, 
 — truth dearly J•)crt?^^w<?c^, deeply felt^ and strongly ex- 
 pres.<^ed. Men are eloquent in proportion as they thor- 
 oughly know their subject, says Socrates. Eloquence is 
 truth all aglow and practically effective in a human soul ; 
 it is reason in the forms of the imagination in order to 
 influence the will ; says Bacon. It is the cooperation of 
 the understanding with the imagination and the passions, 
 in order to carry the will, say Quintilian and Campbell. 
 Eloquence is truth felt and transferred to others ; it is the 
 transfer of the orator's consciousness into the auditor's 
 consciousness ; says D'Alembert. 
 
 All these definitions teach that actual verity is the sub- 
 stance of Eloquence, and that thi'ough the transformation 
 which it undergoes by passing through an earnest and elo- 
 quent mind its final effect is to carry the whole man, head, 
 heart and will, along with it. This caj/ture of men's 
 minds, this mental r/iovement in speaker and hearers, this 
 strearaiiig of thought and feeling to an outward end, 
 seems to be inseparably connected, in all these definitions, 
 ^\'ith Eloquence as different from other forms of discourse. 
 "WHiile in the essay, the historical narrative, or the philo- 
 sophical disquisition, the thought more or less moves in a 
 circle, returning back upon itself, and thus forming a 
 wider expanse, in the oration, the thought is ever rnsliing 
 onward in a deep narrow channel, like a river to the main. 
 We are speaking, of course, of an ideal or perfect oration ;
 
 OF RHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 83 
 
 and bearing this in mind, we may say that in proportion 
 as the mind of the orator is iraprogressive in its action, it 
 ceases to be eloquent in its action and influence. A mind 
 that is continually eddying ; that is inclined to dwell long, 
 either upon a particular thought, or upon the expression 
 of it, either upon a bright idea, or a beautiful figure; 
 must break up this habit, and overcome this disposition, 
 before it can create that strong rushing current, that over- 
 whelming, overbearing torrent in a discourse, whicli under 
 tiie name of Seti^or?;? the Greeks regarded as the height of 
 Eloquence. By this term, which was applied particularly 
 to the eloquence of Domostlienes, the Greeks intended to de- 
 note that overpowering vehemence, in the exercise of the 
 mental powers, which results from a clear consciousness of 
 the truth and the right, united with a glowing fiery inter- 
 est for it. This vehemence of soul, this onward sweeping 
 rush ill a channel which the mind has worn into a subject, 
 and wliich it is continually wearing deeper, is preclusive 
 of all retrograde movements, and of all stationary atti* 
 tudes. Even if the subject calls in a great amount of 
 argumentative or explanatory matter, this current draws 
 it all into its own volume, so that it accelerates rather than 
 impedes its mighty flow. " In his oration for the crown," 
 remarks one,* " Demosthenes must have had as cumbrous 
 a satchel as any bearer of the green bag in our courts of 
 law. lie brings forward a great mass of testimonies, 
 written and oi-al laws of Athens, decrees of foreign towns 
 and of the Amphictyonic council, and records of history, 
 all exhibited and discussed with the utmost force and 
 clearness. J>ut thnrngh the whole process, there is an 
 under-current and moving jiower of ]>assion and eloquence 
 tliat carries us forward to a finul ;uid unavoidable result. 
 
 * Marhh's Ilemaina : Tract on Eloquence.
 
 84 THE ETHICAL TIIEOKY 
 
 It is as though we were embarked upon a mighty river. 
 All is animation and energy aronnd, and we gaze with a 
 momentary reverie upon the deep and transparent waters 
 beneath. But even while we admire, the current grows 
 deeper and deeper, and we are unconsciously hurried on- 
 ward with increasing and irresistible power." 
 
 An eloquent mind, then, is a mind under motion. It is 
 a mind moving forwai'd, under the influence of clear 
 knowledge and deep feeling, with constantly accelerated 
 motion, and constantly increasing momentum, to a final 
 end, which is always a practical one. Eloquence itself, 
 then, is thought with an impulse in it, thought with a drift 
 and rush in it. Eloquence is, as we instinctively denom- 
 inate it, ^fioodj^ 
 
 Without dwelling longer upon these definitions, and 
 others that have been given of Eloquence, we proceed 
 
 * "Hazlitt," says De Quincey, "was not eloqiient, because he waa 
 diKCoatinuous. No man can be eloquent whose thoughts are abrupt, in- 
 Bulated, and (to borrow an impressive word from Coleridge) non-sequa- 
 cious. Eloquence resides not in separate or fractional ideas, but in the 
 relation of manifold ideas, and in the mode of their evolution from each 
 other. It is not enough that tbe ideas should be many, and their re- 
 lations coherent ; the main condition lies in the key of the evolution, 
 in the law of the succession. The elements are nothing without the 
 atmosphere that moulds and the dynamic forces that combine. Now, 
 Hazlitt's brilliancy is seen chiefly in separate splinterings of phrase or 
 image which throw upon the eye a vitreous scintillation for a moment, 
 but spread no deep suffusions of color, and distribute no masses of 
 mighty shadow. A flash, a solitary flash, and all is gone." This re- 
 mark of De Quincey applies with force to an American writer whose 
 rhetorical care and effort are unquestionably great, but mi.sapplied. 
 Emerson, much more than Hazlitt, is discontinuous and fractional. 
 His literary work is a mosaic, and not a growth. It illustrates the re- 
 mark of Bulfon, that "it is from the fear of losing isolated fugitive 
 thoughts, and from the desire of introducing, everywhere, striking 
 traits, that there are so many compositions formed of inlaid work, and 
 so few that are founded at a single cast. Nothing is more opposed to 
 warmth of style. ' '
 
 OF RHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 85 
 
 now to a consideration of that particular one, upon wliicli 
 Theremin founds his rhetorical system. Eloquence, says 
 Theremin, is a virtue. This definition differs from the 
 others that have been quoted, more in appearance than in 
 reality. It does not, as its author remarks, differ essen- 
 tially from the definition given by the elder Cato, and 
 handed down to us with approbation by Quintilian ; and 
 it coincides with the general doctrine taught by the more 
 profound writers upon Eloquence, in all ages, — all of 
 whom have recognized the moral element as the essential 
 one in this species of intellectual products. Stated, how- 
 ever, in this brief and epigrammatic form. Eloquence seems 
 to become identical with morality, and the author in one 
 place actually speaks of Rhetoric as a part of Morals.* 
 By this, however, it is conceived, he did not mean to im- 
 ply that Eloquence is merely and only a moral virtue, and 
 is sufficiently defined when it is put into the list of vir- 
 tues, along with temperance, or honesty, or veracity. Per- 
 haps the real meaning of the author would be more pre- 
 cisely expressed, by saying that Eloquence is an intellect- 
 ual virtue. It has a comm(;n origin with the moral 
 virtues, in the resolute action of the moral force or 
 character of the man, and, so far as the point of ultimate 
 origin is concerned, may therefore be denominated vir- 
 tuous, or of the nature of virtue. The theory of Thereuiin 
 is, that all true Eloquence springs fn^m integrity and 
 strength of character; that the princtiploand the power by 
 which the several faculties of the mind concerned in the 
 production of Eloquence are actuated and guided is the 
 voluntary principle and power, and hence that the pro- 
 duct, in its ultimate and essential nature, must be moral 
 Let us explain in detail, that the theory may be under 
 
 ^ * Book I., Chap. xiv.
 
 86 THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 stood. In the production of an eloquent oration, the 
 anderstandinsi;, and the imagination are employed. By 
 the iirst mentioned faculty, truth simple and abstract is 
 presented to the understanding of the hearer. By the 
 second, this same trutli is taken out of this abstract and 
 intellectual form, and put into an imaginative form for 
 the imagination of the hearer. Now, it is plain that the 
 excellence of the oration depends upon the presence in it, 
 of some power or principle that shall swallow up into 
 the unity of its own life all these separate processes of 
 the understanding and imagination, and thereby become 
 that vehement and terrible energy which, we have seen, 
 according to the Greek definition, is the reality and vital- 
 ity of Eloquence. The unity of the oration, moreover, 
 depends upon the proportionate and harmonious exercise 
 of these diverse faculties. Any excess in the functions of 
 the understanding, e. g., will be to the injury of those of 
 the inuigination. The oration, in this case, must either 
 lose its unity, or else give up its oratorical character and 
 pretensions, and be converted into a philosophic essay. 
 And any excess in the action of the imagination will 
 undul}'^ repress that of the understanding, and convert the 
 oraticm into a poem. 
 
 Kow, that power by which each of these faculties is to 
 be concentrated and governed, so that there shall be an 
 even force and a just proportion in their co- working, is 
 the will of the orator. lie is to repress an undue tenden- 
 cy to ratiocination, by moral determination. He is to re- 
 press an undue poetic tendency, by moral determination. 
 And let it not be thought that only a slight and feeble 
 exercise of the self-controlling power is needed in the 
 origination of this so-styled virtue of Eloquence ; that 
 but little moral energy and stern force of character is 
 required in order to the highest eloquence. How often
 
 OF EHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 87 
 
 does it happen that the oration degenerates (for in this 
 reference it is degeneration) into the abstract essay, oi 
 the over-ornamented prose-poem, solely because there 
 was not enough of moral strength, not enough of will, 
 in the orator, to compel all his acquisitions, and all his 
 tei)dcncies, into subservience of that practical end, the 
 actuation of his hearers, which is the ultimate end of Elo- 
 quence. Oftentimes, as much self-control is needed to 
 mortify a strong logical propensity, in order that it may 
 not damage or destroy a rhetorical process, as is needed- 
 in order to mortif v a lust of the flesh. And still more 
 often, as much force of character is needed to restrain a 
 luxuriant imagination, in order that it may not clog and 
 stop the onward movement of the oration by excessive 
 illustration and ornament, as is needed in order to restrain 
 an animal pastiion. In short, that vanity, that self -feeling, 
 which would draw off the orator from the practical end 
 oi his discourse to the undue display of his logic, if his 
 mind is predominantly philosophic, or to an undue em- 
 ployment of the poetic element, if his nature is predomi- 
 nantly imaginative, requires for its conquest and extirpa- 
 tion, precisely the same kiiul of moral force, force of will, 
 that is needed in the supjiression of vice, or in the forma- 
 tion of any of the strictly so-called virtues. 
 
 Now, it is in this reference that Eloquence is styled a 
 virtue, 80 far as the princi[)le from which it proceeds, 
 and the impulse b}' which it is impelled, are concerned. 
 Eloquence is ethical, rather than philosophic, or aesthetic. 
 It is the posirion of Theremin, that Eloquence is more 
 strictly of tlic nature oi' vii-tue, than ol' tin; nature of 
 science, or of the nature of art. Its essential quality and 
 properties, he contends, are more properly ethical, than 
 scientitic, or artistic. Neither a sciiuitilic nor an artistic 
 talent can l)ecome the living fountain of Eloquence.
 
 88 THE KTIIIC.VL THEORY 
 
 Only a moral force can. AUlioui^h both a pliilosophic 
 and an artistic process pi'operly and necessarily enter into 
 that coni[)lex mental action of which Eloquence is the 
 product, yet neither of them is the fundainental process. 
 AV^e must look for this in the moral process which spring-s 
 out of the character of the orator; which involves his 
 earnestness, his sincerity, his honest}' of conviction, his 
 consciousness of the truth, and his love for it. These 
 moral elements must first exist, or thci-e can be no Elo- 
 quence. In the same sense, then, that the orator, accord- 
 ing to Cato and Quintilian, is a good man, is Eloquence 
 a virtue. Not that every good man is eloquent, or that 
 every virtue is ipso facto Eloquence (though wc often say 
 of the virtues, as they shine out in human character, that 
 they are eloquent) ; but no man is eloquent who is desti- 
 tute of moral force of character, and no discourse is elo- 
 quent tliat is not prevaded witli a moral earnestness that 
 is higher than any mere scientitic talent or aesthetic 
 feeling. 
 
 The truth which there is in Theremin's detinition may 
 be seen, again, by considering the difference between an 
 Oration and a product of Fine Art. According to the 
 theory of Theremin, Eloquence is not strictly a fine art. 
 It is no more one of the fine arts because it contains an 
 aesthetic element, than it is one of the sciences because it 
 contains a philosophic element. It is taken out of the 
 department of mere and pure art, by the jpractical and 
 outward end which it has in view. For if there is any- 
 thing settled in the theory of art, it is, that an aesthetic 
 product has no practical end out of itself. Art, as such, 
 has no utility, or morality. Its productions exist for them- 
 selves, and not for any object other than themselves. We 
 must not go beyond them, and look for a practical or 
 beneficial influence exerted by them upon the minds of
 
 OF KIIETOEIC AND ELOQUENCE. 89 
 
 men, in order to decide whether tliey are excellent in tlieir 
 kind or not. Ilence art cannot become religion, or even 
 morality. If a painting or a statne is beautiful, we can- 
 not deny its ay'tistic exceWence. Whether it is useful, or 
 whether it is moral, are questions for philosophy and relig- 
 ion, but not for art. The artist, unlike the philanthropist, 
 or the orator, works for his own gratification solely. His 
 work has no end but the embodiment of a beautiful idea. 
 As an artist merel//, he is indifferent to the practical 
 effects that may result. The work of ai-t is addressed 
 solely to the resthetic sense. If it were addressed to the 
 cognitive powers, solely, it would be a scientific work. 
 If it were addressed to the moral or religious nature, sole- 
 ly, it would be a religious work. 
 
 It is true, indeed, that a "work of art may make a moral 
 impression, and as matter of fact the highest works in this 
 department invariably do. It is true that the Apollo may 
 elevate the soul of the beholder, and the Madonna may 
 soften and humanize it, but neither of them, as works of 
 art, owed their origin to any such practical and moral 
 aim. Fine art is its own end. It is self-sufficing, self- 
 inchided, and irreferent. If it has ever contributed to the 
 intellectual or moral improvement of man, this was a 
 happy accident, and not a predetermined and foreseen 
 result. 
 
 Bat that morality whicli thus stands in no inward and 
 necessary connection witli art constitutes the very essential 
 princi[)le of Eloquence. The oration, unlike a painting 
 or a statue, aims t(j exert a nioi-al inlbiencc upon a moral 
 agent. It seeks to work a change, more or less deep and 
 extensive, in the state of man's active jmwers, employing 
 his cognitive and imaginative faculties as mere means and 
 Mujdia. The orator cannot, like the artist, isolate hims(;lf 
 fn^ini all outward circumstances, and lind the goal of liis
 
 90 TlIK ETIIIOAL TIIIlOKY 
 
 efforts in the serene and complacent embodiment of his 
 idea in a form of beauty, without troubling himself in the 
 least about the influence lie may exert. The orator is a 
 man of moral influence, and of moral impression, upon 
 moral agents, or he is nothing. If, then, the term virtue 
 denotes, generally, a product of the wiU, and not of the 
 intellect merely, or the imagination merely, is not Elo- 
 quence a virtue ? If that agency of the soul be virtuous, 
 or of the nature of virtue, which has an outward aim ; the 
 aim, viz., to exert a legitimate influence upon the charac- 
 ter and actions of men ; is not Eloquence a virtue 'i Is 
 not this earnest, moral, and practical product of the human 
 mind much more pi'operly denominated a virtue than an 
 art? 
 
 To place the definition given by Theremin in another 
 aspect, we may say that Eloquence is a virtue of the intel- 
 lect as modified by the will. When the understanding 
 merely follows its own structure and laws ; when its action 
 is constitutional merely, and unmodified by any reference 
 to an auditor, or to an outward impression upon other 
 minds ; the product is logic, and this action of the under- 
 standing is scientific. When the imagination merely fol- 
 lows its own nature and law, the product is poetry, or 
 some other work of fine art, and this action of the imagi- 
 nation is sesthctic. In both of these instances, the intel- 
 lectual faculty is left to the guidance and impulse of its 
 own meclianism. The will exercises no modifying in- 
 fluence in either case, and consequently there is no moral 
 element, nothing virtuous or of the natui-e of virtue, 
 in these species of intellectual activity. It is true that 
 the subject matter of both philosophy and art may be 
 moral, but the mental process itself cannot be so charac- 
 terized. It is a purely constitutional process, not deriving 
 its quality in the least from the voluntary j)Ower, from the
 
 OF RHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 91 
 
 character of the individual, or even being in the least 
 modified by it. The process in the one case is purely logi- 
 cal or scientific, and in the other purely artistic. 
 
 But Eloquence has a different origin from either science or 
 art. It results, not from the isolated action of a particular 
 faculty, like the understanding, or the imagination, but 
 from the interpenetration and cooperation of these intellec- 
 tual powers, under the sway and actuation of the voluntary 
 force. The degree in which each faculty shall work, as we 
 have already remarked, is fixed by the self-determination 
 of the orator, and the acme of Eloquence is seen in the 
 rusli, in one resistless volume, of all the cognitive and 
 imaginative powers in the unity of the moral will. The 
 combined action of these powers, in this instance, unlike 
 their isolated action in the production of the philosophic 
 essay, or the poem, is moral, and therefore of the nature 
 of virtue. The will interpenetrates the logical and imagi 
 native processes in the mind of the orator, and thus ren- 
 ders them ethical. Eloquence, in this aspect, is seen to be 
 the virtuous action of the human intellect^ as distinguished 
 from that virtuous action of the isolated human will, to 
 whicli the tei-m " virtue " is more strictly and commonly 
 applied. There is volimtary action in both cases, and 
 hence the epithet " virtuous " belongs to both ; but in the 
 case of a virtue, commonly so called, the action is confined 
 to the will itself, while in the case of Eloquence it is 
 action of the will in and htj the powers of understanding 
 and imaginati(jn. The virtue of patience, e. g., is the 
 ]>roduct of the is(jlated action of the will, just as logic 
 i.s the j)roduct of the isolated action of the understanding. 
 I'atienco is the product of the will operating upon iUelf^ 
 Bubduing its own restiveness, and therefore is sim|)ly a 
 ])articular habit ui the will. JJut the virtue of Eloquence 
 ih the product of the will as it operates upon, and in.
 
 92 THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 other inental faculties, for the purpose of exerting an in- 
 Hueuce upon the will of others. Eloquence is reason and 
 imagination wrought into a living synthesis by the vitality 
 of a will, by the force of a strong, deep, and earnest 
 character. 
 
 There is less difficulty, therefore, in understanding this 
 delinition of Theremin, and in adopting it, if we do not 
 take the term " virtue " in its more limited and common 
 signification, but in its widest sense, as denoting a product 
 into M'hich tlie moral strength of the individual, his force 
 of character, enters as the fundamental quality. And such 
 we suj^pose to be the essential nature of Eloquence. If 
 we are requii-ed to locate it, we think there are fewer ob- 
 jections to placing it within the province of practical 
 ethics, than in that of abstract science, or in that of a3sthetic 
 art. As Theremin affirms, that theory will be most suc- 
 cessful, will explain most phenomena and exert the most 
 beneficial influence upon the student, which assumes that 
 the practical and moral element in Eloquence is the funda- 
 mental and dominating one, and that the philosoj)hic 
 and aesthetic elements are subsidiary to this. AVe know 
 that the ancients, from whom it is not generally safe to 
 differ upon subjects like the one which we are considering, 
 regarded Eloquence as one of the fine arts, and assigned it 
 a place in the list along with poetry, and painting, and 
 sculpture; and the modern world has generally acquiesced 
 in their classification. And yet the rhetorical treatises of 
 Aristotle, of Longinus, of Cicero, and of Quintilian, con- 
 tain much that is ii-reconcilable with this theory. Uncon- 
 sciously, the doctrine that Eloquence is at bottom neither 
 speculatively philosophic, nor imaginatively aesthetic, but 
 practically moral, creeps into these treatises, and exerts a 
 modifvin<y influence throu£!;liout. And it is the merit of 
 Theremin, as it seems to us, that he has systematized thia
 
 OF KUETOEIC A^^5 ELOQUENCE. 93 
 
 etliical view of Eloquence ; that he has organized these 
 materials scattered here and there through all the best 
 treatises on the subject, and wrought them into the unity 
 of a consistent tlieory. Instead of defining Eloquence to 
 be a fine art, and then, under the instinct and impulse of 
 good sense and sound feeling beating oif and away from 
 the definition, until it is perfectly apparent that there has 
 been a mistake in the outset, and that Eloquence has 
 received a wrong location, this author affinns distinctly 
 that it is not a fine art, but that it is (for want of a better 
 term) a virtue. Starting with this position as the basis of 
 his theorv, he is not troubled, as were the ancient rhetori- 
 cians, by a conflict between his theory and its detailed 
 unfolding and api>lication. He is not compelled to those 
 statements respecting the necessity of chai-acter, of integ- 
 rity and sincerity and earnestness, in the orator, the neces- 
 sity of subjecting everything in the oration to a practical 
 outward end, and of subordinating philosophy and art 
 themselves to the moral purposes of Eloquence, which are 
 irreconcilable with the definition that makes Eloquence a 
 fine art. On the contrary, these statements whicli suggest 
 tlicmsclves so unconsciouslj-, and spontaneously, as actually 
 to override the false theory that has been assumed by the 
 y\\{Aox\(i\^\\^2uXQ,\\\q,xq\s covrohorations oi the ethical theory 
 of Eloquence. As they grow out of it, so they return 
 back into it ; like vigorons shoots which by inarching are 
 made to contribute to the vigor and strength of the parent 
 stock. 
 
 The truthfulness of tlie ethical theory of Eloquence is 
 fitill farther eviiKX'd. and illustrated, by a consideration of 
 its influence upon the Orator, Here its excellence and 
 value appear in ]>lain view. Here is the place of its 
 triumph. For evc^n if an ojq)onent should be able to 
 make a stand, while discussing the nature of the theory
 
 94r THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 itself, and to raise objections that are forcible, and diffi- 
 cult to remove, j'et when its practical application and 
 practical iiitlnence come into consideration, the defender 
 of the theory may speak with boldness and confidence. 
 lie really has the entire history of the department in hia 
 favor. All those forcible and impressive statements, in 
 ancient and modern treatises upon rhetoric, which lay 
 emphasis upon the moral element in Eloquence, and in 
 tlie orator himself, — statements that fall glowing from tfie 
 mind of the theorist, when, having for a moment left his 
 speculative theory behind him, he speaks more from the 
 common feeling, and the common sentiment, of mankind 
 at large upon this subject, — all such statements, we say, 
 come thronging in upon the mind, when it is considering 
 the practical influence of the theory in question. The 
 advocate of the ethical theory feels that all these state- 
 ments legitimately belong to him.^ and to him alone ; that 
 they are but the practical and informal enunciation of 
 his own speculative and formal theory. When he hears 
 Qiiintilian define the orator to be " an upright man who 
 understands speaking," he thinks he hears a concrete 
 annunciation of the abstract position that "Eloquence is 
 a virtue," and believes that, in the establishment of his 
 theory, he has only applied an affirmation to oratory itself, 
 which long ago was applied to the orator. Su])ported 
 thus, as he is, by the spontaneous and unbiassed opinions 
 of theorizers themselves, he is the more confident in his 
 belief that tlie actual application of the ethical theory of 
 Eloquence will only serve to verify it, and its practical 
 intluence to recommend it, in the verv hii^hest degree. 
 
 1. The influence of the ethical theory of Eloquence is 
 most excellent, in the first place, u])on the studies of the 
 Orator. 
 
 It is the natural tendency of that theory of Eloquence
 
 OF RHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 95 
 
 which defines it to be a fine art strictly, to isolate oratory 
 from the real sciences, and the solid acquirements of the 
 orator. The eye is too intently fixed npon form, and the 
 secondary properties of discourse, because it is assumed 
 that the ultimate end of Eloquence, like that of any other 
 fine art, is Beauty. The studies of the orator, conse- 
 quently, will take their main direction from this theory, 
 and he will bestow nndue attention upon those depart- 
 ments of human knowledge, and those species of. literature, 
 which have more atilnity with tlie idea of the Beautiful, 
 than witli the ideas of the True and the Good. These 
 higher ideas will be made -to take a secondary place in his 
 mind, and his culture will be characterized more and 
 more by superficiality, and lack of vigorous strength. He 
 will become more and more interested in works of art, 
 and the lighter forms of literature, and less and less in- 
 terested in science, philosophy, and theology. 
 
 But tlie natural tendency of that theory of Eloquence 
 which regards it as essentially moral rather than sesthetic ; 
 which sets up for it an outward and practical end, and 
 does not for an instant allow it an artistic indifference in 
 respect to an outward and practical impression ; which 
 connects Eloquence far more with tlie ideas of the True 
 and the Good than with the idea of the Beautiful, — the 
 luitural tendency, and strong direct influence, of such a 
 theory of Ehjquence is to promote the graver and higher 
 studies in the orator. The more profound and central 
 ])()wers of the mind will be continually excrci.-ed, and thus 
 the foundation for a powerful and impressive mental 
 j^ftivitv will be laid. Such an orator, like Pericles of old, 
 will .study and meditate upon the dark problems of pliilo- 
 eophy and religion, and while, like the pati-on (»f ]*hidias 
 and the decorator of Athens, he will not l»y any means be 
 indifferent to beauty and to art in their pi(.per place, ho
 
 1)6 THE ETHICAL THKOKY 
 
 will jet derive that commanding and overwhelming elo- 
 quence, that Olympian power attributed to the great 
 Grecian, from these loftier themes, these more profound 
 departments of human inquiry and effort.* 
 
 2. Again, the influence of that theory of Eloquence 
 which regards it as ethical, rather than either scientiflc or 
 assthetic, is most excellent, in respect to tJie viodels of the 
 Orator. 
 
 The general influence of the ethical theory of Eloquence 
 upon the taste is to render it strict and pure. The orator 
 whose mind has been moulded by it, naturally selects 
 models from the very highest range of oratory, and there- 
 by feels the veiy choicest influence of the department. 
 His models, consequently, are few in number, but they are 
 such as can never be outgrown and left behind in his on- 
 ward progress. A single model like Demosthenes contains, 
 for the mind that is prepared for it by a strict and high 
 theory of Eloquence, more educational })ower than myriads 
 of inferior models. Such a model is a standard and perma- 
 nent one. But in order that the first-class models may 
 be apprehended and appreciated, a severe taste must have 
 been eno-endered in tlie student. He must have been so 
 disciplined by a high, theory that he has acquired an in- 
 difterence towards second-rate productions, and a positive 
 disrelish for those more glaring and showy qualities which 
 are found in works that are for a day only, and not for all 
 
 * Soc. I should say that Pericles was the most accomplished of rhe- 
 toricians. Phadr. What of that ? Soc. All the higher arts require 
 much discussion and lofty contemplation of nature ; this is the source 
 of sublimity and perfect comprehensive power. And this, as I think, 
 was the quality which, in addition to his natural gifts, Pericles acquired 
 from his happening to know Anaxagoras. He was imbued with the 
 higher philosophy, and attained the knowledge of mind and matter, 
 which was the favorite theme of Anaxagoras, and from hence he drew 
 what was applicable to the orator's art. — Plato's Phaedrus, 2G9-70.
 
 OF KlIETOKIC AXD ELOQUENCE. 97 
 
 time. He must have attained such an intellectual temper, 
 such a style and tone of literary culture, as can find pleas- 
 ure only in those cahnei', grander, and loftier efforts which 
 do not so much strike and startle by their brilliancy, as 
 develop and stir the human soul by their depth, fervor, 
 and power. 
 
 Kow, the theory in question tends directly to the pro- 
 duction of such an intellectual taste in the orator. It is 
 a high and austere theory. It is a theorj^ wliich checks 
 extravagance, and prunes luxuriance, by subjecting the 
 whole oratorical process to the restraints of ethics. It 
 subordinates the beauty of poetry, and even the truth of 
 philosophy, to the practical ends of morality. If there is 
 any danger in the theory, it is in the direction of severity 
 and intense truthfulness. If there is any error in tlie 
 theory, it is upon tlie safe side. It cannot be denied that 
 the entire influence of it is to induce such mental habits, 
 such mental tastes, and such a mental tone, as both pre- 
 ])are the student for a genial appreciation of the higliest 
 models, and a free and original reproduction of them. 
 Tlic mind tliat has been developed and trained by the 
 ethical theory of Eloquence will prefer Demosthenes t(,) 
 yEschines, Cicero to Uortensius, Massillon to Bossuet, 
 ]\Iirabeau to Lamartine, Burke and Fox to Sheiidan and 
 IMiillips. 
 
 But the excellence of the influence exerted by the 
 theory in questi(jn, in rendering the taste pure and strict, 
 is seen more particularly in reference to current produc- 
 tions, and current styles aivd schools. The principal dan- 
 ger to which th(! I'hetorician or the orator is exposed 
 arises from the influence of contemi)orane(jus rhetoric and 
 contemporaneous elo(pience. iJazzling and brilliant but 
 Biiperflcial and transitory pr<*ducts always have their 
 day; and during their day, minds that have not been
 
 98 THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 liii^hly trained are taken captive by them. Snch minds 
 become copyists and mannerists ; and copyists and man- 
 nerists never are, and never can be, eloquent. But a pure 
 taste, and a genuine relish for the excellences of those 
 great masters and models which, like the sun, are always 
 the same in all time, is an infallible preservative against 
 this pernicious influence of contemporaries. There is a 
 stren<rth and reserve in that intellectnal character which 
 has been formed by high theories, by the contemplation 
 of grand ideals, which no storm of popular applause, no 
 fury of fashion, can overcome or exhaust. Such a mind 
 is self-possessed, and self-reliant. Such a mind is eagle- 
 eyed, and critical. Such a mind calndy stands the glare 
 of false rhetoric and false eloquence, while the weak, un- 
 armed eye of the half-educated is dazzled and blinks. 
 This austere judgment, this clear, calm criticism, looks by 
 and beyond all the showy and gaudy products that are 
 tenq^orarily bewitching the popular taste, to those serene, 
 grand, and absolutely beautiful forms, the Dii majorum 
 gentium, in all the great literatures of the past and the 
 present, and in them alone tiuds its models, and upon them 
 alone expends its enthusiasm. 
 
 II. Having thus discussed the nature of Eloquence, we 
 proceed to consider the general nature of Rhetoric, and, 
 its jjosition and influence in the system of liberal edu- 
 cation. 
 
 \xi passing to the consideration of that branch of disci- 
 pline whose object it is to produce and promote eloquence, 
 we are struck in the outset with the fact that it has ever 
 been regarded an essential part of a symmetrical system 
 of education. If we look into the ancient world, all cul- 
 ture seems to have culminated in rhetoric and oratory. 
 The wh(jle end and aim of study, even in other and higher 
 departments appears to have been to make the educated
 
 OF EHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 99 
 
 man a rhetorician, — iisino; the term in its best and techni- 
 cal siirnitication. The o'oal had in the eve, clnriiio; the 
 ■whole of his eciiication, by the young Athenian, or the 
 young Koman, was the bema or the rostrum. It was 
 thought that unless culture enabled the mind to give 
 expression to itself, to reveal and embody its knowledge 
 in a form that woukl impress and influence other minds, 
 it was worthless. Hence even philosophy was made sub- 
 servient to oratory, as in the example of Pericles, who 
 studied under Anaxagoras, one of the most subtle of the 
 Greek philosopliers, in order to prepare himself for tlie 
 practical life of a statesman and orator. The M'alks of 
 the Academy and Lyceum led dij-ectly to the Agora and 
 the Forum. 
 
 In Grecian and Roman education, consequently, Tlhoto- 
 ric occupied a high position. It was not only a distinct 
 dej)artment, but one of great influence. Geiniiue rheto- 
 rical power, the ability to express ami impress, was i-e- 
 garded as the last and highest accomplishment of the 
 educated citizen. And the same holds true, to a consider- 
 able extent, of the svstem of education in voi>'ue in the 
 iiKjdern world. If Rhetoric, within the last hundred 
 years, has somewhat suidc down from its former " pride 
 of place," it is mainly because of the false view that has 
 been taken of its essential nature, and the false method in 
 which it has-been taught. During the two centuries that 
 succeeded the revival of learning, however, its claims were 
 never higher, or more willingly allowed. The mimiteness 
 of d(;tail, and, we may add, the compi'ehensiveness on the 
 whole of (jutlinc, exhibited by the rhetorical treatises com- 
 j>osed two hundred years ago, are am|)le evidence that 
 then, at least, there was no disposition it) iiiiijci-vaiiic this 
 i)r;nirli of discipline. In<leeil the. over-estimate wliidi 
 came to be put \\[h)1\ it, together with the di'y and median-
 
 100 TIIK ETHICAL TIIKORY 
 
 ical iiictliod into which the somewhat formal, and yet 
 substantialh' sound rhetoric of Aristotle had degenerated, 
 contributed to that reaction which t'oHowed, and which for 
 the last hundred years has led to an undcr-cstiinate of the 
 whole department. Yet Rhetoric is still honored in that 
 system of instruction bv which the modern mind is bein<>; 
 educated. Rhetoric is still one branch of human learning, 
 one department of instruction ; and whenever it is pur- 
 sued in the spirit, and by the method, which its own real 
 nature and distinguishing characteristics prescribe, it is 
 still found to minister to the sound and vigorous develop- 
 ment of the mind. 
 
 In discriminating the distinctive nature of Rhetoric, 
 and in assigning it its position in the curriculum of disci- 
 pline, it is necessary in the Urst place to direct attention 
 to that generic classification of the sciences which so 
 greatly assists the investigator in locating any particular 
 cue of them. 
 
 Human knowledge may be divided into two grand divi- 
 sions which ver}' exactly and conveniently distinguish the 
 immense variety that enters into this great sum-total. 
 Knowlediice is either material or formal. A material de- 
 partment of knowledge is one in which the matter is pri- 
 mary, and the form is secondary. K formal department 
 is one in which the form is primary, and the mat- 
 ter secondary. The material sciences have also been 
 termed real sciences, to denote that in them the reality 
 or substance of human knowledge is to be found, 
 for the formal sciences are not independent, and self- 
 sufficient. They have no pijsitive character, no sul)- 
 stantial contents of their own, such as the material or 
 real sciences have. They derive all the interest and 
 worth they possess from their connection with these 
 latter. They exist only for these latter ; because the
 
 OF RHETORIC AND ELOQUEXCE. 101 
 
 foi'in exists only for the substance, the manner for the 
 matter.* 
 
 Take those portions of the general department of philo- 
 sophy which go under the names of physics and ethics, 
 as examples of branches of material or real knowledge, 
 and consider what they contain. Here we have no hollow 
 and empty divisions which must be filled up from other 
 divisions in order that they may have solidity ; no mere 
 form of knowledge, to be filled up with knowledge itself. 
 Katural and moral philosophy have each substantial con- 
 tents of their own. The nature and operations of tho 
 human mind, and of the divine mind so far as it is coo 
 nizable by man, and the laws and principles of the mate- 
 rial world, — these and such like are the subject matter of 
 these two subdivisions of real science. In whatever direo- 
 tion the moral or natural philosopher advances, he meets 
 with I'eal entities and essences ; he is occupied with substan- 
 tial verities. Truth itself, fact itself, and thought itself, is 
 the staple and substance of his investigations. ^\\Qforrn 
 is for him an altogether secondary thing; the matter is 
 everything. He does not ask, '•''how is it ? " but " what is 
 it?" 
 
 But take again the dci^artmeut of logic, and we liave a 
 Ijranch of formal knowlediicc. The loijician establishes no 
 one particular truth, but merely shows how any truth may 
 
 * " All rational knowledge Ls either material, and contemplates some 
 one object, ot foniuU, and Ls occupied merely with the forms of the un- 
 derstanding, and of the reason itself, — with the universal laws of think- 
 ing, genenilly, without regard to the objects of thought. Formal philo- 
 sophy is denominato<l lorjic ; but material philosopliy, whi(;h has to do 
 with determinate objects, and the laws and principles to which they are 
 subjected, is twofold. For these laws are either laws of luiture or of 
 sjiirit. The science of the first is denominated p/ii/aiM, that of the latter 
 is ethics ; the former is also termed the doctrine of nature, the lattei 
 the doctrine of morals. " —Kant's Tractical Reason (Vorredo).
 
 103 TUE ETHICAL TIIEOKY 
 
 be established. lie does not exhibit the actual contents oi 
 the hunnin mind, its ideas, sentiments, and beliefs, but 
 only those laws of mental activity in accordance with 
 which these contents iivQ fanned. It is not the province 
 of lon;ic to exhibit thought itself, but only the process of 
 thinking. Logic generates no fountain of living; waters ; 
 it merely indicates the channel in which they must flow, 
 if they flow at all. In investigating such departments as 
 physics and psychology, we are occupied with the real, — 
 with facts and truths that are matters of actual conscious- 
 ness, or actual intuition ; with the contents of our own 
 minds. But in studying sucli a subject as logic, we are 
 occupied with i\\Q.fun)ial — with the mere abstract notions 
 and forms of the understanding ; with the ways in which, 
 rather than the things which, it perceives. 
 
 To see the distinction in question still more clearly, 
 compare an entire department like fine art with an entire 
 department like science or religion. The end and aim of 
 art is to embody some idea in a form suited to express it. 
 With the nature and origin of this idea it does not con- 
 cern itself. It takes it as it finds it, and leaves the analy- 
 sis and investigation of its interior structure to the philos- 
 opher or the theologian. The artist may, it is true, con- 
 template this subject matter of his art philosopliically, 
 or theologically, but oidy in subordination to the purjjoses 
 of his profession ; oidy in order to be able to clothe the 
 idea in a more beautiful form. He does not, like the 
 votary of the 7'eal sciences, rest in the subject matter, 
 being satisfied with having unfolded and developed the 
 trutii in his own mind; he cannot rest until he has given 
 expression to it in an outward embodiment. Hence we 
 say that fine art i?, formal in its nature and character. It 
 subordinates everything to this its ultimate And constituent 
 end. For it, the material is secondary.
 
 OF KHETOKIC AND ELOQUENCE. lOS 
 
 In reference then to this general division of the varions 
 departments of hnnian knowledge and inquiry, Rhetoric 
 is a formal department. It is the science of form, so far 
 as human discourse is concerned. It is an " organic " art, 
 as Milton * terms it ; an art which furnishes the organ or 
 instrument for communicating thought most effectively to 
 other minds. Klietoric, stricth^ speaking, is not to supply 
 the matter, the thought itself, but is to put the material 
 when supplied into as appropriate and fine forms as 
 possible. The thought itself of the rhetorician must be 
 drawn from deej^er fountains than those of Rhetoric. If 
 by thorough collegiate and professional training, he has 
 not first filled his mind with the materials for discourse, 
 rhetorical training and preparation will only disclose his 
 emptiness. From the iiiatenal departments of human 
 knowledge, from the real sciences, he nuist have first ac- 
 quired a profound and compreliensive culture, before he is 
 qualified to become a rhetorician. f 
 
 Rhetorical discipline being thus formal in its nature 
 presupposes on the part of the student a preparation for 
 it. It postulates a full mind and a full heart. It takes 
 
 * Tract on Education. 
 
 f Lord Bacon remarks that it was an error in the educational course 
 of his time, " that scholars in universities come too soon and too u>i- 
 rij>e to logic and rhetoric, arts fitter for gi-aduutes than children and 
 novices : for these two, rightly taken, are the gravest of sciences, 
 hoinf,' the art of arts; the one for jud-^nient, the other for ornament : 
 and they be the rules and directions how to set forth and dispose mat- 
 ter; and, therefore, for mind« em])ty and unfraiicfht with m-((ttc)\ and 
 which have not gatliered that wliieh Cicero calleth ' sylva ' and ' supel- 
 lex,' stuff and variety, to begin with those arts (as if one sliould learc 
 to weigh, or to measure, or to paint the wind,) doth work but this 
 effect, that the wisdom of those arts, wliich is great and universal, 
 w almost made contemptible, and is degenerated into childisli so 
 phistry and ridiculous affectation." — Advaucomeut of Learuijig. 
 Book I.
 
 104 THE ETHICAL TIIEOUY 
 
 the iiidividnal at tliat point in his course of education 
 Avhcu the materials have been originated by otlier methods 
 of discipline, when they are in a stir and fermentation, 
 stnuT'diniT for utterance and demandin<ij an outflow, and 
 teaches him delivery^ — teaches him the method of em- 
 hodviu'i- thc?;e conscious and livinii- contents of his mind, 
 in rounded and synnnetrical forms. If, therefore, Plato 
 had reason for writint^ over the door of his Academy, 
 " let no one who is not a geometrician enter here," the 
 rhetorician has equal reason for inscribing upon the ros- 
 trum, " let no one ascend here, who is not a scholar and a 
 thinker." 
 
 It is of great imjwrtance here to observe the fact, that 
 although Ilhetoric is a formal department of knowledge, 
 it must not be isolated from the real sciences, either in 
 theory or practice. This has been the error in this de- 
 partment for the last century. That part of Rhetoric 
 which is termed Invention, — that part which treats of the 
 supplvof thought, — has been greatly neglected in modern 
 ti-eatises, so that the whole art has been converted into a 
 collection of rules relating to style, or Elocution,* merely. 
 Owing partly to the inti'insic nature of Ilhetoric as an 
 art, and partly to the excessively popular character which 
 science and scientific statements have assumed in tJio 
 present age, Ilhetoric lias become superficial in its charac- 
 ter and influence, so that the term " rhetorical " is the 
 synonyme of shallow and showy. Dissevered from logic, 
 or the necessary laws of thought, it has become dissevered 
 from the seat of life, and has dcgenci'ated into a mere set! 
 of maxims respecting the structure of sentences, and the 
 garnish of expression, f The rhetorician has been too 
 
 * The term is employed in the sense of Quintilian and Cicero. 
 \ This is illustrated in the almost total neglect of the study of 
 topics or common places. How very much was made of these, in the
 
 OF RHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 105 
 
 much occupied with the externals of his subject. No 
 grand and vital eloquence can originate on a theory which 
 in this manner separates the form from the matter, the 
 style from the thought. As in the natural world there is 
 no growth and no fruit, except as the living piinciple and 
 the outward form constitute a unity and identity of exist- 
 ence, so in the intellectual world the idea and the form in 
 which it is manifested must inhere in each other, and in- 
 terpenetrate each other, in order to real excellence of any 
 kind. The student cannot therefore well cultivate think- 
 ing by itself, isolated from the expression of his thought • 
 neither can he cultivate the expression of thought isolated 
 from the process of thinking. Both processes, the phik 
 sophical and the rhetorical, must proceed jxiri jkcssu, and 
 simultaneously, and the result be a unity that is neither 
 wliolly formal nor wholly material in its nature. An ora- 
 tion considered as a rhetorical product does not consist of 
 thought alone, any more than of expression alone. It is 
 thought a7id expression, matter and form, in one common 
 identity. Pure thought, alone and by itself, exists only 
 in the conscious mind. Pure form, alone and by itself, 
 exists ncnvhere. It is a mere notion or abstraction of the 
 understanding, to which there is no objective correspon- 
 dent. A mere form is a ghost, and a ghost possesses 
 neither being nor reality. 
 
 Now, by virtue of this intercommunication of Rhetoric 
 with all the solid material branches of kno\vledo;e, it 
 stands midway between the pure sciences and the ])racti- 
 cal arts. It is neither wiioUy speculative, nor Avhoily 
 practical. It is a most intimate and thorough mingling 
 of these two qualities. Ilhetoric serves, therefore, as a 
 
 ancient Rhetoric, fur tho puri)o.HC of opening and cxIiauHting' tlienies, 
 is apparent from Aristotle's list of topics, and Cicero's compendium of 
 them, in his Topica, ,
 
 106 THK ETHICAL TIlIiORY 
 
 bond of connection between the more abstract brandies, 
 and the phvln practical knowledge of common life. It 
 is the mediator between the recondite theories of the 
 phil()S()[)her, and tlic simple, spontaneous thinking of tho 
 nnecliicated man. AVliat indeed is the orator, or the dis- 
 courser generally, but a man who stands midway between 
 the schools and the market-place, and interprets the one 
 to the other ; a man whose function it is to give such an 
 expression to the lore of the learned world, as will im- 
 press and influence the unlearned world ? The orator, 
 the disconrser generally, is a middle-man, who brings 
 these two great halves, the lettered and the unlettered, 
 together, and thus contributes to that collision of mind 
 with mind, Mdiich is the life and soul of human literature, 
 and of human history. For it is this communication of 
 thought, which is ever going on, that keej^s the world 
 alive and stirring. Mere pure thinking, that never found 
 an utterance of itself, by tongue or pen, even if such a 
 thin<y could be, would leave the world as dull and motion- 
 less as it found it. It is the expressed thought, the lorit- 
 ten or the vocalized idea, that stirs and impels the general 
 mind. 
 
 Having, in this brief manner, directed attention to the 
 distinction between the formal and real sciences, and 
 having assigned to Hhetoric its place among the former, 
 at the same time also observing its vital connection with 
 the latter, we proceed to specify some of the advantages 
 of this method of contemjilating the general subject. 
 
 1. In the first place, upon this method, the department 
 obtains an accurate definition, and is confined to its own 
 just limits. 
 
 There was once a time when Tthetoric was made to in- 
 clude vastly more than propei-ly belongs to it ; when 
 indeed it was more like an encyclopaedia of all arts and
 
 OF KHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 107 
 
 sciences, than a limited and specific brancli of knowledge. 
 Rhetoric, at one time, was almost as comprehensive a 
 term as philosophy is at the present day. The effect of 
 this was to distract the mind by a multiplicity of topics, 
 and to preclude that singleness of aim, and unity of pur- 
 suit, which is the foundation of all good discourse. Such 
 a variety and complexity as is exhibited, by some of the 
 elder treatises upon Rhetoric, is destructive of all distinct- 
 ness, neatness, and elegance of form. A style formed by 
 such an instrument must be in the highest degree loose, 
 rambling, and unrhetorical. As matter of fact, the com- 
 position which was the fruit of such rhetorical training is 
 generally devoid, not merely of true grace and ornament, 
 but of the more necessary cpialities of good writing, per- 
 S])icuity and vivacity. Sentences are constructed in the 
 most clumsy manner; involved, parenthetic, and incom- 
 plete to the last degree ; while the general style of the 
 whole is heavy, dragging, and dull. 
 
 The defect in these treatises is the lack of a close and 
 clear definition in the outset, of the nature of the art itself. 
 It was really regarded as a material branch of knowledge ; 
 and hence it was the duty of the rhetorician to give ])osi- 
 tive instruction upon neai-ly all subjects. Inasmuch as 
 the orator needs all the knowledge he can possibly obtain ; 
 inasmuch as eloquence can successful! \' employ a greater 
 amount of information than any other department, not 
 excejtting even that of historv ; it was su|)posed to be the 
 business of Kluitoi'ic, and of the riiolc^rician, to furnish it 
 all. Hence the department, as we have remarked, be(tame 
 virtually an encyclopjcdia ; not merely a material science, 
 but all material science in one nuiss ; the om)ie scihUe 
 itself. JJut such, we iiave seen, is not its nature. It is 
 strictly, and really, a formal science. Its linul oml is 
 simply to express, to communicate, to cmhody ; and iho
 
 108 TITK ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 more rigorously' this is held to be the essential chara(;ter 
 of llhetoric, the finer will bo the forms and styles of 
 composition that come into existence. No sharply-drawn 
 ontlincs, no distinct definitions, no clean and clear devel- 
 opments, no ronnd and full statements, can originate from 
 a llhetoric that is unlimited and undefined in its own 
 nature. If Rhetoric includes everything, and is to fur- 
 nish everything, then discourse will contain everything, 
 and be full of everything. If, on the other hand, the 
 term is strictly defined, and the eye of the student is kept 
 steadily directed to the production of a pure and noble 
 form^ for the materials with which his mind has been 
 stored by other sciences, and other disciplines, then there 
 will arise " a form and combination indeed," a style and 
 manner fit to be a model. 
 
 2. In the second place, this view of the nature and rela- 
 tive position of the department of llhetoric protects it 
 from a lifeless formalitv. 
 
 No branch of human knowled<j:e is so liable to a dead 
 formalism as Rhetoric. By its very definition, it is 
 obliged to make the form, in distinction from the sub- 
 stance, the appropriate and final end of its investigations 
 and instructions. It is not surprising, consequently, that 
 this formal and formalizing tendency should become too 
 strong in the course of time, and that Rhetoric should 
 become a feeble and artificial department, instead of a 
 vigorous and creative one. Human nature is hypocritical. 
 Its tendency is to the form rather than to the substance ; 
 to the show rather than to the reality. This characteristic 
 is not confined to the moral side of man's nature. It 
 enters very largely into Jiis intellectual being. Indeed, 
 the effects of the apostasy are as ])lainly to be seen in the 
 human intellect, as in the human heart. What is this 
 formality, this lack of sincerity and genuineness, in our
 
 OF RHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. lOJ) 
 
 mental processes, but the effect of a corruption that has 
 vitiated the mind, as well as the heart ? If we closely 
 examine ourselves, we shall find an absence of veracity, of 
 integrity, of godly simplicity and sincerity, to be as 
 marked and evident in our intellectual, as in our moral 
 condition. The whole head is sick. 
 
 Kow, when a department of human knowledge, by its 
 very intrinsic nature, and vocation, falls in with this cor- 
 rupt tendency of man's nature, it is no wonder that its 
 history should be marked by degeneracy ; that it should 
 constantly grow more and more formal, and ungenuine, in 
 its own nature and influence. AYhen the theoretic defini- 
 tion harmonizes with the practical bent, when high ab- 
 stract science is in unison with an actual tendency of 
 man's nature, it is not surprising that the development, 
 unchecked and unmodified by other agencies, should be in 
 the highest degree false and fatal. If the blind lead the 
 blind, both fall into the ditch. 
 
 The history of Rhetoric, and we may add of the whole 
 department of fine art, proves and illustrates the truth ot 
 this remai'k. We find in every nation which had an elo- 
 quence, and an art, one period of fresh powerful talent 
 and activity in these departments, and then long periods 
 of feeble, formal, and lifeless efforts. The form con- 
 stantly encroached upon the idea, until it crowded it out. 
 The distinction between formal and real science become a 
 division, and a separation, so that each was pursued alone 
 by itself, to the great injury of the former, and to the 
 death and destruction of tlie latter. Compare, e. g., the 
 eloquence of Demosthenes with the oratory of the Soph- 
 ists. The former ])rocceds from thought, fron^ truth, as 
 the principle of all eloquence, form and style being 
 moulded and determined by it. The latter starts from 
 form and style itself, which is continually subjected lo a
 
 110 THE j;tiiical tiikory 
 
 repetition of touches and retouches, without any inward 
 mould iufj, any livino; formation. 
 
 Like shadows on a stream, the forms of art 
 Impress their character on the smooth surface, 
 but no soul 
 
 Warmeth the inner frame. * 
 
 But the view that has been presented of the nature of 
 Rhetoric, and of its relation to the whole field of human 
 knowledge and inquiry, is 2:>reclusive of this besetting bad 
 tendency in the department. While recognizing the es- 
 sentially formal character of Rhetoric, and thus giving it 
 a distinct place in the circle of the sciences, and thereby 
 confining it within its own limits, it, at the same time, 
 directs attention to the deeper soil into which its roots 
 must strike, and from which it must derive its nourish- 
 ment and vigor. The rhetorical training of the student, 
 on this method, is concurrent with all his other training, 
 and becomes the medium of its communication to other 
 minds. His general culture is benefited by his discipline 
 in this direction, for the whole body of it is set in motion, 
 and action, by every effort to give form and expression to 
 it. 
 
 The whole tendency of such a theory of Rhetoric is to 
 produce, in practice, masculine and vital discourse. The 
 student is headed right by it, if we may use the term, and 
 is taught to apply his best power to the evolution of truth, 
 and the production of thought in his own mind, not surely 
 to the neglect of the form in which it is to be expressed, 
 but in order to the highest and most perfect elaboration 
 of the form. Commencing with the matter, he pro- 
 ceeds to the form, which is to take shape and character, 
 and all its qualities, from that primitive material for 
 
 * Schiller altered.
 
 OF KHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. Ill 
 
 whose sake aloue it has any existence at all. For, saya 
 Chaucer, 
 
 Well may men knowen, but it be a fool, 
 
 That every part deriveth from his hool. 
 
 For Nature hath not taken his beg'iuning 
 
 Of no partie ne cantel of a thing, 
 
 But of a thing that pai-fit is and stable 
 
 Descendiug so, til it be corrumpable. * 
 
 The rhetorician is taught to be severe with himself, to 
 foro-et liiraself in the theme, that he mav exhibit it with 
 that boldness and freedom of manner, that darino; streno:th 
 and grandeur of treatment, which is aljsohitely beyond the 
 reach of him who is anxious respecting the impression he 
 may make ; who, in sliort, is tormented by too much con- 
 sciousness of self, at a time when he should be absorb- 
 ingly conscious of the theme. 
 
 According to the theory here . presented, the oration, 
 meaning by this every rounded and complete discourse, is 
 the evolution of an idea tliat is the germ and principle of 
 the whole composition. But nothing can be of greater 
 Ijenefit to the student, than, in the very beginning of his 
 intellectual life, to be habituated to compose in the light, 
 and by the guidance, and under the impulse, of ideas ; 
 than to be enabled to discover those germinal truths which 
 are pregnant with life, and which, when embodied with 
 fi'ccdom and power in a discourse, constitute the ground- 
 W(;rk of the finest creations of the human mind. And 
 ;ipart from the henetit which is to be derived from this 
 h:il»it iiiid ability, for the practical purposes ot" Rhetoric, 
 what ;i l)enefit is derived from il in respect to the private 
 contemplations and enjoyment of the scholar! Supj)osing 
 he docs not need this iibility, because he is never calkul 
 upon to speak oi' write to his fdlow-men, (a suj)j)osition 
 
 * Chaucer : Knight's Talc.
 
 112 THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 that is hardly to the credit of an educated man in this 
 peculiar age,*) does he not need it, in order that his own 
 mind may reach essential truth, and may, in its own re- 
 flections, follow the method and order of reason ? In 
 what a serene and constant illumination does that mind 
 dwell, which is able in its meditations to find the f'ontal 
 truth as it were by instinct, and to unfold it by its own 
 light, and in accordance with its own structure ! 
 
 By such a theory the student is introduced into the 
 world of ideas, laws and principles, and is taught to begin 
 with these, and from them to work out towards detail 
 elaboration, and ornament. It is a mysterious world, it is 
 true, and it must be, from the very fact that it is the source 
 and origin. But it is the very office-work of thinking to 
 convert these ideas into clear conceptions ; to put these 
 vast unlimited truths into definite and intelliiyible dis- 
 course ; in fine, in the Strict meaning of the term, to de- 
 velop truth, lie is the mystical and obscure discourser 
 who leaves truth just as he finds it; who does not, by the 
 aid of close thinking and a rigorous remorseless logic, 
 compel the dark pregnant idea to yield up its secret ; who 
 does not force the contents out of the all-comprehending 
 law or principle. And he is the clear and intelligible 
 discourser, in tlie only high sense of the term ; clear while 
 solid, intelligible while weighty; who, not starting in 
 light to make things lii>:ht, starts in darkness and works 
 his way out into high noon. In both the Pagan and 
 Christian cosmogonies, creation emerged from old night. 
 
 Most certainly, the influence of such a theor}'' of Bhet 
 oric is enlivening to the mind. Setting aside the fact, 
 
 * " Ob eamque causam eloqui copiose, motjo pnidenter, melius est, 
 quam vel acutissime sine eloquentia cogitare : quod cogitatio in se ipsa 
 vertitur, eloquentia complectitur eos, quilms cum communitate juncta 
 sumus."— Cicero, De Ofl&ciis, Lib. I. cap. 44.
 
 OF KHETOKIC AND ELOQUENCE. 113 
 
 that it is the only one by the aid of whicli eloquence can 
 come into existence, it is the only worJclng theory, it is 
 most certainly a great point gained, if an art, so often 
 supposed to be at farthest remove from earnestness and 
 vividness, which is regarded too commonly as the art by 
 ■vvliich the ornaments are furnished when the solid and 
 real work has been done, is shown to have its native seat 
 and source in botli logic and ethics. The expression of 
 tliought l)y this theory becomes a sincere act, and the 
 mind, wliile giving utterance to its reflections, is really 
 contributing to the moral culture and developuient of the 
 man. The productions of such a Tihetoric are marked by 
 that grave and conscientious character which is the natural 
 fruit of simplicity and genuineness in the mental processes. 
 The effect of the theory is seen even in the language cm- 
 ployed. It is no longer stiff, stilted, and aloof from the 
 thought, but pliant, vital, and consubstantial with it. 
 
 3. It is obvious in the third place, that the view under 
 consideration imparts an interest to the department of 
 Tihetoric which it is entirely destitute of, upon any other 
 theory. 
 
 For, as we have ali-eady remarked, no strictly formal 
 dcpai'tinent of knowledge is independent and solf-subsis- 
 teiit. If we confine ourselves to a mere art, without re- 
 spect to the more profound principles that lie under it, 
 our minds soon become weary and spiritless. Such is the 
 aflinity between the human intellect and fundamental 
 truth, such is the hungering after 6'^*J«^«;^.^^«^ knowledge 
 and renl science, that it camiot be jK'rmanently interested 
 in any braiu-h of iiupiiry, or of a(-tivity, that does not ulti- 
 mately lead it down into these de[jth3. Essential truth is 
 the element, and the aliment, of a ratioiuil mind, and noth- 
 ing short of this form f)f truth can long satisFy its wants. 
 LTidess, therefore, rhetorical discipline conducts the mind
 
 11-1: Till-: ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 ultimately to these perennial fountains of stimulation and 
 nourishment, it will soon become irksome in its nature, 
 and "wearisome in its influence. All this training in the 
 art of composition will only serve to drink up the vigorous 
 juices, and kill out the life of the mind. 
 
 If, on the contrary, rhetorical study and practice he 
 grafted into the vigorous stock of a preexisting culture, 
 if the student come to it with a \vell-trained and fully in- 
 formed mind, the result of industry and fidelity in the 
 academical, collegiate, and professional courses of instruc- 
 tion through which he has passed ; then this part of his 
 labor as an educated man will be the most interestino; and 
 congenial of all. We have, perhaps, experienced the ex- 
 quisite pleasure which the intellect feels in the hour of 
 vigorous creative production; the high swelling enthusi- 
 asm of the mind, as it careers over a field of noble and 
 lofty thought. We have, perhaps, experienced that en- 
 largement and elevation of soul, which accompanies the 
 distinct intuition of principles, and a firm masterly grasp 
 of them. " The highest joy," says Schiller, " is the free- 
 dom of the mind, in the living play of all its powers ; " 
 and there is no sphere in which this play of the intellect 
 is so full and so free, as that of authorship, as that of 
 composition. None of the other processes in the course 
 of education can compare with it, for depth and hearti- 
 ness of interest. The processes of memorizing, of com- 
 paring, of judging, of analyzing, of combining, and of 
 clcjse attention, — the processes that occur in the classical, 
 mathematical, historical, and philosophical disciplines, — ■ 
 ai'e each and all of them inferior in fresh living interest, 
 to the process of original production. In these former 
 instances, the mind is somewhat passive, and but a portion 
 of its power is in exercise. But in the act and process 
 of original authorshij*, the mind becomes a unit and 
 
 \
 
 OF EHETOKIC AND ELOQUENCE. 115 
 
 unity, all its powers are concentrated into one, and the 
 productive process is a most original and vital union 
 of all the knowledo-e, all the feelino-, all the imao;ina- 
 tion, and all the moral force of the man. The historian 
 Kiebiihr, speaking of the historian's vocation, remarks 
 that he who calls past ages into being enjoys a bliss analo- 
 gous to that of creating.^^ With ecpial trutli, may we say 
 of that mind which is able, in the conscious awakenini; 
 of all its powers, to give full and satisfactory utterance to 
 its thick-coming thoughts, that it enjoys the joy of a 
 creator. If there is one bright particular hour in tlie life 
 of the educated man, in the career of the sciiolar, it is that 
 hour for which all other hours of student life were made, 
 — that hour in which he gives original and full expression 
 to what has slowlv been ccenderino; within him. Now, 
 what this bright hour is to the general life of the educated 
 man, rhetorical discipline and practice is to the sum-total 
 of education. If pursued in the right method, and after 
 the proper preparatory work has been done, it imparts an 
 interest to general study and general culture, such as can- 
 
 * " I have found," he says in one of his letters, " my former experi- 
 ence irresistibly confirmed, that with me the body depends entirely on 
 the mind, and that my indisposition almost always arises from some 
 impediment to the free action of my mind, which seems to introduce 
 disorder into all the functions of the bodily machine. When my mind 
 is exerting itself freely and energetically upon a great subject, and I 
 advance succcssfaliy from one point to another, displaying their mutual 
 connection as I proceijcl, I cither U'X'X no physical inconveniences, or if 
 they show themselves, they disappear again very quickly. No man can 
 have a more vivid porc(!i>ti<)n, that crniUn;/ is the true essence of life, 
 than I have derived from my internal experience. But if I am alto- 
 gether restricted to a passive state of mind, the whole machine comes 
 to a stop, and my inward discomfort Ijrings on an unhealthy condition 
 of body, of which I have an unmistakaljle outward sign, in the contrast 
 between the free and strong circulation of the blood in the former state, 
 and its irregularity in the latter." — Life and Letters, p. I7y.
 
 116 THE ETHICAL THEORY 
 
 not exist without it. How dull and stupid is the life of a 
 l)Ook-\\'onn ; of a mind which passes through all the stai^es 
 of education, except that last and crowning one, by means 
 of which it is put into communiGcUion with the great 
 world of scholars and letters. Such a mind is always des- 
 titute of that most interestinii: and infallible si<;n of o;cnn- 
 ine culture, enthusiasm. It lias done nothing for long 
 years but absorb. Knowledge has had the same effect 
 npon its inner fabric and structure, which the sweet rains 
 of heaven have upon the rootless fallen pine. The noble 
 shaft becomes struck with the sap-rot. 
 
 The history of literature furnishes many examples of 
 men whose knowledge only increased their sorrow, because 
 it never found an efflux from their own minds into the 
 world. Knowledo-e uncommunicated is something like 
 remorse nnconfessed. Tlie mind not being allowed to go 
 out of itself, and to direct its energies towards an object 
 and end greater and worthier than itself, turns back upon 
 itself, and becomes morbidly self-reliecting and self-con- 
 scious. A studious and reflecting man of this class is 
 cliaracterized by an excessive fastidiousness, which makes 
 him dissatisfied with all that he does himself, or sees done 
 by others ; which represses, and finally suppresses, all the 
 buoyant and spirited activity of the intellect, leaving it 
 sluggish as " the dull weed that rots by Lethe's wharf." 
 The poet Gray is an example in point. In the instance 
 of this in many respects highly interesting literary man, 
 tlie acrpiisition of culture far outran the ex2:)ression and 
 communication of it. The scholar overlaid the author. 
 Even the comparatively few attempts which this mind 
 made to embody its thoughts were hampered by its exces- 
 sive introspection. Had Gray thrown himself out with 
 freedom and boldness upon the stream of original pro- 
 duction, which might have been made to flow from his
 
 OF KHETORIC AND ELOQUENCE. 117 
 
 i-ichlj-endowed and richly-iii formed inind, he would have 
 been stronger, greater, and happier as a literary man. 
 K either would his productions have lost that perfection 
 of symmetry, and elaborate hard finish which they ex- 
 hibit ; while at the same time thev would have had 
 breathed into them that warm breath of life, which they 
 do not now possess, and for the lack of which no mere 
 art can ever compensate. Certain it is that a closer, 
 warmer contact with the mind of his ao;e, throuo-h a more 
 daring and exuberant authorship on his part, would have 
 imparted a spring and buoyancy to the literary character 
 of Gray that would have rendered it a more iuflueutial 
 and interesting one than it now is. 
 
 As an example of the freshening and invigorating in- 
 fluence of the constant and free communication of thouirht 
 upon the intellect, take Sir Walter Scott. His mind was 
 one of the healthiest, and most robust, that we meet with 
 in the history of literature. It was also one of the hap- 
 piest, the most free from morbid exercises and activities. 
 Something was undoubtedly due to its native structure, 
 but very much was owing to those habits of authorship 
 wliicli it early acquired, and long kept up. Suppose that 
 Sccitt had immured himself in his librarv, had <riven free 
 play to his acquisitive and uuti<piarian tendencies, with- 
 out develo[)ing and using his originating and productive 
 talent, can we su})pose that his intellect would have been 
 that warm, breezy, sunny spot that it always was ? It is 
 true that he linally broke his powers down, by attomjiting 
 the IJcrculcan task of rescuing the great ])ul)lishiiig house 
 with which he hud become connected fi"oni bunkiMiptcy ; 
 but this dead lift of the mental powers is not what wo 
 are speaking of. It is the moderate, and nnilonii, yet 
 free and bold expression of the thoughts oi: an educated 
 mind, in distinction iVoiii the dull, lethargic, unilonn Mip-
 
 118 THE ETHICAL TIIKOKY 
 
 prcssion of them, of wlilch wc arc speaking, and foi 
 wliich wc are pleadino;. 
 
 In this way, the ethical tlieory of Klietoric, wliile re- 
 suhing in a practical and energetic Eloquence, exerts a 
 vivifying influence upon the entire culture of the student. 
 It gives cmjfloi/moit to the sum total of his acquisitions, 
 instead of permitting it to remain idle in his mind. It 
 elaborates and uses, for the purposes of popular instruc- 
 tion and impression, all the nuiterial with which the mind 
 is tilled, instead of allowing it to remain a lifeless mass, a 
 caj>ut mortuum, by itself. Mathematical, classical, his- 
 torical, philosophical, and theological knowledge, instead 
 of being held in tlie memory from a mere feeling of van- 
 ity, is set to work from a sense of duty. The Ithetoi-ic of 
 the man has affinities with the scholarship of the man. 
 It is homogeneous with it. It moulds it, and embodies it. 
 For the rhetorician, \\^^o\^ this theory, and under this 
 training, is not one in whom tvi^o distinct disciplines exist 
 side by side, with no interpenetration, lie is not at one 
 time a dull sluggish recipient of knowledge, and at an- 
 other a dull formal communicator of knowledge ; dis- 
 chari>:in<i; two functions which in him have no connection 
 with each other. lie is at all times a ofenial and vital 
 receiver, and a genial vital communicator. It was once 
 said of a famous jurist, that his knowledge had passed 
 out of his memory into his judgment. We may say of 
 the genuine rhetorician, that his knowledge is continually 
 passing out of his passive into his active nature. It enters 
 into the circulation of the soul, and becomes vitalized by 
 its living curi-ents. The scholar and the orator are not 
 separated from each other, but constitute one living per- 
 sonality. 
 
 But what an energy is imparted to culture, by a train- 
 ing that thus tasks to the utmost lor acquisitions, and tlicii
 
 OF EUETOKIC AISTD ELOQUENCE. 119 
 
 vivifies those acquisitions to the utmost in order to popu- 
 lar oratorical impression ! It is safe to say that the litera- 
 ture of a nation is vigorous and alive, only in proportion 
 as it has oratorical elements in it ; and that the very 
 height of its living energy appears in its eloquence and 
 oratory. Wliat other portion of Greek literature throbs 
 vfith such intense life as the speeches of Demosthenes ? 
 If there be any of the vis vlvltla vitae in Roman litera- 
 ture, that literature whicli, unlike all others, was born old, 
 and never exhibits any of the morn and liquid dew of 
 youth, — if there be any fresh vital force in Roman letters, 
 is it not to be found in the orations of Cicero ? And 
 where, in the modern world, do the most vehement and 
 passionate energies of the human intellect expatiate and 
 career, if not in the vastly widened arena of political and 
 sacred eloquence, — if not on that theatre where the active, 
 practical interests of man for time and for eternity come 
 up for discussion and decision? 
 
 The importance of a high and philosophic theory of 
 eloquence and oratory, when considered in its bearings 
 upon the education of the American mind, is plain and 
 great. The American is sensitive to eloquence, and is in- 
 clined to be influenced by the rhetorician and orator more 
 than by the poet or the philosopher. We are in our youth 
 as a nation ; in that forming period which in Grecian, in 
 Roman, and in English history, is marked by the ballad 
 and romance litei-ature. Uidike our predecessors we 
 have not been much inilncnced b}' these lighter and im- 
 aginative si)ccies, Ijut even in our infancy and youth have 
 sought a "manlier diet." AVo afl'ect eloquence and 
 oratory, rather than the ballad and the romance. If we 
 c(jmj)are the literature of Anjeri(;a with that of Europe, 
 foi- the last hundred yeara, we find that our success has 
 been altogether greatest in this department. During this
 
 120 THE ETHICAL TUEORr 
 
 period we liave produced no poetry equal to that of Eng- 
 laiul, no philosophy equal to that of Germany, and no 
 science equal to that of France. But the most unwilling 
 admirer must acknowledge that we have produced a body 
 of eloquence and oratory which, taken as a whole, is equal 
 lo contemporaneous English or Continental eloquence. 
 The eloquence called out in the debates upon the adoption 
 of the Constitution, and all along down from that time to 
 the present, in expounding and defending it; the pane- 
 gyrical eloquence of the country elicited by the commem- 
 oration of great events, or of patriotic men ; nay even the 
 ruder and less elaborate efforts incident to the political 
 contests that occur so often : all these have resulted, 
 within the period of the last hundred years in the repub- 
 lican States of America, in a body of oratorical literature 
 ■ivith M'liich nothing could so well compare, as that which 
 was called forth (but which has not been handed down), 
 in the democracies of Greece, from the time when the 
 Olympian Pericles thundered in the Agora, to the time 
 when Demosthenes sucked the poisoned quill. 
 
 The American mind ought thei'efore to be under the 
 influence of a high theory, and a strict taste, in order 
 that this tendency may receive its veiy best education ; 
 and in order that American eloquence may continue to 
 be characterized by solid and sterling qualities. The 
 national mind has been too seriously occupied with great 
 interests, to become meretricious in its rhetoric and elo- 
 quence. The lievolution that established liljerty and the 
 government, and the national crises that have occurred 
 since, were no time for an inflated and bombastic display. 
 Enei'ijy and thouwhtfulness characterize our favorite and 
 model (;rators. But peace, and prosperity, and perfect 
 security, relax the mind and its theories. There is now 
 danger that the form outrun the substance ; that congres-
 
 OF KHETOEIC AND ELOQUENCE. 121 
 
 sional debates, that judicial, panegyrical, and sacred elo- 
 quence, all of them become less truthful and forceful in 
 their character, while they become more florid and daz- 
 zling. 
 
 What better corrective, then, can there be, than a good 
 educational theory, upon the whole subject, in both the 
 individual and the public mind; in both the auditor and 
 the orator? If audiences are intolerant of a rhetoric that 
 separates the form from the matter, the stj'le from the 
 thought, the public speaker will know it, and act accord- 
 ingly. If the auditor insists that eloquence have a soul of 
 truth, and of thought, within it, the orator will yield, and 
 become a more thoughtful man, that he may minister to 
 the public want. The result will be a rhetoric and an 
 oratory that tirst patiently accuuiulates knowledge, and 
 then thoroughly elaborates it, for the purposes of popular 
 instruction and impression, — an eloquence 
 
 ' ' not like those rills from a height 
 Which sparkle and foam, and in vapor are o'er ; 
 But a current that works out its way into light 
 Through the filtering recesses of thought and of lore." 
 6
 
 THE CHARACTERISTICS AND IMPORTAIsCE 
 OF A NATURAL RHETORIC* 
 
 There is no erreater or more strikino- contrast, than 
 exists between a thing that is alive, and a thing that is 
 dead ; between a product of nature, and a product of 
 mechanism ; between a thing that has a principle 
 within it, and a " thing of shreds and patches." The 
 human mind notices this contrast between the various 
 objects that come before it, the quicker and the more 
 eharply, because it is itself a living thing, and because 
 its own operations are unifying, organizing, and vivify- 
 iiig, in their nature. "We sometimes speak of the mech- 
 aninui of the human understanding, and of a mechaniz- 
 ing process as going on within it. Rut this language is 
 metaphorical, and employed to denote the uniformity 
 and certainty of intellectual processes, rather than their 
 real nature. Man is a livinir soul, and there is no action 
 anywhere, or in anything, that is more truly and purely 
 vit;il, more entirely diverse from and hostile to the 
 mechanical and the dead, than the genuine action of tlie 
 human iiind. Hence it is that tlie mind notices this 
 contrary quality and characteristic in an object with the 
 
 * An inaugural (liscourae at Auburn, June 10, 1853.
 
 124 THE CIIAUAcrrKKISTICS AND 
 
 rapidity of instinct, and starts back from it with a sort 
 of organic recoil. Life detects death, and shrinks from 
 death, instantaneously. Nature abhors art and artifice, 
 as decidedly as, according to the old philosophy, it 
 abhors a vacuum. 
 
 This distinction between the natural and the artificial, 
 furnishes a clue to the difference which runs through all 
 the productions of man, and reveals the secret of their 
 excellence or their defects. How often and how sponta- 
 neously do we sum up our whole admiration of a work 
 by saying, " it is natural," and our whole dislike by the 
 words, " it is artiiicial ? " The naturalness and life-like- 
 ness in the one case, are the spring of all that has pleased 
 us ; the formality and artifice in the other, are the source 
 of all that has repelled or disgusted us. Even when we 
 go no further in om* criticism, this general statement of 
 conformity or oppugnancy to nature, seems to be a suffi- 
 cient criticism. And with good reason. For, if a pro- 
 duction has nature, has life in it, it has real and perma- 
 nent excellence. It has the germ and root of all 
 excellences. And if it has not nature or life in it ; if it 
 is a mechanical, or an artificial, or a formal thing; it has 
 the elements of all defects and all faults in it. 
 
 It will be noticed here, that we have used the term Art 
 in its more common and bad sense, of contrariety to 
 Nature, and not in that technical and best signification 
 of the word, which implies the oneness and unison of the 
 two. For, true Art, Fine Art, has Nature in it, and the 
 genuine artist, be he painter, or poet, or orator, is one 
 who paints, or sings, or speaks, with a natural freedom 
 and freshness. Hence it is, that we are impressed by the 
 great productions o/ Fine Art, in the same way that we 
 are by the works of Nature. A painting, warm from the 
 easel of Claude Lorraine, appeals to what is alive in us,
 
 IMPOETANCE OF A NATUKAL EHETOKIC. 125 
 
 in the same genial way that a vernal landscape does. — 
 An oration from a clear brain, a beating heart, and a 
 glowing lip, produces effects analogous to those of light, 
 and fire, and the electric currents. In this way, a mys- 
 terious union is found to exist between outward natufe, 
 and that inward natm-e in the soul of man which we call 
 genius ; and in this way we see that there is no essential 
 difference betAveen Nature and Art* 
 
 But in the other and more common sense of the term 
 Art ; and the sense in which we shall employ it at this 
 time ; there is no such mystic union and unison between 
 it and Nature. It is its very contrary ; so much so, that 
 the one kills and expels the other ; so much so, that, as 
 we have said, the one affords a universal test of the fault- 
 iness, and the other of the excellence, of the productions 
 of the human mind, in all departments of effort. For 
 the Natural is the true, while the Artificial is the false. 
 Truth is the inmost essence of that principle by which a 
 production of the human mind is so organized and vital- 
 ized, as to make a fresh and powerful impression. — 
 Whenever in any department of effort, the human mind 
 has reached verity, and is able to give a simple and sin- 
 cere expression to it, we find the product full of nature, 
 full of life, full of freshness, full of impression. This, 
 
 * Nature's o-.vn work it seemed, (nature taught art.) 
 
 Paradise Eegained, ii. 295. 
 
 All nature is hut art unknown to thee. Pope. 
 
 Nature is the art of God. Sir Thomas Bkowne. 
 
 There is a nature in all artificial things, and again, an artifice in all com« 
 poundfd natural things. CuDwonTir. 
 
 The art of .seeing nature is in reality the great ohjcct of the studies of the 
 artist. Sin Joshua Reynolds. 
 
 Art may, in truth, he called the Intnuin irorld. Ali.STON'. 
 
 For a |)liiloso|iliic statcinont of this theory sec Kant's Urthcilskrafr ^^ 45, 
 46, and Schelling's discourse upon liic relation of Art to Nature.
 
 126 Tin: characteristics and 
 
 and this ultimately, is the plain secret of the charm in 
 every work of genius and of power. In every instance, 
 the inlluence which sways the observer, or the hearer, or 
 the reader, is the influence of the veritable reality, of the 
 real and the simple truth. The Artificial, on the con- 
 trary, is the false. Examine any formal production what- 
 ever, and we shall be brought back in the end to a 
 pretence, to a falsehood. The mind of the author is not 
 filled with the truth, and yet he pretends to an utterance 
 of the truth. Its working is not genial and spontaneous 
 like that of nature, and yet he must give out that it is. 
 From the beginning to the end of the process, therefore, 
 an artificial production is essentially mitrue, unreal, and 
 hence unnatural. 
 
 We have thus briefly directed attention to this very 
 common distinction between the Natural and the Artifi- 
 cial, and to the ground of it, for the purpose of introdu- 
 cing the general topic upon which we propose to speak 
 on this occasion : viz. 
 
 Tlie CharacterisUcs and importance of a Natural Rhe- 
 toric, ivilh special reference to the work of the Preacher. 
 
 There is no branch of knowledge so liable to an artifi- 
 cial method, as that of Rhetoric. Strictly defined, it is, 
 indeed, as Milton calls it, an instrumental art, and hence, 
 from its very nature, its appropriate subject-matter is the 
 form of a discourse. While Philosophy, and History, 
 and Theology, are properly occupied with the substance 
 of human composition ; with truth itself and thought 
 itself; to Rhetoric is left the humbler task of putting this 
 material into a form suited to it. Hence, it is evident, 
 that by the very nature and definition of Rhetoric, this 
 department of knowledge and of discipline is liable to 
 formalism and artificiality. While the mind is carried
 
 IMPORTANCE OF A NATUEAL KHETOEIC. 127 
 
 by the solid, material, branches of education, further and 
 further into the very substance of truth itself ; while His- 
 tory, and Philosophy, and Theology, by their very struc- 
 ture and contents, tend to deepen and strengthen the 
 mental processes ; Rhetoric, in common with the whole 
 department of Fine Art, seems to induce superficiality 
 and formahty. And when a bad tendency seems to 
 receive aid from a legitimate department of human 
 knowledge, it is no wonder that it should gain gi'ound 
 until it convert the whole department into its own nature. 
 Hence, as matter of fact, there is no branch of knowledge, 
 no part of a general system of education, so much infec- 
 ted, in all ages, with the merely formal, the merely 
 hollow, the merely artificial, and the totally lifeless, as 
 Rhetoric. The epigram which Ausonius WTote under 
 the portrait of the Rhetorician Rufus, might, with too 
 much truth, be applied to the Rhetorician generally : 
 Ipse rhetor, est imago imaginis.* 
 The need, therefore, of a Rhetoric that educates like 
 nature, and not artificially ; a Rhetoric that organizes 
 and vitalizes the material that is made over to it for pur- 
 poses of form ; is apparent at first glance. Without such 
 a method of expression, the influence of the solid branches 
 of education themselves is neutralized. However full of 
 fresh and original thought the mind may be, if it has 
 been trained up to a mode of presenting it, that is in its 
 own nature artificial and destructive of life, the freshness 
 and originality will all disappear in the process of impart- 
 ing it to another mind. A Rhetoric that is conformed to 
 nature and to truth, is needed, therefore, in order that the 
 department itself may be co-ordinate with those higher 
 departments of knowli-dge in which the foundation of 
 
 * Ausoiiii Ei)ig. n.
 
 128 
 
 THE CnAKACTERISTICS AND 
 
 mental cdncation is laid. Without such a concurrence 
 with the material branches of education, such a merely 
 formal and instrumental branch as that of Rhetoric, is 
 useless, and worse than useless. For it only diverts the 
 mind from the thought to the expression, without any 
 gain to the latter, and to the positive detriment of the 
 former. 
 
 1. Rhetoric, therefore, can be a truly educating and 
 influential department, only in proportion as it is org-an- 
 izinsr in its fundamental character. In order to this, it 
 must be grounded first of all in logic, or the laws of 
 thinking, and so become not a mere collection of rules 
 for the structure and decoration of single sentences, but 
 a habit and process of the human mind. The Rhetori- 
 cian must make his first sacrifice to the stern deities. 
 In an emblematic series by one of the early Florentine 
 engravers. Rhetoric is represented by a female figm-e of 
 dignified and commanding deportment with a helmet 
 surmounted by a regal crown on her head, and a naked 
 sword in her right hand. And so it should be. Soft 
 ness, and grace, and beauty, must be supported by 
 strength and prowess ; the golden and jewelled crown 
 must be defended by the iron helmet, and the steel sword. 
 A rhetorical mind, therefore, in the best and proper sense 
 of the term, is at bottom a constructive mind ; a mind 
 capable of methodizing and organizing its acquisitions 
 and reflections into forms of symmetry, and strength, and 
 in a gi-eater or less degree of beauty. It is a mind which, 
 in the effort to express itself, begins from witliin and 
 works outward, and whose product is, for this reason, 
 characterized by the unity and thorough compactness of 
 a product of Nature. Such, for example, was the mind 
 of Demosthenes, and such a product is the Oration for 
 the Crown. The oratorical power of this great master is
 
 nrPORTAXCE OF A A'ATLKAL KHETOEIC. 129 
 
 primarily a constructive talent ; an ability to methodize 
 and combine. Take away this deeply-running and rig- 
 orous force by which the various parts of the discourse, 
 the whole materiel of the plan and division, are compel- 
 led and compacted together, and this orator falls into the 
 same class with the Gorgiases and the false Rhetoricians 
 of all ages. Take away the organization of the Ora- 
 tion for the Crown, and a style and diction a hundred 
 fold more brilliant and gorgeous than that which now 
 clothes it, would not save it from the fate of the false 
 Rhetoric of all ages. 
 
 Such again, for example, was the mind of the Apostle 
 Paul, and such was the character of his Rhetoric. Those 
 short epistles, which like godliness are profitable for all 
 things, and ought to be as closely studied by the sermon- 
 Lzer as they are by the theologian, are as jointed and 
 linked in thek parts as the human frame itself, and as 
 continuous in the flow of their trains of thought as the cur- 
 rent of a river. The mind of this great first preacher to the 
 Gentiles, this great first sermonizer to cultivated and scep- 
 tical Paganism, was also an organizing mind. How na- 
 turally does Christian doctrine, as it comes forth from 
 this intellect whose native characteristics were not de- 
 stroyed, but only heightened and purified, by inspira- 
 tion — how naturally and inevitably does Christian truth 
 take on forms that are fitly joined together, and com- 
 pact<'d by that which every joint sup))lieth ; statements 
 that are at oiicjj logic and rhetoric, and salisfy bo(h the 
 reason and tlw; reelings. For does not the profoundest 
 theologian study the E|)istle to the Romans to find 
 iiitiniate and absolute statements in sacred science, and 
 does not the most unl'iiiicd (christian read mid pray over 
 this same epistle, tlmt his devotions may be kindled and 
 his heart made better ? Does not, lo use the illustration
 
 130 THE CnARACTKKISTICS AND 
 
 of the Christian Father, does not the lamb find a ford- 
 ing place and the elephant a swimming place in this 
 niii^hty unremitting stream ? 
 
 This thoroughness in the elaboration of the principal 
 ideas of a discourse, and this closeness in compacting 
 them into the unity of a plan, is, therefore, a prime qual- 
 ity in eloquence, and it is that which connects Rhetoric 
 with all the other departments of human knowledge, or 
 rather makes it the organ by and through which these 
 find a full and noble expression. For, contemplated 
 from this point of view, what is the orator but a man of 
 culture who is able to tell in round and full tones what 
 he knows ; and what is oratory but the art whereby the 
 acquisitions and reflections of the general human mind 
 are communicated to the present and the future. We 
 cannot, therefore, taking this view of the nature of Rhet- 
 oric as essentially organizing in its character, separate it 
 from the higher departments of History, or Philosophy, 
 or Theology, but must regard it as co-ordinate and con- 
 current with them. The rhetorical process is to go on in 
 education, along with these other processes of acquisi- 
 tion and information and reflection, so that the final 
 result shall be a mind not only disciplined inwardly but 
 manifested outwardly to other minds ; so that there shall 
 be not only an intellect full of thought, and a heart beat- 
 ing with feeling, and an imagination glowing with im- 
 agery, but a living expression of them all, in forms of 
 unity and simplicity and beauty and grandeur. In this 
 way Rhetoric really becomes, what it was once claimed 
 to be, the very crown and completion of all culture, and 
 the rhetorical discipline, the last accomplishment in the 
 process of education, when the man becomes pre})ared to 
 take the stand on the orator's bema before his fellow
 
 BIPOETANCE OF A NATURAL KHETORIC. 131 
 
 men, and dares to attempt a transfer of his consciousness 
 into them. 
 
 2. The second characteristic of a natm'al Rhetoric is 
 the amplifying' power. If Rhetoric should stop with 
 the mere organizing of thought, it might be difficult 
 to distinsfuish it from logic. But this constructive 
 talent in the Rhetorician, is accompanied by another 
 ability which is more purely oratorical. We mean the 
 ability to dwell amply upon an idea until it has unfolded 
 all its folds, and lays off richly in broad full view. We 
 mean the ability to melt the hard solid ore w^ith so tho- 
 rough and glowing a heat, that it will run and spread 
 like water. We mean the ability to enlarge and illns 
 trate upon a condensed and cubic idea, until its contents 
 spread out into a wide expanse for the career of the im- 
 agination and the play of the feelings. 
 
 This union of an organizing with an amplifying 
 power, may be said to be the whole of Rhetoric. He 
 who should combine both in perfect proportions, would 
 be the ideal orator of Cicero. For while the former pow- 
 er presents truth in its clear and connected form for the 
 understanding, the latter transmutes it into its imagina- 
 tive and impassioned forms, and the product of these 
 two powers, when they are blended in one living energy, 
 is Eloquence. For Eloquence, according to the best 
 definition that has yet been given, is the union of Philo- 
 sophy and Poetry in order to a practical end.* W.ien, 
 therefore, the logical organization is ck)tiicd upon with 
 the imaginative and inipassioned amplification, there 
 arises " a combination and a form indeed ; " a mental pro- 
 duct adapted more than all others to move and influence 
 the human mind. 
 
 • Theremin's Rhetoric, Book i. Chapters iii., iv.
 
 lo2 THE CUARAOTJCKISTICS AND 
 
 But we shall sec still more clearly into the essential 
 characteristics of a Natural Rhetoric, by passing, as we 
 now do, after this brief analysis, to the second part of 
 oui" discourse, whicli proposes to treat of the worth and 
 importance of such a Rhetoric to the preacher. 
 
 1. And in the first place, a natural as distinguished 
 from an artiiicial Rhetoric, is of the highest worth to the 
 preacher because it is fruitful. 
 
 The preacher is one who, from the nature of his call- 
 ing, is oblig(,'d to originate a certain amount of thought 
 within a limited period of time, which is constantly and 
 uniformly recurring. One day in every seven, as regu- 
 larly as the motion of the globe brings it around, he is 
 compelled to address his fellow men upon the very highest 
 themes, in a manner and to an extent that will secure 
 their attention and interest. No profession, consequent- 
 ly, makes such a steady and unintermittent draught up- 
 on the resources of the mind as the clerical, and no man 
 so much needs the aid of a fertile and fruitful method of 
 discoursing as the Christian preacher. Besides this great 
 amount of flunking and composition that is required of 
 him, he is moreover shut up to a comparatively small 
 number of topics, and cannot derive that assistance from 
 variety of subjects, and novelty in circumstances, which 
 the secular orator avails himself of so readily. The 
 truths of Christianity are few and simple, and though 
 ihey are richer and more inexhaustible than all others, 
 they furnish little that is novel or striking. The power 
 that is in them to interest and move men, must be educed 
 from their simple and solid substance, and not from their 
 great number or variety. The preacher may, it is true, 
 be able to maintain a sort of interest in his hearers by 
 the biographical, or geographical, or archaeological, or 
 historical, or literary, accompaniments of the Scriptures 
 
 9
 
 EMPOETANCE OF A NATURAL EHETOEIC. 133 
 
 but his permanent influence and power over them as a 
 preacher must come from his ability to develop clearly, 
 profoundly, and freshly, a few simple and unadorned 
 doctrines. Far be it from me to undervalue the impor- 
 tance of that training and study, by which we are inh-o- 
 (hiced into that elder and oriental world in which the 
 Bible had its origin, and with whose scenery, manners 
 and customs', and modes of living and thinking, it will 
 he connected to the end of time. No student of the 
 Scriptures, and especially no sacred orator, can make 
 iiiinself too much at home in the gorgeous East ; too 
 familiar with that Hebrew spirit which colors like blood 
 the whole Bible, New Testament as well as Old Testa- 
 ment. But at the same time he should remember that 
 all this knowledge is only a means to an end ; that he 
 cannot as a preacher of the Word, rely upon this as the 
 last source wiience he is to derive subject matter for his 
 thinking and discourse year after year, but must by it all 
 be carried down to deeper and more perennial fountains, 
 io the few infinite facts and the few infinite truths of 
 Christianity. 
 
 The need, therefore, of a Rhetorical method that is in 
 its own nature fertile and fruitful, is plain. And what 
 other ability can succeed but that organizing and ampli- 
 fying power, which we have seen to be the substance of 
 ihe Rhetoric of Nature as the contrary of Art. Through 
 the former of these, the preacher's mind is led into the 
 inmost structure and fabric of the individual doctriiK;, 
 and so of tlie whoU^ Christian system; and through the 
 hitler he is enabled to unroll and display the endless 
 richness of Ihe contents. It is safe to say, that a mind 
 which has once acfjuired this n:i(iir;il mciliod of develop- 
 ing and presj-nting Christian truth, camiot be exhausted. 
 Nc matter how miich drain may be made ui)on it, no
 
 134 THE CHARACTERISTICS AND 
 
 matter how often it may be called upon to preach the 
 " things new and old," it cannot be made dry. The 
 more it is drawn from, the more salient and bulging is 
 the fulness with which it wells up and pours over. For 
 this org-anic method is the key and the clue. He who is 
 master of it, he with whom it has become a mental hab- 
 it and process, will find the treasures of wisdom and 
 knowledge in the Scriptures opening readily and richly 
 to him. He will find his mind habitually in the vein. 
 
 2. And this brings us to a second characteristic of a 
 Natural Rhetoric, whereby it is of the greatest worth to 
 the pn^acher, viz., that it is a g'enial and invigorating 
 method. All the discipline of the human mind ought to 
 minister to its enjoyment and its strength. That is a 
 false method of discipline, by which the human mind is 
 made to work by an ungenial effort, much more by 
 spasms and convulsively. It was made to work like na- 
 ture itself, calmly, continuously, strongly, and happily. 
 When, therefore, we find a system of ti-aining, resulting 
 in a labored, anxious, intermittent, and irksome, activity, 
 we may be sure that something is wrong in it. The 
 fruits of all modes of discipline that conform to the na- 
 ture of the human mind and the nature of truth, are free- 
 dom, boldness, continuity, and pleasure, of execution. 
 In this connection weakness and tedium are faults ; sick- 
 ness is sin. 
 
 But the mental method for which we are pleading, 
 while making the most severe and constant draft upon 
 the mental faculties, at the same time braces them and 
 inspires them with power. The mind of the orator, in 
 this slow organization and continuous amplification of 
 the materials with which it is laboring, is itself affected 
 by a reflex action. That truth, that divine truth, which 
 the preacher is endeavoring to throw out, that it may
 
 IMrORTANCE OF A NATURAL RHETORIC. 135 
 
 renovate and edify the soul of a fellow being, at the 
 same time strikes in, and invigorates his own mind, and 
 swells his own heart with joy. 
 
 This feature, this genial vigor, in what we have styled 
 a Natural Rhetoric, acquires additional importance when 
 we recur to the fact that has already been mentioned, 
 viz., that inasmuch as Rhetoric is a formal or instrumen- 
 tal department, its influence is liable to become, and too 
 often has become, debilitating to the human mind. 
 When this branch of discipline becomes artificial and 
 mechanical in its character, by being severed too much 
 from those profounder, and more solid, departments of 
 human knowled£:e from whose root and fatness it must 
 derive all its nourishment and circulating juices ; when 
 Rhetoric desjenerates into a mere collection of rules for 
 the structure of sentences and the finish of diction ; no 
 studies or training will do more to diminish the resources 
 of the mind, and to benumb and kill the vitality of 
 the soul, than the Rhetorical. The eye is kept upon the 
 form merely, and no mind, individual or national, was 
 ever made strong or fertile by the contemplation of mere 
 form. The mind under such a tutorage works by rote, 
 instead of from an inward influence and an organic law. 
 In reality, its action is a surface-action, which only irri- 
 tates and tires out its powers. Perhaps the strongest ob- 
 jections that have been advanced against a Rhetorical 
 course of instruction, find their support and force here. 
 Men complain of the dryness, and the want of geniality, 
 of a professed Rhetorician. The coiiuiion mind is not 
 satisfied with his studious arlifice, and his measured 
 movements, but craves something moic ; it craves a ro- 
 bust and hearty utterance, a hale and lifcisomc method. 
 Notice that it is not positively displeased with this pre- 
 cision and finish of th(; Rhetorician, but only with th(»
 
 136 TIIK CHARACTERISTICS ANI) 
 
 lack of a genial irnptilsc under it. It is its sins of omis* 
 sion that have brought Rhetoric into disrepute. 
 
 But when the trainini^, under consideration, results in a 
 genial and invigorating process, by which the profound- 
 est thinking and the best feeling of the soul are discharg- 
 ed to the utmost, and yet the mind feels the more buoy- 
 ant for it, and the stronger for it, all such objections van- 
 ish. There is, we are conildent, there is a method of 
 disciplining the mind in the direction of Rhetoric, and 
 for the purposes of form and style, that does not in the 
 least diminish the vigor and the healthiness of its natural 
 processes. If there is not, then the department should 
 be annihilated. If there can be no Rhetorical training in 
 the schools, but such as is destructive of the freshness, 
 and originality, and geniality, of native impulses and 
 native utterances, then it were far better to leave the 
 mind to its unpruned and tangled luxuriance ; to let it 
 uaiider at its own sweet will, and bear with its tedious 
 jvindings and its endless eddies. Here and there, at 
 east, there would be an onward movement, and the in- 
 spiration of a forward motion. But it is not so. For, 
 says Shakspeare : 
 
 There is an Art which . . . shares 
 With great creating Nature. 
 
 There is a close and elaborate discipline which is in har- 
 mony with the poetry, and the feeling, and the eloquence, 
 of the human soul, and which, therefore, may be employ- 
 ed to evoke and express it. There is a Rhetoric which, 
 when it has been wrought into the mind, and has be- 
 come a spontaneous method and an instinctive habit 
 with it, does not in the least impair the elasticity and 
 vigor of nature, because in the phrase of the same great
 
 IMPORTANCE OF A NATUKAI. KHETOKIC. 137 
 
 poet and master of form from whom we have just quoted, 
 " It is an Art that Nature makes, or rather an Art which 
 itself is Natm-e." Such a Rhetoric may, indeed, be 
 defined to be an Art, or discipline, which enables man to 
 be natural ; an Art that simply develops the genuine and 
 hearty qualities of the man himself, of the mind itself. — 
 For the purpose of all discipline in this direction, is not 
 to impose upon the mind a style of thought and expres- 
 sion unnatural and alien to it, but simply to aid the mind 
 to be itself, and to show itself out in the most genuine 
 and sincere manner. The Rhetorical Art is to join on 
 upon the nature and constitution of the individual man, 
 so that what is given by creation, and what is acquired 
 by culture, shall be homogeneous, mutually aiding and 
 aided, reciprocally influencing and influenced. And let 
 not this mental veracity, this tnithfulness to a man's 
 individualitv and mental structure, be thous^ht to be an 
 easy acquisition. It is really the last and highest accom- 
 plishment. It is a very difficult thing for a discourser to 
 be himself, genuinely and without aflectation. It is a 
 still more difficult thing for an orator, a man who has 
 come out before a fistening and criticising auditory, to be 
 himself; genuinely, fearlessly and without mannerism, 
 communicating himself to his auditors precisely as he 
 really is. A simj)le and natural style, says Pascal, always 
 strikes us with a sort of surprise ; for while we are on the 
 lookout for an aiil/mr, we find a inan, while we are expect- 
 ing a formal art, we find a throbbing heart. Tliis is 
 really the highest grade of culture, and the point toward 
 which it should always aim, viz: to bring Nature out by 
 means of art; and Rhetorical discipline, instead of leav- 
 ing the pupil ten-fold more formal and artificial than it 
 found hinj, ought to send him out among men, the most
 
 138 THE CnARACTERISTICS AND 
 
 artless, the most lioarty, and the most genuine, man of 
 them all. 
 
 Now of what untold worth is such a mental method 
 and habit to the preacher of the Word ! On this method, 
 literally and without a metaphor, the more he works the 
 stronger he becomes, the more he toils the hap))ier he is. 
 He tinds the invention and composition of discourse a 
 means of self-culture and of self-enjoyment. He finds 
 that that labor to which he has devoted his life, and tz. 
 which, perhaps, in the outset, he went with something ol 
 a hii'eling's feeling, is no irksome task, but the source ol 
 the noblest and most buoyant happiness. That steady 
 unintermittent drain upon his thought and his feeling 
 which he feared would soon exsiccate his brain and leave 
 his heart dry as powder, he finds is only an outlet for the 
 ever accumidating waters I 
 
 This invigorating and genial influence of the Rhetori- 
 cal method now under consideration, furthermore, is of 
 special worih in the present state of the world. There 
 never was a time when the general mind was so impa- 
 tient of dulness as now. He who addresses audiences 
 at the present day must be vigorous and invigorating, or 
 he is nothing. Hence the temptation, which is too often 
 yielded to by the sacred orator, to leave the legitimate 
 field of Christian discourse and to range in that border 
 land which skirts it, or perhaps to pass into a region of 
 thought that is really profane and secular. The preacher 
 feels the need of saying something fresh, vigorous, and 
 genial, and not being able to discourse in this style upon 
 the old and standing themes of the Bible, he endeavors 
 to christianize those secular and temporal themes with 
 which the general mind is already too intensely occupied, 
 that he may find in them subjects for entertaining, and, 
 as he thinks, original discourse But this course on the
 
 EMPOETANCE OF A NATURAL RHETORIC. 139 
 
 part of the Christian minister, mnst always end in the 
 decline of spiritual religion, both in his own heart and in 
 that of the Church. Nothing, in the long run, is truly 
 edifying to the Christian man or the Christian Church, 
 that is not really religious. Nothing can renovate and 
 banctify the earthly mind, but that which is in its own 
 nature spiritual and supernatural. Not that which 
 resembles Christian truth, or which may be modified or 
 aflfected by Christian truth, can convict of sin and con- 
 vert to God, but only the substantial and real Christian 
 truth itself. Nothing but material fire can be relied upon 
 as a central sun, as a radiating centre. 
 
 The Christian preacher is thus shut up to the old and 
 uniform system of Christianity in an age when, more 
 than in any other, men are seeking for some new thing ; 
 when they are seeking and demanding stimulation, invig- 
 oration, animation, and impression. His only true 
 course, therefore, is to find the new in the old ; to become 
 so penetrated with the spirit of Christianity, that he shall 
 breathe it out from his own mind and heart, upon his 
 congregation, in as fresh and fiery a tongue of flame as 
 that which restec* upon the disciples on the day of Pen- 
 tecost ; to enter so thoroughly into the genius and spirit 
 of the Christian system, that it shall exhibit itself, through 
 him, with an originality and newness kindred to that of 
 its first inspired preachers, and precisely like that which 
 characterizes the sermonizing of the Augustines and the 
 Bernards, the Luthers anrl the Calvins, the Leightons, 
 the Howes, and the Edwardses, of the Church. What 
 renders the sermons of these men so vivific and so invig- 
 orating to those who study them, and to the audiences 
 who heard them ? Not the variety or striking character 
 of the topics, hut the tlioroughiiess with which the truth 
 was conceived and elaborated in their minds. Not an
 
 14C THE CHARACTERISTICS AND 
 
 artilk'kil Rhetoric, polishing and garnishing the outside 
 of a subject in wliich the mind has no interest, and into 
 ihi> interior of which it has not penetrated ; but an organ- 
 izing Rhetoric, ^\ hereby the sermon shot up out of the 
 great Christian system, like a bud out of the side of a 
 great trunk or a great limb, part and particle of the great 
 Avhole ; an amplifying Rhetoric whereby the sermon was 
 the mere evolution of an involution, the swelling, burst- 
 ing, leafing out, blossoming, and fructuation, of this bud. 
 
 3. And this brings us, in the third place, to the worth 
 of this Rhetorical method to the preacher, because it is 
 closely connected with his theological training and disci- 
 pline. 
 
 It is plain, from w^hat has been said, that eloquent 
 preaching cannot originate without profound theological 
 knowledge. The eloquent preacher is simply the thorough 
 theologian who has now gone out of his study, and up 
 into the pulpit. In other words, eloquence in this as 
 well as in every other instance is founded in knowledge. 
 Cicero says that Socrates was wont to say that all men 
 are eloquent enough on subjects whereon they have 
 knowledge ; * a saying which re-appears in the common 
 and homely rule for eloquence, " Have something to say, 
 and then say it." 
 
 Hence a Rhetorical training which does not sustain 
 intimate relations to the general culture and discipline 
 of the pupil, is worthless. At no point does an artificial 
 Rhetoric betray itself so quickly and so certainly as here. 
 We feel that it has no intercommunication with the 
 character and acquisitions of the individual. It is a 
 foreign method, which he has adopted by a volition, and 
 
 * De Oratore, i. 14.
 
 IMPOKTANCE OF A NATURAL RHETORIC. 141 
 
 not a spontaneous one which has sprung up out of his 
 character and culture, and is in perfect sympathy with it. 
 But the Rhetoric of nature has all the theological train- 
 ing of the preacher back of it as its support, beneath it as 
 its soil and nutriment. All that he has become by long 
 years of study and reflection, goes to maintain him as a 
 Rhetorician, so that his oratory is really the full and 
 powerful display of what he is and has become by vigor- 
 ous professional study. The Rhetoric is the man him- 
 self. 
 
 In this way, a showy and tawdry manner is inevitably 
 avoided, as it always should be, by the preacher. It can- 
 not be said of him, as it can be of too many, " He is a 
 mere Rhetorician." For this professional study, this 
 lofty and calm theological discipline, this solemn care of 
 human souls, this sacred professional character, will all 
 show themselves in his general style and manner, and 
 preclude every thing ostentatious or gaudy, much more 
 every thing scenic or theatrical. The form will corres- 
 pond to the matter. The matter being the most solemn 
 and most weighty truth of God, the form will be the 
 most chastened, the most symmetrical, and the most 
 commanding, manner of man. 
 
 And in this way, again, the rhetorical training of the 
 preacher will exert a reilex inlluence upon his theologi- 
 cal training. A true sacred Rhetoric is a sort of practi- 
 cal theology, and is so styled in some nomenclatures. It 
 is a praclical expansion and exhibition of a scientific 
 aystem for the purpose of inliuencing the popular mind. 
 When, therefore, it is well conceived and well handled, it 
 exerts a rcllex influcnee uj)on theological science itself, 
 that is beneficial in the highest degree. It cannot, it is 
 true, change; the nature and suhstancc; of the truth, but it; 
 can bring it out into distinct consciousness The ellbrt
 
 142 TIIK CllA-liACTEKISTICS AND 
 
 to popularize scientific knowledge, the endeavor to put 
 logic into the form of rhetoric, imparts a clearness to con- 
 ceptions, and a determination to opinions, that cannot 
 be attained in the closet of the mere speculatist. Not 
 umil a man has endeavored to transfer his conceptions; 
 not until he has pushed his way through the confusion 
 and misunderstandings of another man's mind, and has 
 tried to lodge his views in it ; does he know the full 
 significance and scope of even his own knowledge. 
 
 But especially is this action and re-action between 
 theology and sacred Rhetoric of the highest worth to the 
 preacher, because it results in a due mingling of the the- 
 oretic and the practical in his preaching. The desidera- 
 tum in a sermon is such an exact proportion between 
 doctrine and practice, such thorough fusion of these two 
 elements, that the discourse at once instructs and impels ; 
 and he who supphes this desideratum in his sermonizing, 
 is a powerful, influential, and eloquent, preacher. He 
 may lack many other minor things, but he has the main 
 thing ; and in time these other minor things shall all be 
 added unto him. In employing a Rhetoric tiiat is at 
 once organizing and amplifying in its nature and influ- 
 ence, the theological discipline and culture of the preacher 
 are kept constantly growing and vigorous. Every sermon 
 that is composed on this method, sets the whole body of 
 his acquisitions into motion, and, like a bucket continu- 
 ally plunged down into a well and continually drawn up 
 full and dripping, aerates a mass that would otherwise 
 grow stagnant and putrid. 
 
 4. Fourthly and finally, the worth of a natm-al, as dis- 
 tinguished from an artificial. Rhetoric, is seen in the fact 
 that it is connected, most intimately, vnlh the vital reli- 
 gion of the man and the preacher. For no Rhetpric can
 
 rSlPOETANCE OF A XATUKAL KHETOEIC. 143 
 
 be organizing and vivifying, that is not itself organic and 
 alive. Only that which has in itself a living principle, 
 can communicate life. Only that which is itself vigor- 
 ous, can invigorate. The inmost essential principle, 
 therefore, of a Rhetoric that is to be employed in the ser- 
 vice of rehgion, must be this very reUgion itself: deep, 
 vital, piety in the soul of the sacred orator. Even the 
 pagan Cato, and the pagan Quinctilian after him, made 
 goodness, integiity and uprightness of character, the 
 foundation of eloquence in a secular sphere, and for se- 
 cular purposes. The orator, they said, is an upright 
 man, first of all an upright man, who understands speak- 
 ing. How much more true then is it, that Christian 
 character is the font and origin of all Christian elo- 
 quence ; that the sacred orator is a holy man, first of all 
 a hohj man, w ho understands speaking. 
 
 We shall not, surely, be suspected of wishing to un- 
 dervalue or disparage a department to which we propose 
 to consecrate our whole time and attention, and, there- 
 fore, we may with the more boldness say, that we have 
 always cherished a proper respect for that theory which 
 has been more in vogue in some other denominations 
 than in our own, that the preacher is to speak as the 
 spirit moves him. Tliere is a great and solid truth at 
 the bottom of it, and though the theory unquestionably 
 does not need to be licld up very particularly before an 
 uneducated ministry, we think there is comparatively lit- 
 tle danger in reminding the educated man, the man who 
 has been trained by the rules and maxims of a formal 
 and systematic disci])line, that the sj^ring of all his ])OW- 
 er, as a Christian jircachcr, is a living siiriii^j;. It is well 
 for the sacred orator, who has ))assed tiirough a long col- 
 legiate and professional training, and has been taught 
 sermonizing as an art, to be n.'ininded that the living
 
 144: THE OIIARACTERIRTIOS AND 
 
 principle, which is to render all this culture of use for 
 purposes of practical impression, is vital godliness ; that 
 he will be able to assimilate all this material of Christian 
 eloquence, only in proportion as he is a devout and holy 
 man. Without this interior religious life in his soul, all 
 his resources of intellect, of memory, and of imagination, 
 will be unimpressive and inetlectual; the mere iron shields 
 and gold ornaments that crush the powerless Tarpeia. 
 
 For the first and indispensable thing in every instance 
 is power. Given an inward and living power, and a 
 basis for motion, action, and impression, is given. In 
 every instance we come back to this ultimate point. 
 There is a theory among philosophers, that this hard, 
 material world, over which we stumble, and against 
 which we strike, is at bottom trwo forces or powers, 
 held in equilibrium ; that when we get back to the real- 
 ity of the hard and dull clod, upon which " the swain 
 treads with clouted shoon," we find it to be just as im- 
 material, just as mobile, just as nimble, and just as much 
 a living energy, as the soul of man itself. Whether this 
 be truth or not within the sphere of matter, one thing is 
 certain, that within the sphere of mind we are brought 
 back to forces, to fresh and living energies, in every in- 
 stance in which the human soul makes an eloquent im- 
 pression, or receives one. Examine an oration, secular 
 or sacred, that actually moved the minds of men, a 
 speech that obtained votes, or a sermon that, as we say, 
 saved souls, and you find the ultimate cause of this elo- 
 quence, so far as man is concerned, to be a vilal power 
 in the orator. The same amount of instruction might 
 have been imparted, the same general style and diction 
 might have been employed in both cases, but if that elo- 
 quent povjer in the man had been wanting, there woul(J
 
 niPOETANCE OF A NATUEAL EHETOEIC. 145 
 
 have been no actuation of the hearer, and consequently 
 no eloquence. 
 
 It is, therefore a gi-eat and crowning excellence of the 
 Rhetorical method which we have been describing, that 
 its lowest and longest roots strike down into the Chris- 
 tian character itself. It does not propose or expect to 
 render the preacher eloquent without personal religion. 
 It tells him on the contrary, that although God is the 
 creator and sovereign of the human soul, and can there- 
 fore render the tiaith preached by an unregenerate man 
 and in the most unfeeling irreligious manner, eflbctualto 
 salvation, yet that tlie preacher must expect to see men 
 moved by his discourses, only in proportion as he is him- 
 self a spiritually-minded, solemn, and devout wvau. Here 
 is the poioer, and hove is its hiding place, so far as the 
 finite agent is concerned. In that holy love of God and 
 of the human soul, which Christianity enjoins and pro- 
 duces; in that religious affection of the soul which takes 
 its origin in the soul's regeneration ; the preacher is to 
 find the source of all his eloquence and impression as an 
 orator, just as much as of his usefulness and happiness 
 as a man and a Christian. Back to this last centre of 
 all, do we trace all that is genuine, and powerful, and 
 influential, in Pulpit Eloquence. 
 
 But by this is not meant merely that the preacher must 
 be a man of zealous and fervid emotions. There is a 
 species of eloquence, which springs out of easily excited 
 sensibilities, and which oftentimes produces a great sen- 
 sation ill audiences of peculiar characi eristics, and in 
 some particular moods. But this eloquence of llie flesh 
 and the blood, without the brain; this eloquence of the 
 animal, without the intellectual spirits; is very different 
 from that dee|)-toned, that soleinn, tli:it eomin:iiiding (elo- 
 quence, wliich springs from the lilc ul God in the soul
 
 Ll() TlIK CIlAUAcnMClilSTIOS AND 
 
 of man We feel the difference, all men feel the differ- 
 ence, between the impression made by an ardent but su- 
 pcrfu'ial emotion, and that made by a deep feeling ; by 
 the sustained, equable, and strong, pulsation of religious 
 affections, as distinguished from religious sensibilities. 
 When a man of the latter stamp feels, we know that he 
 feels upon good grounds and in reality; that this stir and 
 movement of the affections is central and all-pervading 
 in him ; that the eternal truth has taken hold of his emo- 
 tive nature, moving the luhole of it, as the trees of the 
 wood are moved with the wind. It is this moral earnest- 
 ness of a man who habitually feels that religion is the 
 chief concern for mortals here below ; it is this profound 
 consciousness of the perfections of God and of the worth 
 of the human soul; which is the inmost principle of 
 sacred eloquence, the vis vivida vitce of the sacred orator. 
 
 I have thus, as briefly as possible, exhibited the princi- 
 pal featm-es of what is conceived to be a true method 
 in rhetorical instruction and discipline ; not because 
 they are new, or different from the views of the best 
 Rhetoricians of all ages, but merely to indicate the gen- 
 eral spirit in which I would hope, by the blessing of 
 God, to conduct the department of instruction commit- 
 ted to my care by the guardians of this Seminary. The 
 department of Sacred Rhetoric and Pastoral Theology is 
 one that, from the nature of the case, is not called upon 
 to impart veiy much positive information. Its function 
 is rather to induce an intellectual method, to form a 
 mental habit, to communicate a general spirit to the fu- 
 ture clergyman. It is, therefore, a department of grow- 
 ing importance in this country, and in the present state 
 of society and the Church. Perhaps the general tone 
 and temper of the clerical profession was never a matter
 
 IMPOETANCE OF A NATURAL KHETOKIC. 147 
 
 of more importance than now. The world, and thia 
 country especially, is guided more and more by the gen* 
 eral tendencies of particular classes and professions. In 
 politics, a party or class, that really has a tendency, and 
 maintains it persistently for a length of time, is sure in 
 the end to draw large masses after it. In reforms, a 
 class that is pervaded by a distinctive spirit, which it 
 sedulously preserves and maintains, is sure of a wide in- 
 fluence, finally. In literature, or philosophy, or theology, a 
 school that has a marked and determined character of its 
 own, and keeps faith with it, will in the course of time 
 be rewarded for its self-consistency by an increase in 
 numbers and in power. In all these cases, and in all 
 other cases, the steady, continuous stream of a general 
 tendency sucks into its own volume all the float and 
 drift, and carries it along with it. And the eye of the 
 reflecting observer, a>» it ranges over the ocean of Amer- 
 ican society, can see these currents and tendencies, as 
 plainly as the eye of the mariner sees the Gulf-stream. 
 
 How important, then, is any position which makes the 
 occupant to contribute to the formation of a general 
 spirit and temper, in so influential a class of men as the 
 clerical! WeU may such an one say, Who is suflicient 
 for this thing? For myself, I should shrink altogether 
 from this toil, and this responsibility, did I not dare to 
 hope that the providence of that Being, wlio is the 
 sovereign controller of all tendencies and all movements 
 in the universe, has led me hither. In his strength would 
 I labor, and to Ilim would I reverently commend myself 
 and this institution.
 
 THE RELATION OF LANGUAGE, AND STYLE, 
 TO THOUGHT.* 
 
 " It is a trath," (says Hartung in beginning his subtle 
 and profound work on the Greek Particles,) " as simple 
 as it is fruitful, tiiat language is no arbitrary, artificial, 
 and gradual invention of the reflective understanding, 
 but a necessary and organic product of human nature, ap- 
 pearing contemporaneously with the activity of thought,. 
 Speech is the correlate of thought ; both require and condi- 
 tion each other like body and soul, and are developed at 
 the same time and in the same degree, both in the case of 
 the individual and the nation. Words are the coinage of 
 conceptions freeing themselves from the dark chaos of 
 intimations and feelings, and gaining shape and clear- 
 ness. In so far as a man uses and is master of language, 
 has he also attained clearness of thought; the developed 
 and spoken language of a people is its expressed intelli- 
 gence."! Consonant with this, William Humboldt re- 
 marks that "speech must be regarded as naturally iniie- 
 rent in man, for it is altogether inexplicable as a work 
 of his inventive understiuiding. We are none the bet- 
 ter for allowing thousands of years for its invention. 
 
 * Reprinted from the IJihliotlieoii Sacra; Nov. 1848, and .Tiily isr»|. 
 t rartikulii J.eluo, IJd. I. (j^ 1, 2.
 
 150 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 Tluuv could be no invention of language unless its type 
 already existed in the human mind. Man is man only 
 by means of speech ; but in order to invent speech he 
 nmst be already man." 
 
 In these extracts it is asserted that language is an or- 
 ganic })roduct of which thought is the organizing and 
 vitalizing principle. Writers upon language have gene- 
 rally acknowledged a connection of some sort between 
 thought and language, but they have not been unanimous 
 with respect to the nature of the coimection. The com- 
 mon assertions that language is the "dress" of thought — 
 is the "vehicle" of thought — point to an outward and 
 mechanical connection between the two : while the fine 
 remark of "Wordsworth that " language is not so much 
 the dress of thought as its incarnation," and the frequent 
 comparison of the relation which they bear to each other, 
 with that w^hich exists between the body and the soul, 
 indicate that a vital connection is believed to exist be- 
 tw^een language and thought. 
 
 The correctness of this latter doctrine becomes appa- 
 rent when it is considered that everything growing out 
 of human nature, in the process of its development and 
 meeting its felt wants, is of necessity living in its 
 essence, and cannot be regarded as a dead mechanical 
 contrivance. That language has such a natm*al and 
 sjiontaneous origin is evident from the fact, that history 
 gives no account of any language which was the direct 
 invention of any one man, or set of men, to supply the 
 wants of a nation utterly destitute of the ability to eX' 
 press its thought. Individuals have bestowed an alpha- 
 bet, a written code of laws, useful mechanical inventions, 
 upon their countrymen, but no individual ever bestowed 
 a language. This has its origin in human nature, oi 
 rather in that constitutional necessity, under which hu
 
 KbLATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 151 
 
 man nature in common with all creation is placed by 
 Him who sees the end from the beginning, which com 
 pels the invisible to become visible, the formless to take 
 form, the intelligible to corporealize itself. That thought 
 is invisible and spiritual in essence, is granted by aU sys- 
 tems of philosophy except the coarsest and most unphi- 
 losophic materialism. It is therefore subject to the uni- 
 versal law, and must become sensuous — must be com,' 
 mimicated. 
 
 In the case of the primitive language, spoken by the 
 first human pair*, we must conceive of it as a g-ift ffom the 
 Creator, perfectly correspondent, like aU their other en- 
 dowments, to the wants of a living soul. As in this first 
 instance the bodily form reached its height of being and 
 of beauty, not through the ordinary processes of genera- 
 tion, birth, and growth, but as an instantaneous creation ; 
 so too the form of thought, language, passed through no 
 stages of development (as some teacli) from the inarticu- 
 late cry of the brute, to the articulate and intelligent 
 tones of cultivated man, but came into full and finished 
 existence simultaneously with the fiat that called the 
 full-formed soul and body into being. It would not 
 have been a perfect creation, had the first man stood 
 inute in mature manhood, and that too in his unfallen 
 state and amidst the beauty and glory of Eden. As the pos- 
 terity of the first man come into existence by a process, 
 and as both soul and body in their case undergo develop- 
 ment before reaching the points of bloom and maturity, 
 language also in llieir case is a slow and gradual forma- 
 tion. It begins with the dawn of reflective conscious- 
 ness, and unfolds itself as this becomes deeper and clear- 
 er. In the infancy of a nation it is exciuisitely fitted for 
 the lyrical expression of those thonghts and feelings 
 which rise simple and sincere in the jialioiml mind and
 
 152 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 heart, before philosopliical reflection has rendered them 
 complex, or advancing civilization has dried np their 
 fret^iniess. As the period of fancy and feeling passes 
 by and that of reason and reflection comes in, language 
 becomes more rigid and precise in its structure, conforms 
 itself to the expression of profound thought, and history 
 and i)hilosoj)hy take the place of the ballad and the 
 chronicle. 
 
 Now the point to be observed here is, that this whole 
 process is spontaneous and natural; is a gi-owth and 
 not a manufacture. Thought embodies itself, even as 
 the merely animal life becomes sensuous and sensible) 
 through its own tendency and activity. When investi- 
 gating language, therefore, we are really within the 
 spliere of life and living organization, and to attempt its 
 comprehension by means of mechanical principles would 
 be as absurd as to attempt to apprehend the phenomena 
 of the animal kingdom by the principles that regulate, 
 the ijUvestigation of inorganic nature. It is only by the 
 application of dynamical principles, of the doctrine of 
 life, that we can get a true view of language or be en- 
 abled to use it with power. 
 
 It is assumed then that thought is the life of language ; 
 and this too in no figurative sense of the word, but in its 
 strict scientific signification as denoting the principle 
 that organizes and vivifies the form in which it makes 
 its appearance. It is assumed that thought is as really 
 the living principle of language as the soul is the life of 
 the body, and the assumption verifies itself by the clear- 
 ness which it introduces into the investigation of the sub- 
 ject, and by the light which it flares into its darker and 
 more mysterious parts. That fusion, for instance, of the 
 thoughts with the words, which renders the discourse of 
 the poet glowing and tremulous with feeling and life
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 153 
 
 can be explained upon no other supposition than that 
 the immaterial entity born of beauty in the poet's mind 
 actually materializes itself, and thus enlivens the other- 
 wise lifeless syllables. Nothing but a vital connection 
 with the thoughts that breathe, can account for the 
 words that burn. 
 
 "We are not therefore to look upon language as having 
 intrinsic existence, separate from the thought which it 
 conveys, but as being external thought, expressed thought. 
 Words were not first invented, and then assigned to 
 conceptions as their arbitrary, and intrinsically meau' 
 ingless signs ; mere indices, having no more inward con 
 nection with the things indicated, than the algebraiw 
 marks, -|- and — , have with the notions of increase and 
 diminution. In the order of nature, language follows 
 rather than precedes thought, and is subject to all itd 
 modifications from its first rise in the consciousness of 
 the individual and the nation, up to that of the philoso- 
 pher and the philosophic age in a nation's history. Lan- 
 guage in essence is thought, is thought in an outward 
 form, and consequently cannot exist, or be the object of 
 reflection dissevered from the vital principle which sub- 
 stantiates it. The words of the most thoughtless man 
 do nevertheless contain some meaning, and words have 
 effect upon us only in proportion as they arc filled with 
 thought. 
 
 And this fulness must not be conceived of as flowing 
 into empty moulds already prepared. It is a statement 
 of one of the most jjrofound investigators of jjliysical life, 
 that th(! living power merely added to the dead organ is 
 not life;* i. e. that no iiifcnsity whatever of physieal life 
 
 * Cnrus' Physiologic, Bd. 1. Vorrcdc. He denies tlic rorrcctncss of tho 
 following formula iijion whi(!li, he nflirms, tlic mechanical school of pliysi- 
 ulogists iiiocecds : toiltes Uigan -j- Kraft — Lebeii.
 
 l.')! Ri:i,Aru)N OK langiagic to thoug.ut. 
 
 stiranu'J upon and Ihrough a dead hand lying upon a 
 dissecting table can produce life in the form of the liv- 
 ing member. The living member cannot come into ex- 
 istence except as growing out of a living body, and the 
 living body cannot come into existence unless life, the 
 innnalerial and invisible, harden into the materiality and 
 burst into the visibility of a minute seminal point which 
 teems and swells with the whole future organism ; a 
 point or dot of life from which as a centre, the radiation, 
 tht; organization, and the circulation may commence. 
 In like manner it is impossible, if it were conceivable, 
 to produce human language by the superinduction of 
 thought upon, or by the assignation of meaning to, a 
 mass of unmeaning sounds already in existence. When 
 a conception comes into the consciousness of one mind, 
 and seeks expression that it may enter the consciousness 
 of another mind, it must be conceived of as uttering it- 
 self in a word which is not taken at hap-hazard, and 
 which might have been any other arbitrary sound, but 
 which is prompted and formed by the creative thought 
 striiggling out of the world of mind, and making use of 
 the vocal organs in order to enter the world of sense. 
 
 We cannot, it is true, verify all this by reference to all 
 the words we are in the habit of using every day, be- 
 cause we are too far off from the period of their origin, 
 and l)ecause they are oftentimes combinations of simple 
 sounds that were originally formed by vocal organs dif- 
 fering from our own by marked peculiarities, yet the 
 sinijjlicity and naturalness of the Greek of Homer, or 
 the English of Chaucer, which is no other than the affi- 
 nity of the language with the thought, the sympathy of 
 the sound with the sense, cause us to feel what in the 
 present state of philology most certainly cannot be proved 
 iij the case of every single word, that primarily, in the
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO TllOL'GIIT. 155 
 
 root and heart, language is self-embodied thought. Yet 
 though it is impossible at present in the case of every 
 single word to verify the assumption upon which we 
 have gone, it is not diliicult to do this in the case of that 
 portion of the language in which there is emphasis and 
 intensity of meaning. The verb, by which action and 
 sufl'ering (which in the animal world is but a calmer and 
 more intense activity) are expressed, is a word often and 
 evidently suited to the thought. Those nouns which are 
 names not of things but of acts and energies, are like- 
 wise exceedingly significant of the things signified. The 
 motions of the mouth, the position of the organs, and 
 the tension of the muscles of speech, in the utterance of 
 such words as shock, smite, writhe, slake, quench, are 
 produced by the force and energy and character of the 
 conceptions which these words communicate, just as the 
 prolonged relaxation of the organs and muscles in the 
 pronunciation of soothe, Ireathe, dream, calm, and the 
 like, results naturally from the nature of the thought of 
 which they are the vocal embodiment. 
 
 And this leads us to notice that tliis view of the origin 
 and nature of language acquires additional support from 
 considering that the vocal sound is the product of physi- 
 cal organs which are started into action and directed in 
 llicir motion by the soul itself.* Even the tones of the 
 animal are suited to the inward feeling by the particular 
 play of muscles and organs of utterance. The feeling 
 of pleasure could not, so long as nature is herself, twist 
 these muscles and organs into the emission of tiic sharp 
 scream of physical agony, any more than it could light 
 up the eye with the ghire and Ihish of rage. 
 
 Now il' this is 1iuc in tiie low sphere of animal cxist- 
 
 * Sec on tliis point WiiUia's English Granimtir, and Ilcurnc's Langtofu 
 Clironiclc, Vol. I. rrcfuce.
 
 15G RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 encc, it is still more true in the sphere of intellectual and 
 moral existcnee. If life is true to itself in the lower, it 
 is true to itself in the higher realm of its manifestation. 
 When full of earnest thought and feeling the mind uses 
 the body at will, and the latter natm-ally and spontane- 
 ously subserves the former. As thought becomes more 
 and more earnest, and feeling more and more glowing, 
 the body bends and yields with increasing pliancy, down 
 to its minutest fibres and most delicate tissues, to the 
 working of the engaged mind ; the organs of speech be- 
 come one with the soul, and are swayed and wielded by 
 it. The word is, as it were, ptit into the mouth, by the 
 vehement and excited spirit. 
 
 When the mind is quickened, out of doubt, 
 The organs, though defunct and dead before, 
 Break up their drowsy grave and newly move 
 AVith casted slough and fresh legerity.* 
 
 As well might it be said that there is no vital and na- 
 tural connection between the feeling and the blush in 
 which it mantles, or the tear in which it finds vent, as 
 that the word — the '■'■ ivinged word'''' — has only an arbi- 
 trary and dead relation to the thought. 
 
 Again, it is generally conceded that there is an inher- 
 ent fitness of gesture, attitude and look, to the thought 
 or feeling conveyed by them ; but do attitude, gesture, 
 and look, sustain a more intimate relation to thought 
 and feehng than language does ; language, at once the 
 most universal as well as most particular in its applica- 
 tion, the most exhaustive and perfect, of all the media 
 of communication between mind and mind, between 
 heart and heart ? The truth is, that all the media 
 through which thought becomes sensuous and communi- 
 
 * Henry IV. Act IV. So. L
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 157 
 
 cable are in greater or less degree, yet in same degree, 
 nomog-eneous and con^natural with tliought itself. In other 
 words they all, in a greater or less degree, possess mani- 
 fest propriety. 
 
 It is to be borne in mind here, that the question is not 
 whether thought could not have embodied itself in other 
 forms than it has, whether other languages could not 
 have arisen, but whether the existing forms possess ad- 
 aptedness to the thought they convey. Life is not com- 
 pelled to manifest itself in one only form, or in one par- 
 ticular set of forms, in any of the kingdoms, but it is 
 compelled to make the form in which it does appear, 
 vital like itself. The forms, for aught that we know, 
 may be inlinite in number, in which the invisible prhici- 
 ple may become sensible, but the corpse is no one of 
 them. 
 
 Thought as the substance of discourse is logical, ne- 
 cessary, and immutable, in its nature, while language as 
 the form is variable. The language of a people is conti- 
 nually undergoing a change, so that those who speak it 
 in its later periods, (it very often happens,) would be 
 unintelligible to those who spoke it in its earlier ages. 
 Chaucer cannot be read by Englishmen of the present 
 day without a glossary.* Again, the languages of dif- 
 ferent nations differ from each other. There is great 
 variety in the changes of the verb to express the passive 
 form. The subject is sometimes inchidcd in the verb, 
 sonnilimes is prclixed, and sometimes is suilixed to it. 
 The Malay language assumes the pinral instead of the 
 
 * Yet even in tliis case, as Wordsworth truly remarks, " the affertinij 
 parts arc almost always expressed in lanf^tuif^e pure, and universally iiitel- 
 lif,'il)Ie even to this diiy." — Pr<fai-v lo fjijiirdl /iullails. The more inlrimt 
 and vil'il the thoiitrht, the nearer tlie form apj)roaehes the essence, the mora 
 universal docs it become.
 
 158 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 pinj^nlar as the basis of number, all nouns primarily de- 
 notiniif the jiiurai. Some use the dual and some do not; 
 some give gender and number to adjectives, and others 
 do not ; some have the article and some have not. And 
 yet all these dilTerent languages are equally embodiments 
 of thought, and of the same thought substantially. For 
 the Imman mind is everywhere, and at all times, subject 
 to the invariable laws of its own constitution, and that 
 logical, immutable, truth which stands over against it as 
 its correlative object, is developed in much the same way 
 among all nations in whom the intellect obtains a devel- 
 opment. The vital principle — logical, immutable, truth 
 in the form of human thought — is here seen embodying 
 itself in manifold forms, with freedom and originality, 
 and with an expressive suitableness in every instance. 
 
 That a foreign language does not seem expressive to 
 the stranger is no argument against the fundamental hy- 
 pothesis. It is expressive to the native-born, and be- 
 come so to the stranger in proportion as he acquires (not 
 a mere mechanical and book knowledge, but) a vital 
 and vernacular knowledge of it. And this expressive- 
 ness is not the result of custom. Apart from the in- 
 stinctive association of a certain w^ord with a certain 
 conception, there is an instinctive sense of its intrinsic 
 fitness to communicate the thought intended — of its ex- 
 pressiveness. For why should some words be more ex- 
 pressive than others, if they all equally depend upon the 
 law of association for their significance ? And why is a 
 certain portion of every language more positive, empha- 
 tic, and intense, than the remaining portions ? There is 
 in every language a class of words which are its life and 
 life-blood, a class to which the mind, in its fervor and 
 glow, instinctively betakes itself in order to free itself of 
 its thoughts in the most cflectivc and satisfactory man-
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 159 
 
 ner. But this is irreconcilable with the hypothesis that 
 all words are but lifeless signs, acquiiing their significa- 
 tion and apparent suitableness from use and custom, and 
 all consequently being upon the same dead level with 
 respect to expressiveness. 
 
 Still another proof that the connection between lan- 
 guage and thought is organic, is found in the fact that 
 the relation between the two is evidently that of action 
 and reaction. 
 
 We have seen that language is the produce of thought 
 but this is not to be understood as though language were 
 a mere effect, of which thought is the mere cause. The 
 mere effect cannot react upon the pure cause. It is 
 thrown oft' and away from its cause (as the cannon ball 
 is from tlie cannon), so that it stands insulated and in- 
 dependent with respect to its origin. 
 
 This is not the case with language. Originated by 
 thought, and undergoing modifications as thought is de- 
 veloped, it, in tiu-n, exerts a reflex influence upon its ori- 
 ginating cause. In proportion as language is an exact 
 and sincere expression, does thought itself become exact 
 and sincere. The more appropriate and expressive the 
 language, the more correct will be the thought, and the 
 more expressive and powerful will be the direction which 
 thought takes. 
 
 But if language were a mechanical invention, no such 
 reaction as this could take place uj)()m ihr inventor. 
 AVhiic connected with thought only by an arbitrary com- 
 pact on tin- part of those who made use of it, it would 
 be sf'jmratrd from thought by origin and by nature. Not 
 bring a living and organic, product, it could sustain to 
 thought only the external and lifeless relation of cause 
 and ellecl, and consc(|uently would remain one and the
 
 lUO RELATION OF LANGUAGF. TO THOUGHT. 
 
 same amid all the life, motion, and modification, which 
 llu> immaterial i)rinciple might undergo. 
 
 Of eonrse if such were the relation between the two, 
 it would be impossible to account for all that uncon- 
 scious but real change ever going on in a sjioken lan- 
 guage, which we call g-roivl/i and progress. Language 
 upon such an hypothesis would remain stationary in 
 substance, and at best could be altered only by aggrega- 
 tion from without. New words might be invented and 
 added to the number already in existence, but no change 
 could occur in the spirit of the language, if it may be 
 allowed to speak of sjnrit in such a connection. 
 
 Furthermore, if there is no vital relation between lan- 
 guage and thought, it would be absurd to speak of the 
 beneficial influence upon mental development (which is 
 but the development of thought) of the study of philo- 
 logy. If in strict literality the relation of language to 
 thought is that of the invention to the mind of the in- 
 ventor, then the study of this outward, and in itself life- 
 less instrument, would be of no worth in developing an 
 essence so intensely vital, so full of motion, and with 
 such an irrepressible tendency to development, as the 
 :iuman mind. 
 
 It is however a truth and a fact that the study of a 
 well organized language is one of the very best means 
 of mental education. It brings the mind of the student 
 into communication with the whole mind of a nation, 
 and infuses into his culture its good and bad elements 
 — tlie whole genius and spirit of the people of whose 
 mind it is the evolution. In no way can the mind of 
 the individual be made to feel the power and influence 
 of the mind of the race, and thereby receive the greatest 
 possible enlargement and liberalizing, so well as by the
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. IGl 
 
 philosophic study of language A rational method of 
 education makes use of this study as an indispensable 
 discipline, and selects for this purpose two languages 
 distinguished for the intimate relation which they svis- 
 tain to the particular forms of thought they respectively 
 express. For the Greek language is so fused and one 
 with Grecian thought, that it is living to this day, and 
 has been the soiuce of life to literature ever since its 
 revival in the fifteenth century ; and the rigid but majes- 
 tic Latin is the exact embodiment of the organizing and 
 imperial ideas of Rome. 
 
 These languages exhibit the changes of thought in thes 
 Greek and Roman mind. They take their form and 
 derive their spirit from the peculiarities of these nations. 
 Hence the strong and original influence which they ex- 
 ert upon the modern mind. If these languages really 
 contained no tincture of the intellect that made them 
 and made use of them, if they communicated none of 
 the spirit of antiquity, tiiey would indeed be " dead " lan- 
 guages for all ])m-poses of mental enlivening and devel- 
 opment. 
 
 But it is not so. The Greek and Roman mind with 
 all that passed through it, whether it were tliought or 
 feeling, whether it were individual or national, instead 
 of remaining in the sphere of consciousness merely, and 
 thus being kept from the ken of all after ages, projected 
 itself, as it were, into these fine languages, into these 
 noble forms, and not only became a Kri'jfj.a e? del for man- 
 kind, but also a possession with whose characteristics 
 the pf)ssess()r is in symj^alhy, and from which he derives 
 intellectual nourishment and strength. 
 
 A further jjroof that language has a living connection 
 with thought, is found in the fact that feeling and passion 
 suggest language.
 
 1G2 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 Feeling and passion are the most vital of all the acti 
 vities of the human soul, flowing as they do from the 
 heart, and that which is prompted by them may safely 
 be aifirmed to have life. That words the most expres- 
 sive and powerful fly from the lips of the impassioned 
 thinker is notorious. The man who is naturally of few 
 words, becomes both fluent and appropriate in the use 
 of language, when his mind glows with his subject and 
 feeling is awakened. 
 
 "But the use of language is the same in kind and cha- 
 racter with its origin. The processes through which 
 language passes from the beginning to the end of its 
 existence are all of the same nature. As in the wide 
 sphere of the universe, preservation is a constant crea- 
 tion, and the things that are, are sustained and perpe- 
 tuated on principles in accordance with the character 
 impressed upon them by the creative fiat, so in all the 
 narrower spheres of the finite, the use and development 
 are coincident and harmonious with the origin and na- 
 ture. We may therefore argue back from the use and 
 development to the origin and nature ; and when we find 
 that in all ])eriods of its history human language is sug- 
 gested, and that too in its most expressive form, by feel- 
 ing and passion, we may infer that these had to do in 
 its origin, and have left something of themselves in its 
 nature. For how could there be a point and surface of 
 communication between ^vords and feeling, so that the 
 latter should start out the former in all the freshness of a 
 new creation, if there were no interior connection be- 
 tween them. For language as it falls from the lips of 
 passion is tremulous with life — with the life of the soul 
 — and imparts the life of the soul to all who hear it. 
 
 If, then, in the actual every-day use of language, we 
 find it to be suggested by passion, aad to be undergoing
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 163 
 
 changes both in form and signification, without the 
 intervention of a formal compact on the part of men, it is 
 just to infer that no such compact called it into existence. 
 If, upon watching the progress and growth of a language, 
 we find it in continual flux and reflux, and detect every- 
 where in it, change and motion, without any consciously 
 directed effort to this end on the part of those who speak 
 it, it is safe to infer that the same unconscious spontane- 
 ousness characterized it in its beginning. Moreover, if 
 in every-day life we unconsciously, yet really, use 
 language not as a lifeless sign of our thought, but believe 
 that in employing it we are really expressing our mind, 
 and furthermore, if we never in any way agreed to use 
 the tongue which we drank in with our mother's milk, 
 but were born into it and grew up into its use, even as 
 we were born into and grew up under the intellectual and 
 moral constitution imposed upon human nature by its 
 Creator, we may safely conclude that language, too, is a 
 provision on the part of the author of our being, and 
 consequently is organic and alive. 
 
 Indeed, necessity of speech, like necessity of religion 
 and government and social existence, is laid upon man 
 by his constitution, and as in these latter instances what- 
 ever secondary arrangements may be made by circum- 
 stances, the primary basis and central form is fixed in 
 human nature, so in the case of language, wiiatever may 
 be the secondary modifications growing out of national 
 dillerences and pecuharitics of vocal organs, tiie deep 
 ground and source of language is the human constitution 
 itself. 
 
 Frederick Schlegel, after (pioling ychiller's lines: 
 
 Thy knowlcdpe, thou sharest with superior spirits; 
 Art, oh mun ! thou hast ulouc,
 
 IGl RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 calls lanrjnagc " Ihe general, all-embracing art of man." 
 This is truth. For language is embodiment — the em- 
 bodiment not indeed of one particular idea in a material 
 form, but of thought at large, in an immaterial yet sensi- 
 ble form. And the fact that the material iised is sound 
 — the most ethereal of media — imparts to this "all 
 embracing art" a spirituality of character that raises it 
 above many of the fine arts, strictly so called. It is an 
 embodiment of the spiritual, yet not in the coarse ele- 
 ments of matter. When the spiritual passes from the 
 intelligible to the sensible world by means of art, there is 
 a coming down from the pure ether and element of 
 incorporeal beauty into the lower sphere of the defined 
 and sensuous. The pure abstract idea necessarily loses 
 something of its purity and abstractedness by becoming 
 embodied. By coming into appearance for the sense it 
 ceases to be in its ineftable, original, highest state for the 
 reason — for the pure intelligence. Art, therefore, is 
 degradation — a stooping to the Hmitations and imper- 
 fections of the material world of sense, and the feeling 
 awakened by the form, however full it may be of the idea, 
 is not equal in purity, depth, and elevation, to the direct 
 beholding of the idea itself in spirit and in truth.* 
 
 We may, therefore, add to the assertion of Schlegel, 
 and say, that language is also the highest art of man. — 
 With the exceptions of poetry and oratory, all the fine 
 arts are hampered in the full, free, expression of the idea 
 by the uncomplying material. Poetry and oratory, in 
 
 * It is interesting in this connection to notice that the Puritan, though 
 f;enerally charged witli a barbarian ignorance of the worth of art, neverthe- 
 less in practice took the only strictly philosophic view of it. That stripping 
 flaying hatred of form, per sc, which he manifested, grew out of a (practi- 
 cally) intensely philosophic mind which clearly saw the true relation of the 
 form to the idea — of the sensible to the spiritual.
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 165 
 
 common with language, by employing the most ethereal 
 of media, approach as near as is possible for embodiments 
 to the natui-e of that which they embody; but the latter 
 is infinitely superior to the two former, by virtue of its 
 infinitely greater range, and power of exhaustive expres- 
 sion. Poetry and eloquence are confined to the particu- 
 lar and individual, while language seeks to embody 
 thought in all its relations and transitions, and feeling in 
 all its manifoldness and depth. The sphere in which it 
 moves, and of which it seeks to give an outward manifes- 
 tation is the whole human consciousness, from its rise in 
 the individual, on through all its modifications in the 
 race. It seeks to give expression to an inward experi- 
 ence, that is " co-infinite with human life itself." 
 
 Viewed in this aspect, human language ceases to be 
 the insignificant and uninteresting phenomenon it is so 
 often represented to be, and appears in all its real mean- 
 ing and mystery. It is an organization, as wonderful as 
 any in the realm of creation, built up by a necessary ten- 
 dency of human nature seeking to provide for its wants, 
 and constructed too, upon the principles of that universal 
 nature, which Sir Thomas Brown truly affirms to be 
 " the art of God." * Contemplate, for a moment, the 
 Greek language as the product of this tendency, and 
 necessity, to express his thought imposed upon man by 
 creation. This wonderful structure could not have been 
 put together by the cunning contrivance, and adopted by 
 the formal consent, of the nation, and it certainly was not 
 preserved and improved in this manner. Its pliancy and 
 copiousness and precision and vitality and liarnKHiy, 
 
 ♦ Die philosophischc Bildiinfj dcr Spraclien, die vorzuglicli noch iiii dci: 
 nrspriinj^lichcn sichtbar wird, ist cin wiilirlmftcs durch den Mcchnnismiis 
 dcs mcnschliclicn Gcistcs gcwirktcs Wundcr. — Scliclling's voir Iili. u. s 
 w. ^ 3.
 
 166 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 \\iiercby it is capable of expressing all forms of thought, 
 from the simplicity of Herodotus to the depth of Plato, 
 are qualities which the unaided and mechanizing under- 
 standing of man could not have produced. They grew 
 spontaneously, and gradually, out of the fundamental 
 characteristics of the Grecian mind, and are the natural 
 and pure expression of Grecian thought. Contemplate, 
 again, our own mother tongue as the product of this 
 same foimdation for speech laid in human nature by its 
 constitution. Its native strength and energy and vivid- 
 ness, and its acquired copiousness and harmony, as 
 exhibited in the simple artlessness of Chaucer, and " the 
 stately and regal argument" of Milton, are what might 
 be expected to characterize the Latinized Saxon. 
 
 A creative power, deeper and more truly artistic than 
 the inventive understanding, produced these languages. 
 It was that plastic power, by which man creates form for 
 the formless, and which, whether it show itself univer- 
 sally in the production of a living language, or particu- 
 larly in the works of the poet or painter, is the crowning 
 power of humanity. In view of the wonderful harmo- 
 nies and symmetrical gradations of these languages, may 
 we not apply the language of Wordsworth : 
 
 Point not these mysteries to an art 
 
 Lodged above the starry pole, 
 
 Pure moduli tlions flowing from the heart 
 
 Of Divine love, where wisdom, beauty, truth, 
 
 With order dwell, in endless youth. * 
 
 We should not, however, have a complete view of the 
 relation of language to thought, if we failed to notice 
 that in its best estate it is an imperfect expression. — 
 Philosophy ever labors under the difficulty of finding 
 
 * Power of Sound.
 
 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 167 
 
 terms by which to communicate its subtle and profound 
 discoveries, and there are feelings that are absolutely 
 unutterable. Especially is this true of religious thought 
 and feeling. There is a limit within this profound 
 domain beyond which human speech cannot go, and the 
 hushed and breathless spirit must remain absorbed in the 
 awful intuition. Here, as throughovit the whole world 
 of life, the principle obtains but an imperfect embodiment. 
 There is ever something more perfect and more glorious 
 beyond what appears. The intelligible world cannot be 
 entirely exhausted, and therefore it is the never-failing 
 source of substantial principle and creative life. In the 
 case before us, truth is entirely exhausted by no language 
 whatever. There are depths not yet penetrated by con- 
 sciousness, and who will say that even the consciousness 
 of such a thinker as Plato can have had a complete 
 expression, even through such a wonderful medium as 
 the Greek tongue ? The human mind is connected with 
 the Divine mind, and thereby with the whole abyss of 
 truth ; and hence the impossibility of completely sounding 
 even the human mind, or of giving complete utterance to 
 it ; and hence the possibility and the basis of an unend- 
 ing development for the mind and an unending growth 
 for language. 
 
 We are aware that the charge of obscurity may be 
 brought against the theory here presented, by an advo- 
 cate of the other theory of the origin and nature of 
 language. Wc have no disposition to deny the truth of 
 the charge, only adding that the obscurity, so far as it 
 pertains to the; theory (in distinction from the pr(;senta- 
 tion of the tlieory, for wliicii tin; indivichial is resjmnsibh-,) 
 is such as grows out of the very nature and depth and 
 absohite truth of the tlief)ry itself. We have gone upon 
 the supposition that hunjan language, as a form, is
 
 108 RELATION OF LANGUAGE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 iu>iili('r hollow nor lilVlo.ss — thai it. has a living i)rincij)le, 
 and that ihis princ-ij)lc is thought. Now life is and must 
 be mysterious ; and at no point more so than when it 
 begins to organize itself into a body. Furthermore, the 
 sjHnitaneous, and to a great extent, unconscious processes 
 of life, are and must be mysterious. The method of 
 genius — one of the highest forms of life — in the pro- 
 duction of a Hamlet, or Paradise Lost, or the Trans- 
 figuration, has not yet been explained, and the method 
 of human nature, by which it constructs for itself its 
 wonderful medium of communication — by which it 
 externalizes the whole inner world of thought and feel- 
 ing — cannot be rendered plain like the working of a 
 well poised and smoothly running machine throwing off 
 its manufactures. 
 
 Simply asking then of him who would render all things 
 clear by rendering all things shallow, hij ivhorn, when, 
 where, and hoiv, the Greek language, for example, was 
 invented, and by what historical compact it came to be 
 the language of the nation, we would turn away to that 
 nobler, more exciting, and more rational theory, which 
 regards language to be " a necessary and organic product 
 of human nature, appearing contemporaneously and 
 parallel with the activity of thought." This theory of 
 the origin of language throws light ovei all departments 
 of the great subject of philology, finds its gradual and 
 unceasing verification as philological science advances 
 under a spur and impulse derived from this very theory, 
 and ends in that philosophical insight into language, 
 which, after all, is but the clear and full intuition of its 
 mystery — of its life. 
 
 Having thus specified the general relation of language 
 to thought, we naturally turn to the uses and applications 
 of the theory itself. Its truth, value, and fruitfulness, are
 
 REI-ATIOX OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 109 
 
 nowhere more apparent than in the department of Rhe- 
 toric and Criticism. For this department takes special 
 cognizance of the more Hving and animated forms of 
 speech — of the glow of the poet, and the fire of the 
 orator. It also investigates all those peculiarities of con- 
 struction, and form, in human composition that spring out 
 of individual characteristics. It is, therefore, natural to 
 suppose that a theory of language which recognizes a 
 power in human thought to organize and vivify and 
 modify the forms in which it appears, will afford the best 
 light in which to examine those forms ; just as it is 
 natural to supj)ose that the commonly received theory 
 of physical life, will furnish a better light in which to 
 examine vegetable and animal productions, than a theory 
 like tiiat of Descartes, e. g. which maintains that the 
 forms and functions in the animal kingdom are the 
 result of a mechanical principle. Life itself is the best 
 light in which to contemplate living things. 
 
 We propose therefore in the remainder of this essay to 
 follow the same general method already pursued, and 
 examine the nature of style, by pointing out its relation 
 to thought. 
 
 Style is the particular manner in which thought flows 
 out, in the case of the individual mind, and upon a par- 
 ticular subject. When, therefore, it has, as it always 
 j^honld have, a free and spontaneous origin, it partakes 
 of The peculiarity both of the individual and of the topic 
 upon which he thinks. A genuine style, therefore, is the 
 free and pure expression of the individuality of the 
 thinker and the speciality of the subject of lliought. — 
 Uniformity of style is conscfiuently found in tlic ])r()dnc- 
 lions of tlie same general cast of mind, a|)pli<(l to the 
 same general class of subjects, so that there is no dis- 
 ^.infjuisliahle period in the history of a nation's literature,
 
 170 
 
 nr.i.ATioN oi' sTvi,!-; ro thought. 
 
 but what exhibits a style of its own. The spirit of the 
 age appears in the general style of its literary composi- 
 tion, and the spirit of the individual — the tone of his 
 mind — nowhere comes out more clearly than in his 
 manner of handling a subject. The grave, lofty, and 
 calm, style of the Elizabethan age is an exact represcnta« 
 tion of the spirit of its thinking men. The intellectual 
 temperament of the age of Queen Anne flows out in the 
 clear, but dilTase and nerveless, style of the essayists. 
 
 From this it is easy to see that style, like language, 
 has a spontaneous and natural origin, and a living con- 
 nection with thought. It is not a manner of composing, 
 arbitrarily or even designedly chosen, but rises of its own 
 accord, and in its own way, in the general process of 
 mental development. The more unconscious its origin, 
 and the more strongly it partakes of the individuality of 
 the mind, the more genuine is style. Only let it be care- 
 fully observed in this connection, that a pure and sincere 
 expression of the individual peculiarity is intended. Af- 
 fectation of originality and studied effort after peculiarity 
 produce mannerism, in distinction from that manner of 
 pure nature, which alone merits the name of style. 
 
 If this be true, it is evident that the union of all styles, 
 or of a portion of them, would not constitute a perfect 
 style. On the contrary, the excellence of style consists 
 in its having a bold and determined character of its 
 own — in its bearing the genuine image and superscrip- 
 tion of an individual mind at work upon a particular 
 subject. In a union of many difl'erent styles, there would 
 be nothing simple, bold, and individual. The union 
 would be a mixture, rather than a union, in which each 
 ingredient would be neutralized by all, and all by each, 
 leaving a residuum characterless, spiritless, and lifeless. 
 
 Style, in proportion as it is genuine and excellent, is
 
 RELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 171 
 
 eincere and artless. It is the free and unconscious ema- 
 nation of the individual nature. It alters as the individ- 
 ual alters. In early life it is ardent and adorned; in 
 mature life it is calm and grave. In youth it is fhicihed 
 with fancy and feeling ; in manhood it is sobered by rea- 
 son and reflection. But in both periods it is the genu- 
 ine expression of the man. The gay manner of L' Alle- 
 gro and Comus is as truly natural and spontaneous, as 
 the grave and stately style of Paradise Regained and 
 Samson Agonistes. The individuality of a man like Mil- 
 ton passes through great varieties of culture and of mood, 
 and there is seen a corresponding variety in tlie ways in 
 which it communicates itself; yet through this variety 
 there runs the unity of nature ; each sort of style is the 
 sincere and pure manner of the same individual taken in 
 a particular stage of his development. 
 
 No one style, therefore, can be said to be the best of 
 all absolutely, but only relatively. That is the best style 
 relatively to the individual, in which his particular cast 
 of thought best utters itself, and in which the peculiarity 
 of the individual has the fullest and freest play. That 
 may be called a good style generally, in which every 
 word tells — in which the language is full of Ihought, 
 and alive with thought, and so fresh and vigorous as to 
 seem to have been just created — while at tiie same time 
 the characteristics of the mind that is pouring out in this 
 particular maimer, are all in every part, as the construct- 
 ing and vivifying princij^le. 
 
 The trtith of this view of style is both confinucd and 
 illustiated by coiisidcring the unify iu variiUy exhibiicd 
 by the; liuui;iii mind itself. The uiiiid of nniii is one ;uid 
 the same in its conslilution and necessary laws, so that 
 the human race may hv. said to be possessed of one uni- 
 /ersal intelligence. In the language of one of llie most
 
 172 RELATION OF STYI.K TO THOUGHT. 
 
 elegant and philosophic of English critics,* " It is no un- 
 pleasing speculation to see how the same reason^ has at 
 all times prevailed: how there is one tnilh, liice one sun, 
 that has enlightened human intelligence through every 
 age, and saved it from the darkness of sophistry and 
 error." Upon this sameness of intelligence rest all abso- 
 lute statements, and all universal appeals. Over against 
 this universal human mind, as its corresponding object 
 and counterpart, stands truth, universal in its nature and 
 one and the same in its essence. 
 
 l>at besides this unity of the universal, there is the 
 variety of the individual, mind. Truth, consequently, 
 coming into consciousness in the form of thought in an 
 individual mind, undergoes modifications. It is now 
 contemplated not as universal and abstract, but as con- 
 crete and in its practical relations. It is, moreovei , seen, 
 not as an unity, but in its parts, and one side at a time. 
 Philosoj)hical truth in Plato diflers from philosophical 
 truth in Aristotle, by a very marked modification. Poet- 
 ical truth is one thing in Homer and another in Virgil. 
 Religious truth assumes a strikingly difterent form in 
 Paul and Luther, from that which it wears in John and 
 Melanchthon. And yet poetry, piiilosophy, and religion, 
 have each their universal principles — their one abstract 
 nature. Each, however, appears in the form imposed 
 upon it by the individual mind ; each wears that tinge 
 of the mind through which it has passed, which is de- 
 nominated style. 
 
 No man has yet appeared whose individuahty was so 
 comprehensive and universal, and who was such a mas- 
 ter of form, that he exhausted the whole material of 
 poetry, or philosophy, or religion, and exhibited it in a style 
 
 * Harris. Preface to Ilcrmcs.
 
 RELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 173 
 
 and form absolutely universal and final. Enough is ever 
 left of truth, even after the most comprehensive presenta- 
 tion, for another individuality to show it in still a new 
 and original form. For there is no limit to the manner 
 of contemplating infinite and universal truth. Provided 
 only there be a pecuharity — a particular type of the hu- 
 man mind — there will be a peculiarity of intuition, and 
 consequently of exhibition. 
 
 The most comprehensive and universal individual 
 mind was that of Shakspeare, and hence his productions 
 have less of style, of peculiar manner, than all other lite- 
 rary productions. Who can describe the style of Shak- 
 speare ? Who is aware of his style ? The style of Mil- 
 ton is apparent in every line, for he was one of the most 
 siii-E^eticric of men. But the form which truth takes in 
 Shakspeare, is as comprehensive and universal as the 
 drama, as all mankind. This is owing to that Protean 
 power by which, for the purposes of dramatic art, he con- 
 verts himself into other men, takes their consciousness, 
 and thereby temporarily loses his own limited individual- 
 ity. But that Shakspeare was an individual, that a pecu- 
 liar type of humanity formed the basis of his personal 
 being, suid that he had a style of thought of his own, it 
 would be absurd to doubt. And had he attempted other 
 species of composition than the drama, (which by its 
 very nature requires that the individuality of the author 
 be sunk and lost entirely in the various characters,) had 
 betaken, like Milton, a particular theme as the " great 
 argunu'iit" for his poetic power, doubtless the man, tlic 
 indivuliia/, would have come into sight.* 
 
 ♦ In rf)rrol)i)riitiori of flii><, it may 1)C rctiinrkcd that wc liavo fnr Tiioro 
 gptisf of the imiiridiiiilili/ of .Sliukspcnrc, while i-crusing Ills puciits unj 
 BoniictH, than while studying hu drunias.
 
 174 
 
 RELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 Style of expression thus springing out of the style of 
 thought, is therefore immediately connected with the 
 structure and character of the individual mind. It con- 
 sequently has an unconscious origin. On the basis laid 
 in the individual's characteristics, and by and through the 
 individuars mental growth, his manner of expression is 
 formed. There is a certain style which fits the individ- 
 ual — which, and no other, is his style. It is that man- 
 ner of presenting thought, into which he naturally falls, 
 when his mind is deeply absorbed in a subject, and when 
 he gives no heed to the form into which his thought is 
 
 ruimmg. 
 
 It is not to be inferred from this, that style has no con- 
 nection with culture. It has a most immediate and vital 
 connection with the individual's education. Not only all 
 that he is by nature, but all that he becomes by culture, 
 tends to form his style of thought and expression ; but, 
 be it observed, unconsciously to him. For an incessant 
 aim, a conscious, anxious effort to form a given style, is 
 the destruction of style. Under such an inspection and 
 oversight. Nature cannot work, even if the mind under 
 such circumstances, could absorb itself in the theme of 
 reflection. There must be no consciousness during the 
 time and process of composing, but of the subject. The 
 subject being all in all, for the thinker, the form into 
 which his thought runs, with all the modification and 
 coloring which it really, though unconsciously to him, 
 receives from his individualism, and from the whole past 
 of his education, is his style — his genuine and true man- 
 ner. 
 
 The point to be observed here is, that style is the con- 
 sequent^ so far as it is related to culture. For, the culture 
 itself takes its direction and character from the origina' 
 tendeney of the individual, (for every one in the end ob-
 
 RELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 175 
 
 fains a mental development coincident with his mental 
 bias,) and style is but the unconscious manifestation of 
 this cultm-e. Style — genuine style — can never be the 
 conscious antecedent of culture. It cannot be first 
 selected, and then the whole individuality of the mind, 
 and the whole course of education, be forced to contri- 
 bute to its realization. One cannot antecedently choose 
 the style of Burke, e. g. as that which he would have for 
 his own, and then deliberately realize his choice. It is 
 true that a mind similar to that of Burke in its structm*e, 
 and in sympathy with him through a similarly fruitful 
 and opulent culture, would spontaneously form its style 
 upon, and with, his. But the process, in this case, would 
 not be a deliberate and conscious imitation, but an un- 
 conscious and genial reproduction. It would be the con- 
 se(}uent of nature and of culture, and not the antecedent. 
 The individual would not distinctly know that his was 
 the style of Burke, until it became apparent to others 
 that it actually was. 
 
 Here, too, as in every sphere in which the living soul 
 of man works, do we find the genuine and beautiful pro- 
 duct originating freely, spontaneously, and unconscious- 
 ly. Freely, for it might have been a false and deformed 
 product, yet spontaneously and unconsciously, for it can- 
 not be the subject of rellection and matter of distinct 
 knowledge until after it has come into existence. By 
 the thronging stress and tendency of the human soul, 
 which is so created as to contain vvithin itself the princi- 
 ple and direction of its own movement, is the product 
 originated, which tiien, and not till then, is the possible 
 and Ifgitirriatc subject of consciousness, analysis, and 
 critieisMi. Tiie style of a thinking mind is no exception 
 to this universal law. It is formed, when formed accord- 
 ing to nature — when lorined as it was destined to be.
 
 170 lUn.ATlON OF STYLK TO IJIOIIMIT. 
 
 by that creative idt>a which prescribes Ihe whole never- 
 ending development of the creatm-e — it i.s i'ormed out 
 of what is laid in the individual constitution, and through 
 what is brought in by the individual culture, uncon- 
 sciously to tiie subject of the process, and yet freely, so 
 far as iiis nature and constitution are concerned. 
 
 If the view that has been taken of style, be correct, it 
 is evident, that in the formation of style, no attempt 
 should be made to change the fundamental character 
 imposed upon it by the individual constitution. The 
 type is fLxed by nature, and no one should strive, by forc- 
 ing nature, to obtain a manner essentially alien and foreign 
 to him. The sort of style which belongs to the individual 
 by his intellectual constitution is to be taken as given. 
 The direction which all culture in this relation takes, 
 should proceed from this as a point of departure, and all 
 discipline and effort should end in an acquisition that is 
 homogeneous with this substantial ground of style. Or 
 still more accurately, the individuality itself is to be 
 deepened and made more capacious and distinct, by cul- 
 ture, and is then to be poured forth in that hearty uncori' 
 scions purity of manner which is its proper and genuine 
 style. 
 
 And this leads us to consider the true method of form- 
 ing and cultivating style. 
 
 K the general view that has been presented of the na- 
 ture both of language and style be correct, it is plain that 
 the mind itself, rather than the style itself, should receive 
 the formation and the cultivation. Both language and 
 style are but forms in which the human mind embodiea 
 its thought, and therefore the mind, considered as the 
 originating power — as that which is to find an utter- 
 ance and expression — should be the chief object of cul ' 
 ture, even in relation to style. A cultivated mind con
 
 RELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 177 
 
 tains within itself resources sufficient for all its purposes. 
 The direct cultivation of the mind, is the indirect culti- 
 vation of all that stands connected with it. 
 
 And this is eminently true of the formal, in distinction 
 from the material departments of knowledge — of those 
 " organic (or instrumental) arts," as Milton calls them, 
 " which enable men to discoiu'se and write perspicuously, 
 elegantly, and according to the fitted style of lofty, mean 
 or lowly." For inasmuch as these formal departments 
 of knowledge are not self-sufficient, but derive their sub- 
 stance from the material departments, it is plain that 
 they can be cultivated with power and success only 
 through the cultivation of these latter. Rhetoric, in Ol- 
 der to be anything more than an idle play with words 
 and figures of speech — in order to a substantial existence, 
 and an energetic power — must spring out of logic; and 
 logic again, in order to be something more than a dry 
 and useless permutation of the members of syllogisms, 
 must be grounded in the necessary laws of thought, and 
 so become bvit the inevitable and the living movement 
 of reason. Thus are we led in from the external to the 
 internal as the solid ground of action and origination, 
 and are made to see that the culture must begin here, in 
 every instance, and work out. xVll tliese arts and sci- 
 ences are the architecture of the rational and thinkin<r 
 mind of man, and all changes in them, either in the way 
 of growth or decline, proceed from a change that has 
 first taiven |)lae(' in their originating ground. They are 
 in reality the index of th(! hinnan mind, and show with 
 most delicate seiisil)ility all that is jjassing, in this ever- 
 moving principle. What are the langnages literatures, 
 laws, governments, and (with one exception) religions 
 ol the globe l)ut the history of tiie lniiiiiin mind — tho 
 outstanding nionmnent of what it has t/iuu^/Ul
 
 1 7S Rl<:i-.\TION OF STYLE TO TJIOUQIIT. 
 
 It may be said -with perfect truth, therefore, that the 
 formation and cultivation of the mind, is the true method 
 of formini; and cultivating style. And there are two 
 qualities in mental culture which exert such a direct and 
 powerful influence upon style as to merit in this connec- 
 tion a particular and close examiuation. They are depth 
 and clearness. 
 
 By depth of culture is meant that devcloptnent of the 
 mind from its centre, which enal)les it to exert its very 
 best power, and to accomplish the utmost of which it is 
 capable. The individual mind differs in respect to innate 
 capacity. Some men are created with a richer and more 
 powerful intellectual constitution than others. But all 
 are capable of a -jprofound culture ; of a development 
 that shall bring out the entire contents and capacity, be 
 they more or less. By going to the centre of the mind — 
 by setting into play those profoundcr faculties which 
 though differing in degree, are yet the same in kind, in 
 every man — a culture is attained that exerts a most 
 powerful and excellent influence upon style. Such men- 
 tal education gives body to style. It furnishes the mate- 
 rial which is to Jill the language and solidif;/ the dis- 
 course. The form in which a profoundly cultivated mind 
 expresses itself is never hollow ; the language which it 
 employs not being alone — mere words — is never dead. It 
 may, perhaps, be silent at times, for such a mind is not 
 necessarily fluent, but when it does speak, the product has 
 a marked character. The thought and its expression 
 form an identity ; are coined at one stroke. 
 
 For a deeply educated mind spontaneously seeks to 
 know truth in its reality, and to express it in its simpli- 
 cit}^ Unconsciously, because it is its nature to do so, it 
 penetrates to the heart of a subject, and discourses upon it 
 witli a simplicity and directness which precludes any
 
 EELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 170 
 
 separation between the thought and the words in which it 
 is conveyed. The mind whicli has but a superficial 
 knowledge of the subject-matter of its discourse cannot 
 i-ender the language it employs consiibstantial with its 
 thought. We feel that the words have been Tiunted ujy 
 by a vacant mind, instead of ])roiii])ted by a full one. 
 Thought and language stand apart, because thought has 
 not reached that degree of profundity, and that point of 
 clear intuition, and tliat height of energy, in conscious- 
 ness, at which it ntters itself in language that is truly one 
 with itself, and alive with itself. Wlienever a profoundly 
 cultivated mind directs itself to an object of contempla- 
 tion it becomes identical with it, while in the act of con- 
 templation. The distinction between the contemplating 
 subject, and the contemplated object, vanishes for the 
 time being ; the mind, as we say popularlj'^, and yet with 
 strict philosopiiic truth, is lost in the theme, and the 
 theme during this temjDorary process, becomes but a par- 
 ticular state of the mind. The object of contemplation, 
 which at first was hefore the mind is now in. the mind ; 
 that to which the mind came up as to a thing objective 
 and extant, has now been transmuted into the very con- 
 sciousness of the mind itself, and is therefore the mind 
 itself, take7i and held in this tein2)orary process.^' It fol- 
 
 * The doctrine of the identity of subject and object in the act of con- 
 Bciousncss \n a true and safe cue, it seeins to us. only when stated with 
 the limitation above ; only when the identity is regarded as merely 
 Tflatire — as existinp only in, and during the act of comciouxness. If, 
 however, the identity is rej^arded as ahsolnte and ettitentinl — if it be 
 asserted that, ai)art from coasoiousncss and back of consciousness, the 
 subject and object, the mind and the truth, are absolutely but one 
 essence — then we see no difference between the doctrine and that of 
 the '• substantia una et uniua " of Spinoza. The ifleiility in this case, 
 notwithstanding the disclaimer of Schelling, is sameness of substance, 
 and there is but one sulistance in the uuivorue. The truth is, that sub*
 
 ISO RELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 lows, consequently, that the style in wliicli, this fusion of 
 truth MMth intellect Iknvs out, must be as near the perfec- 
 tion of furni as it can be. The style of such a mind is 
 similar to the style of the Infinite mind, as it is seen iu 
 nature. It is characterized by the simplicity and freedom 
 of nature itself. Nor let this be re^^arded either as 
 irreverent or extravagant. We are confessedly within the 
 sphere of the finite and the created, and therefore are at 
 an infinite remove from Ilim "who is wonderful in work- 
 ing," and yet there is something strongly resembling the 
 workings of creative power, in the operations of a mind 
 deeply absorbed in truth and full of the idea. As the 
 Divine idea becomes a phenomenon — manifests itself in 
 external nature — by its own movement and guidance, it 
 necessarily assumes the very perfection of manner. — The 
 great attributes of nature, the suljlimity and beauty of 
 creation, ai-ise from the oneness of the form with the idea 
 — the transfusion of mind into matter. In like manner, 
 though in an infinitely lower sphere and degree, the 
 human idea, profound, full, and clear in consciousness, 
 throws itself out into language, in a style, free, simple, 
 beautiful, and, it may be, sublime like nature itself. And 
 all this arises because thought does its own perfect work — > 
 because truth arrived at in the consciousness of the pro- 
 found thinker is simply suffered to exercise its own vital- 
 ity, and to organize itself into existence. It is not so 
 much because the individual makes an effort to embody 
 the results of his meditation, as because these results have 
 their own way, and take their own form, that the style of 
 their appearance is so grand. It has been asserted above, 
 
 ject and -object are not, absolutely, one essence, but two ; but become 
 one temporarily, in the act of consciousness, by virtue of a homogendty 
 rather than an absolute identity, of essence.
 
 RELATION OF STYLE TO TIIOUGnT. 181 
 
 that style, in its most abstract' definition, is the universal 
 appearing in the particular. In other words, it is the 
 particular and peculiar manner in which the individual 
 mind conceives and expresses truth, which is universal. 
 Now it is only by and through dej)th of mental culti- 
 vation, that truth, in its absolute reality and in its vital 
 energy, is reached at all, A superficial education never 
 reaches the heart of a subject — never brings the mind into 
 contact and fusion with the real substance of the topic of 
 discourse. Of course, a mind thus superficiall}'' educated 
 in reality has nothing to express. It has not reached that 
 depth of apprehension, that central point where the solid 
 and real truth lies, at which, and only at whicli, it is 
 qualified to discourse. It may, it is true, speak about the 
 given topic, but before it can speak it outj in a grand, im- 
 pressive style, and in discourse which, while it is weighty 
 and solid, also dilates and thrills and glows with the living 
 verity, it must, by deep thought, have effected that mental 
 union with it of which we luxve spoken. 
 
 A mind, on the contrary, that has received a central 
 development, and whose power of contemplation is strong, 
 instead of woi'king at the surface, and about the accidents, 
 strikes down into the heart and essence, and obtains an 
 actual view of truth ; and under the impulse imparted by 
 it, and by the light radiated from it at all points, simply 
 represents it. In all this there is no effort at expression — 
 ]io endeavor at style — on the part of the individual, lie 
 is but the medium of conununication, now that, by his 
 own voluntary thought, the miion l)otweeii his mind and 
 truth lias been brought about. — All that he needs to do 
 is, to absorb himself still moi-o profoundly in the groat 
 theme, and to let it use him as its organ. It will llow 
 through his iiulividualism, and take form and hue from 
 it, as inevitably as the formless and colorless light, acfpiirea
 
 1S2 RELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 both form and color by coming into the beautiful arch of 
 the sky. 
 
 By clearness, as an element in culture, is meant such 
 an education of the mind, as arms it with a penetrating 
 and clear vision, so that it beholds objects in distinct out- 
 line. "When united with depth of culture, this element 
 is of great worth, and diffuses through the productions of 
 the mind some of the most desirable qualities. Depth, 
 without clearness of intuition, is obscurity. Though there 
 may be substantial thinlcing, and real truth may be reached 
 by the mind, yet like the vKr^ out of which the material 
 universe was formed, according to the ancient philosophy, 
 it needs to be irradiated by light, before it becomes a 
 defined, distinct, and beautiful form. Indeed, without 
 clearness of intuition, truth must remain in the depths of 
 the mind, and cannot be really expressed. The mind, 
 without close and 'clear thinking, is but a dark chaos of 
 ideas, intimations, and feelings. It is true, that in these 
 is the substance of truth, for the human mind is, by its 
 constitution, full of truth ; yet these its contents need to 
 be elahorated. These undefined ideas need to become 
 clear conceptions ; these dark and pregnant intimations 
 need to be converted into substantial verities ; and these 
 swelling but vague feelings must acquire definition and 
 shape ; not merel}' that the consciousness of one mind 
 may be conveyed over into that of another, but also in 
 order to the mind's full understaiiding of itself. 
 
 And such culture manifests itself in the purity and 
 perspicuity of the style in which it conveys its thoughts. 
 Having a distinctly clear apprehension of truth, the mind 
 utters its conceptions with all that simplicity and jjerti- 
 nence of language which characterizes the narrative of 
 an honest eye-witness. Nothing intervenes between 
 thought and expression. The clear, direct view, instan-
 
 RELATION OF STYLE TO TnOL'GIIT. 183 
 
 taneoudy becomes the clear, direct statement. And when 
 the clear conception is thus nnited with the profound 
 intuition, thought assumes its most perfect form. The 
 form in which it appears, is full and round witli solid 
 trutJi, and yet distinct and transparent. The immaterial 
 principle is embodied in just the right amount of matter ; 
 the former does not overflow, nor does the latter overlay. 
 The discourse exhibits the same opposite and counter- 
 balancing excellences which we see in the foi'ms of 
 nature — the simplicity and the richness, the negligence 
 and the niceness, the solid opacity and the aerial trans- 
 parence.* 
 
 ■" Shakspeare affords innumerable exemplifications of the character- 
 istic here spoken of. In the following passages notice the purity and 
 cleanliness of the style in which he exhibits his thought. As in a per- 
 fect embodiment in nature, there is nothing ragged, or to be sloughed 
 off: 
 
 * * * Chaste as the icicle 
 
 That's curded by the frost from purest snow, 
 
 And hangs on Dian's temple. 
 
 Conolanus, V. 3. 
 
 ***** This hand 
 
 As soft a.s dove's down, and as white as it ; » 
 
 Or ELliioiiian's tooth, or the fann'd snow, 
 
 That's bolted by the northern blasts twice o'er. 
 
 Winter's Tale, IV. 3. 
 
 Or if that surly spirit, melancholy. 
 
 Had baked thy Vjlood, and made it heavy, thick ; 
 
 Which else runs tickling up and down the veins. 
 
 Kill ff John, III. 3. 
 
 And I, of !adif;8 most deject and wretched. 
 That .'<uckod the honey of his music vows. 
 Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, 
 Like sweet bella jangled, out of tune, and harsli. 
 
 iramld, HI. 1.
 
 184. KELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 
 
 It is rare to find sncli a union of the two main elements 
 of culture, and consequfutly rare to tind them in style. 
 A profoundly contemplative mind is often mystic and 
 vague in its discourse, because it has not come to a clear, 
 as well as profound, consciousness — because distinctness 
 luis not gone along with depth of apprehension. The dis- 
 course of such a mind is thoughtful and suggestive, it may 
 be, but is lacking in tliat scientilic, logical, power which 
 penetrates and illumines. It has warmth and glow, it 
 may be, but it is the warmth of the stove (to use the com- 
 parison of another) — warmth without liglit. 
 
 On the other hand, it often happens that the culture of 
 the mind is clear but shallow. In this case nothing but 
 the merest and most obvious commonplace is uttered, in a 
 manner intelligible and plain enough, to be sure, but with- 
 out force or M-eight, or even genuine fire, of style. Shal- 
 low waters show a very clear bottom, and but little inten- 
 sity of light is needed in order to display the pebbles and 
 clean sand. That must be a " purest ray serene " — a pen- 
 cil of strongest light — which discloses the black, rich, 
 wreck-strown depths. For the clearness of dejitli is very 
 different from the clearness of shallowness. The former 
 is a positive quality. It is the positive and powerful irradi- 
 ation of that whicli is solid and dark, l)y that which is 
 ethereal and light. The latter is a negative quality. It 
 is the mere absence of darkness, because there is no sub- 
 stance to be dark — no hody in which (if we may be allowed 
 the expression) darkness can inhere, Nothing is more 
 luminous than solid fire ; nothing is more flashy than an 
 ignited void. 
 
 These two fundamental characteristics of mental culture 
 lie at the foundation of style. Even if the secondary 
 qualities of style could exist without the weightiness and 
 clearness of manner which spring from the union of pro
 
 EELATION OF STYLE TO THOUGHT. 1S5 
 
 fonnd with distinct apprehension, they would exist in vain. 
 The o)-nainent is worthless, if there is nothing to sustain 
 it. The bas-relief is valueless, without the slab to sup- 
 port it. But these secondary qualities of style — the 
 beauty, and the elegance, and tlie harmony — derive all their 
 charm and power from springing out of the primary quali- 
 ties, and in this way, ultimately, out of the deep and clear 
 culture of the mind itself — from beiuij the white tiower of 
 the black root. 
 
 Stvle, when having this mental and natural origin, is to 
 be put into the first class of fine forms. It is the form of 
 thought ; and, as a piece of art, is as worthy of study 
 and admiration, as those glorious material forms M'hich 
 embody the ideas of Phidias, Michael Angelo, and Raphael. 
 It is the form in which the human mind manifests its 
 freest, purest, and most mysterious activity — its thinking. 
 There is nothing mechanical in its origin, or stale in its 
 nature. It is plastic and fresh as the immortal energy, of 
 which it is the air and bearing.
 
 SCIENTIFIC AXD POPULAE EDUCATIOK* 
 
 The general and growing interest in the subject of 
 Education is one of the most hopeful features of the pres- 
 ent age. Throughout the country, the public mind is be- 
 coming increasing!}' awake to the importance of knowl- 
 edge, and the nation as a body is coming to regard Educa- 
 tion as one of the great national interests. Ah-eady is it 
 provided for and protected, as commerce, and manufac- 
 tures, and agriculture are provided for; and the number 
 is already large who clearly see and feel that it is of more 
 importance, and exerts a far greater influence upon the 
 perpetuity of the Republic, than any or all of the econom- 
 ical interests united. 
 
 There is, however, one characteristic attending this 
 general interest upon the subject of Education which can- 
 not but strike the eye of a thoughtful observer. It is a 
 characteristic which, as history shows, invariably attends 
 all action of the jiopular mind in proportion as this be- 
 comes more extensive and far-reaching, and a characteris- 
 tic that is injurious in its inlluen(;e if it does not find its 
 counterj)art and corrective. \V^e rcfci- lo the tendem^y to 
 popularize knowledge in an excessive degree. I3y this 
 is not meant the disposition to diffuse knowledge among 
 the greatest Tiumbfi- i)os.^iltl(', Itut the disposition to i-cnder 
 
 * Reprinted from the Bibliotheca Sacra, January, IS-jO.
 
 ISS SCIENTIFIC AND' TOPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 all knowledge snperlicial, and in this form to diffuse it 
 through socict}'. If we mistake not, there are signs of a 
 disposition to destroy the distinction between popular and 
 scientiiic knowledge, and while engaged in the laudable 
 effort to spread information as widely as possible among 
 all classes, to do it at the expense of that profound and 
 scientific culture which must exist sonieiohere, in some 
 portion of the community at least, in order to the perpetu- 
 ity and vitality of even the common information of 
 society. 
 
 There is no better wav of correctino- this and kindred 
 errors, tiian by establishing profound and comprehensive 
 views respecting the whole subject, and the subject as a 
 whole. It is a defective view of knowledge as a tohule^ an 
 incomplete view of the system of education which lies at 
 the Ijottom of the error in question. It is forgotten that 
 tlic l)()(lv of knowledge which is souijht to be diffused is 
 an organism with central and superficial parts, and that 
 the complete system of instruction which proposes to im- 
 part this knowledge is an organized system, of whicli no 
 better definition can be given than that all its parts are 
 vitally connected, and are reciprocally means and ends. 
 Popular knowledge, thei*efore, caimot be diffused separ- 
 ated from scientific knowledge, and this latter again re- 
 quires to pass through the tests of popularization, in order 
 that it may be proved to have a real and not imaginaiy 
 existence ; in order that it may be seen to be one with 
 truth and real being, and not the mere figment of the 
 brain. It will be our object, accoi-dingly, to mark dis- 
 tinctly the difference between scientific and popular knowl- 
 edge, and to show the necessity and worth of those institu- 
 tions whose office it is to impart scientific in distinction 
 from popular education. 
 
 Knowledge traced to its ultimate is in the form of fun-
 
 - SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 1S9 
 
 dameiital truths. These fundamental truths, or first 
 ])rinciples, as applied to particular cases, or run out to 
 meet the ordinary wants of mankind, lose their scientific 
 and profound appearance, become popular in their char- 
 acter, nseful in their results, and go to constitute the com- 
 mon every-daj knowledge of society. The gold originally 
 in the form of heavy bullion has become light coin, and a 
 useful circulating medium. 
 
 There is, for example, an amount of information diffused 
 tiirough society which is sufficient for the practical pur- 
 poses of commerce, manufactures and agriculture ; and, 
 by virtue of the common intelligeuce in these departments, 
 the ship sails swiftly, the machine works well, and the 
 earth brings forth abundantly. But it is not expected, and 
 mider the present arrangements of society it is not rational 
 to expect, that all who work in these S])heres should pos- 
 sess a thorough knowledge of those principles of physics 
 — those first truths of astronomy, and chemistry, and 
 mechanics, and mathematics — which lie under all this 
 action of man. And yet this body of principles, the 
 physical science which is l>eneath this practice and practi- 
 cal api)lication, is essential knowledge; sustaining tlie 
 same rehvtion to all the arts, manufactures, and improve- 
 ments, all the comforts and elegancies of civilization, that 
 tlie flowers and fruit of the tree sustain to the black root 
 iindurground. And upon the preservation .iihI luitlior 
 development of these fundanuMital truths, depend tlu- jicr- 
 manen(;e of the present civilization, aiul its progressive 
 improvement. 
 
 Again, there is in the midst of the ])Oo])le an amount 
 of infoi'mation resj)e(;fing legal and civil affairs, sullicient 
 to make them (rareful of their j)ersonal rights, and watch- 
 ful ov(.'r the acts and intentions of government. No ]k'<)- 
 ple on the face oi' the globe arc 80 well informed in ;di
 
 190 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 that pertains to judicial and civil matters, as the people of 
 the United States, An appeal to reason and law always 
 goes home to the mind of the mass, and produces a deep 
 and great movement, as it could not, if we were an nn- 
 informod and barbarous population. Still, it will not do 
 to say that this knowledge, though adequate for all the 
 wants of common life, is equal in degree and depth to that 
 which is implied in a thorough nndcrstandingof the scien- 
 ces of law and government. It will not do to say, that 
 the great body of ns are possessed of such a clear and deep 
 insight into the first principles of legal and political phil- 
 osophy as characterized the framers of the Constitution of 
 the United States, And we do tacitly, but in a free and 
 manly way, acknowledge this, when, in order to form or 
 revise a code of laws or a constitution, we meet and choose 
 the wisest and most thoughtful of our number to do this 
 important work — a work that requires a more than ordi- 
 nary and popular acquaintance with law and legislation. 
 
 Again, in this Christian land there is an amount of 
 knowledge concerning God and the eternal world, the 
 soul of man and its obli<>:ations, which is enough to consti- 
 tute every man responsible before his Judge, and enough, 
 if rightly improved, to bring about right relations between 
 man and God. But, besides this common knowledge upon 
 moral and religious subjects, there is a science of morals 
 and religion, for the study and exposition of which, we 
 are willing to sustain a particular class of men in the 
 midst of us. It is because we desire to have our ordinary 
 knowledge upon these highest of subjects made still more 
 clear, and vivid, and efficacious, that we listen every Sab- 
 bath to one whose business it is to investigate and expound 
 the j>ri7iciples of the word of God. 
 
 Thus it is apparent that when we go below the surface, 
 and get at knowledge in its solidity and substance, we find
 
 SCEEXTiriC AXD POPULAR EDUCATION. 101 
 
 it in the form of principles — we find it science. Uelow 
 all the manifold uses and applicatloiis of knowledge, as 
 they appear in the ordinary life of men, there lies the 
 great deposit of primary truth, inexhaustible in itself, 
 and ever yielding new treasures to the educated and 
 thoughtful mind. Now^ with this lower stratum of truth 
 mankind raxist have communication, or their course is 
 hackioard in all respects. New inventions in the arts soon 
 become old and pass out of use ; what at first were strik- 
 ing facts soon lose their novelty ; the old modes of pre- 
 seutino: those truths which from their very nature are the 
 same yesterday, to-day, and forever, become wearisome — 
 in fine, the floatiufj information of a communitv is soon 
 worn out, and l)ecome3 powerless, unless, from the region 
 of principles, there is constantly coming off upon it an in- 
 vicoratino- influence : unless the ino-enious mind of a AV^att 
 or a Fulton, now and then, startles society and forms a 
 new era in its civilization, by a wonderful api)lication of 
 an old but buried principle of natural philosophy ; unless 
 the thoughtful mind of a Newton pours through old sci- 
 ence the light and life of a new principle, which to the 
 end of time is to influence this domain of knowledge with 
 as steady and extensive power as that of gravitation itself ; 
 unless the mighty and passionate spirit of a Luther awak- 
 ens the religious consciousness of all Europe to the recog- 
 nition of tliat great primal doctrine of Christianity, on 
 which man's etei-nal life hangs. 
 
 Having said thus much upon knowledge in its scientilic 
 an*l in its practical form, and of the right relation of the 
 latter to the former, we proceed to sj^eak of colleges as the 
 institutions for keo[)ing up this right relation; as the in- 
 strumentality whereby science and practice are kei)t con- 
 nected, and made to interpenetrate each other, to their mu- 
 tual benetit, and to the growtiiof mankind in knowledge.
 
 102 SCIENTmC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 I. One way wliorol)}' colleges do this is by not suffering 
 the distinction between scientific and practical knowledge 
 to he lost sight of, and by keeping in existence an educa- 
 tion that is founded upon tlie study of first principles.' 
 
 It is the aim of the higher institutions of learning, to 
 give ^Yhat is called a "lil)eral" education: that is, one 
 which is distinguished from that given in common schools, 
 by being both more extensive and more profound. The 
 lower institutions of learning take the mind in the earlier 
 period of its existence, when it is best fitted for the acqui- 
 sition of all that part of knowledge which is gained by 
 the memory, while the college receives it at the beginning 
 of that period when its powers commence their maturity, 
 and it is prepared to get that knowledge of princi[)les, of 
 which we have spoken, which comes from reflection. In 
 the theory of education adopted by our wise forefathers, 
 and, as history shows, by all wise founders of common- 
 wealths, the future citizen is to be surrendered to the pri- 
 mary school during the years of boyhood, when the imag- 
 ination and memory are active, that he may learn to read 
 and write, and may acquire all that knowledge of geogra- 
 phy and arithmetic and history which is fitted for his 
 years, and which will be useful in the transaction of the 
 ordinary business of after life, AVhen the higher facul- 
 ties begin to dawn, and the years of reflection are coming 
 in, he is then to be transferred to an institution which will 
 guide him into the paths of science, and introduce him 
 into that world of principles from which he is to derive, 
 if he ever does, high moral and intellectual power, and 
 make himself a strong man among men. Colleges and 
 Connnon Schools are therefore not to be opposed to each 
 other. Each has its own proper work to do. The one 
 cannot do the work of the other, and even if it could, yet 
 boyhood cannot receive the instruction of ojDening man-
 
 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 193 
 
 Jiood, and calm and reflective manhood craves a more pro- 
 found learning than that which satisfies inquisitive and 
 acquisitive boyhood. The two are not independent of 
 each other like two different machines, but are living 
 members of the same body, and therefore the one cannot 
 Bay to the other, " I have no need of thee," nor can the 
 other say to the one, " I have no need of thee." 
 
 Colleges are thus a standing evidence of the validity of 
 the distinction between scientific and practical knowledge. 
 Their aim is to give an education which will develop the 
 mind itself, irrespective, for the time being, of the uses 
 that may be made of learning ; knowing that if there only 
 be produced witliin the youth the poiver to work, the occa- 
 sions and the inciteuieuts to exercise it will not be want- 
 inir in a world that is full of work. And tliev do this not 
 so much by imparting an amount of separate facts of 
 which immediate use may be made, as by awakening the 
 intellect of the young man to the recognition of first 
 trutiis in the various departments of learning. It cannot 
 be too carefully reuiembered, that a collegiate, or liberal 
 education, differs from what is called a common educa- 
 tion, by its having more than the latter can the facul- 
 ties of the individual, the very mind itself, in its eye. 
 Its object is not mainly to furnish the mind with enough 
 to meet daily wants, but to fill it with power, and to 
 ground it in priuciples, as a reserved fund upon which 
 to draw at any time and dining all time. It is a mis- 
 take to suppose that that' only is useful knowledge, of 
 which an immediate and ])ali)al)le use can be made, in the 
 acipiisitiou c^f wealth, or in providing for the daily wants 
 of the body. This is indeed useful, but it is not enough 
 for all the exigencies of this life even, and il surely is not 
 enouo-h for those of the life to come. When revolutions in 
 human affairs break out, when states arc to be foumlcd, 

 
 194 SCIENTIFIC AND rOl'ULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 wlien institutions that are to affect the progress of the raco 
 are to be established, when laws are to be made — when, 
 in short, the primary and foundation-work, depending 
 upon primary and fundamental truths, is to be done — tlien 
 the liberal education sliows itself to be the useful educa- 
 tion. In these trying times, the reserved fund of mental 
 power and clear intuition of principles may be drawn 
 upon, and its untold worth be seen in the origination of a 
 great instrument like the American Constitution, or in the 
 start of a great idea like that of popular liberty which is 
 to work through masses of men with superhuman power.* 
 We say, then, that if the distinction between the knowl- 
 edge of principles and the knowledge of facts is an im- 
 portant one, the preservation of the distinction, and the 
 foundation of a particular sort of education upon it, are 
 still more important. Moreover, unless the current in- 
 formation of society is kept moving and alive, by the 
 presence and the power of a system of liberal education, 
 and by those who are yearly coming out fresh from the 
 contact with science and principles, it speedily diminishes 
 in amount, and loses the vitality it once possessed, and 
 society sinks down into barbarism. The reign of barbarism 
 began in Greece, when the liberal education of its young 
 men fell into the hands of the sophists, who substituted 
 the denial and disputation of first principles, for that clear 
 and profound enunciation of them which characterized an 
 elder day. When this class of public teachers appeared, 
 there Avas a o-reat amount of useful knowledge current in 
 
 * For some excellent thoughts upon the relation of scientific to popu- 
 lar knowledge, see an article upon thooloj^fy, by Ullmann, in the Stu- 
 dien und Kritiken for 1849. The truly fruitful effort for the people 
 and popular life, he says, is not merely the direct and immediate effort, 
 but the thorough cultivation, al«o, of all those departments of knowl- 
 edge whose results cannot pass over into common life, except at second 
 band, and by radiation.
 
 SCIEXTrFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 195 
 
 Grecian society, but it soon l)et raved the lack of that 
 vigor Avhich arises from the diltusion of correct principles 
 in politics and morals, and Mdiicli liad kept it fresh and 
 liealthy, and not many years elapsed Ijefore this whole 
 mass of current and connnon information was found to l)e 
 utterly powerless towards the preservation and glory of 
 the state when threatened b}'^ Philip, and cruml>led away 
 like some noble shaft tiiat has been struck with the sap- 
 rot. 
 
 Neither let it be supposed, that by making and pre- 
 eerving the distinction between a ccmimon and a liberal 
 education, any injury is done to useful and practical 
 knowledge. It is only by the maintenance and widest 
 possible diffusion of scientific learning, tiiat this common 
 every -day knowledge arises and is current ; for tlie com- 
 mon information of societv is nothiiif; more or less than 
 the fine and diffusive radiance of a more sul)stantial and 
 profound culture. This liglit, spreading and peneti-ating 
 in all directions, is an clHiience from a ball of solid fire. 
 All this general and practical inl'oi-iiiatioii which distin- 
 guishes an enlightened fi-oni a savage, or though civilized 
 yet ignorant state of society — which distinguishes England 
 and the United States from Africa and South America — 
 did not grow uj) s[)ontaneously from the earth ; is not 
 the effect of a colder climate or a harder soil. It has 
 been exhaling for centuries from colleges and nnivei'sities; 
 it has been distilling for ages from the alembic of tlio 
 scholars hi'ain. 
 
 The condition of society at any one given time, must bo 
 lookfid upon as the; total result of past instil ul ions. It, is 
 falnc, and absurd, to assunu; that the [^resent form of 
 things started into being in a twinkling, and is totally uii- 
 conne<;t(!d with what has gone hefore. This is true of all 
 that enters into the idea of social existence, but it itj
 
 IOC) SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 emphatically true of the j^eneral state of information. 
 And if we would know Avlij there is at this present mo- 
 ment such a "Tcat amount of intelliij-ence anions; tho 
 descendants of En^-lish colonists, and such an entire 
 absence of intelligence among the descendants of Spanish 
 colonists on this western continent, we have only to re- 
 member that the Imio-HsIi brouiz-ht over books, and l)uilt 
 churches and founded colleges simultaneously, while the 
 Spaniards did no such thing, but attempted to found and 
 perpetuate state governments, and to rear np society, 
 upon the current maxims of worldly and selfish policy. 
 If, M'hen Hernando Cortez subjugated Mexico to the 
 Spanish crown, and provided for the colonization of that 
 region, he had laid such foundations for national existence 
 and growth as were laid by the Puritans, and that popula- 
 tion for three centuries had been feeling the vigor of just 
 Ijrinciples, in social intercourse, in legal arrangements, in 
 govermnent and religion, it wonld not be the ignorant and 
 powerless mass it is. If he had provided for the investi- 
 gation of the pi'inciples of knowledge, and for raising up 
 a body of thoughtful and wise men, leading and powerful 
 spirits, like those who planned and acted in the great 
 emergency in our history, would not have been wanting 
 in her hour of national trial. 
 
 II. And this leads us to notice a second way whereby 
 the higher institutions of learning keep scientific and 
 popular knowledge in connection, and thus elevate and 
 improve the whole body of the pcoi)le in a commonwealth. 
 And this is, by constantly sending out into society j)ro- 
 fesaional men. 
 
 Most of the members of the three professions are col- 
 lege graduates, and the few who have raised themselves 
 to posts of. honor and usefulness by their own resolute and 
 private study are no testimony against the fact, that pro-
 
 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION, 197 
 
 fessional influence is founded upon scientific knowledge. 
 These few instances only go to show that if there is a fixed 
 determination, a man may overcome all obstacles, and may 
 become an eminent physician, jurist, or divine, not be- 
 cause of the want of direct aid from the hio-her institutions 
 of learning, but in spite of that want. And even these 
 do not accpiire their knowledge entirely independent of 
 universities. Even tliese must have access to a library of 
 old books, which, one with some degree of truth has as- 
 serted to be the true university, and which, at an}' rate, is 
 the expression of the thought and research of universities. 
 
 It may be said, therefore, without fear of contradiction, 
 that professional life and influence gi'ows out of collegiate 
 education, and can grow from no other root. And if we 
 would estimate tlie eflect upon society of the decline and 
 fall of the higher literary institutions, we must first esti- 
 mate the eflect of the entire removal from among us of 
 the physician, the lawyer, and tiic clergyman, and of the 
 entire destruction of the three great sciences of medicine, 
 law, and theology. It is a forcible saying of Cicero, that 
 the Athenian state could no more have been sustained and 
 regulated witliout that grave and vencral)le court, the 
 Areopagus, than the world could be sustained and regu- 
 lated without the providence of God. With greater truth 
 and force, it may be aflirmed that modern society might 
 as easily be k(;i)t in ])rosperous existence without the 
 providence of God, as without the presence and ])ervading 
 ])Ower of those professions wliose provin(-o it is to investi- 
 gate and expound natural, civil, judicial, and religious 
 tiMith ; for they are themselves one of tiie most benignant 
 of Divine providences. 
 
 iJut wc shall, perha|)S, be abb; to fDini a more correct 
 estimate of the worth d" ])i-ofessional men, and conse- 
 quently of those institutions which train Ihcni u[>, by an
 
 108 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 examination of the business and influence cf each class 
 Bepai'utely. 
 
 1. It is the business of the physician to study the nature 
 and hiws of life, especially of animal life, and still more 
 especially of human life, that he may understand the 
 causes of disease and death. It is also his business to 
 study material nature, that he may know the various ele- 
 ments that enter into it, and their relation to the chief 
 practical purjioses of his j^rofession, viz, the preservation 
 of health, and tlic cure of disease. Settinj^ aside, there- 
 fore, the palpable and immediate benefit which the indi- 
 vidual derives from the medical man as he stands ijy his 
 bed side, there is an amount of information put in cur- 
 rency by him, which ministers much to that general cheer- 
 fulness and absence of anxious apprehensions, which, 
 like fresh breezes and bright sunshine, contributes much 
 to the physical well-being of society. The investigations 
 and influence of the medical profession rid community 
 of that superstitious dread respecting the strange processes 
 of nature, and the wonderful functions of animal life, 
 which, indeed, in its highest intensity is to be found only 
 in savage society, but which, in its milder but neverthe- 
 less most feai'ful form, marks the histor}' of ages highly 
 educated in other blanches of knowledge, but ignorant of 
 this, because its cultivation had not kept pace with that 
 of tlie other. For example, whole communities in Europe, 
 during the middle ages, were often set in a tremor by 
 natural phenomena that would not startle the child of the 
 present day, because the ignorant imagination of the 
 time filled the mysterious, it is true, yet beautiful and 
 liarmless world of vegetable and ariimal life, witii malig- 
 nant powers and horrible spirits. And had there been as 
 mucli general information respeciing the science of medi- 
 cine, as there was respecting those of law and theology,
 
 SCIENTIFIC AXD POPULAR EDUCATION. 199 
 
 among the early inhaljitants of New England, that most 
 strange and awful chapter in its liistory which records the 
 storv of the Salem witchcraft would be wanting. Tlie 
 gloom and liorror — a gloom and horror which could not 
 have been thicker and deeper, if the world of evil spirits 
 had really been let loose upon men — that hung over that 
 community like a black cloud, could not possibly be made 
 to throw its shadow across the present generation, not 
 surely because it is morally better or wiser than its holy 
 fathers, but because the strange marvels of animal organi- 
 zation, and nervous excitement, have been traced to causes 
 orifjinatinc: in that " God who is liirht, and in whom there 
 IS no darkness at all." 
 
 2. It is the business of the jurist to study the principles 
 of law, the science of justice. This science stands beside 
 that of religion, and Jias very profound and close affinities 
 with it. So very nearly are these two sciences connected, 
 that history shows that where clear and correct views of 
 the one have prevailed, clear and correct views of the 
 other have also prevailed. In proportion as a community 
 is possessed of a deej) sense of the sacred nature of justice, 
 it is possessed of a correspondingly profound sense of the 
 solemn nature of religion. 
 
 The cause of this lies in the fact that justice, which is 
 the substance and staple of law, is the most fundamental 
 of all fundamentals, whether the being of the Creator or 
 of creation is contcinplated. Justice is the deepest of all 
 the "deej) things of God," underlying the whole Ciodhead, 
 and constituting the equilibrium of the Divine character. 
 Even mercy, an attril)ute which is sometimes supposed to 
 be tlie very contrary of justice, an<l in necessary incom- 
 patibility with it, dei'ives lioiu it its very essential luiture 
 — its mercifulness. Mercy shows its distinguishing final- 
 ity, its real peculiarity, ordy in the light and Ihuacof law;
 
 200 SCIENTIFIC AND rOPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 for no man has ever known and felt the niorey of God, 
 until he has first known and felt what God might in jus- 
 tice do untt) him. Again, the idea of justi(^e is a eonstitu- 
 ent of man's being, and if, owing to his fall and corrup- 
 tion, the positive sense of jnstice is often slumbering, the 
 negative side of the idea, the sense of injustice, of being 
 wronged, is one of the quickest and keenest of which he 
 is conscious. 
 
 For these reasons, the science of law is no trivial or 
 superficial science, but strikes its i-oots down into that 
 solemn world of holiness and righteousness, with which 
 every man b}' creation is connected, either for weal or woe, 
 according to the relation which his spirit shall be found 
 to sustain to it in the day of judgment. If, therefore, the 
 spirit of law and the sense of justice are deep and pervad- 
 ing in society, the truths of religion will be more fully 
 apprehended, and its duties will be more likely to be 
 esteemed paramount, than would be the case, if a lawless 
 and unjust spirit were al)road. By being reverential 
 towards civil law, man, in so far, becomes reverential 
 towards Divine law ; for it is a power ordained of God, 
 and the feeling towards that whicli is ordained transfers 
 itself to Him who ordains. Tlie doctrines of religion 
 make their wav far more easily throuo;!! a law-reverino: 
 and law-abiding people, than through a disorganized and 
 disorganizing mass, held together by no right sentiment 
 of any sort, by no just tie, civil or political. 
 
 Such being the fact, it is evident that tlie legal profes- 
 sion, if deeply penetrated and pervaded by the spirit of 
 law and justice, is a most important instrument in the 
 arrangements of Providence, for working out the well-be- 
 ing of the state and the improvement of mankind at large. 
 By means of the study of the principles of justice, and ; 
 the performance of legal business, law is constantly kept
 
 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 201 
 
 before tlie public mind, and its spirit is more or less per- 
 meating society. The mind of the people is made solemn 
 in the process, and bettei* prepared to receive the truths 
 and principles of the Christian religion, to which great 
 remedial and saving svsteui of truth, all other systems 
 should be subservient and preparatory. 
 
 3. And this brings ns to the third of the three profes- 
 sions M^hose foundation is laid by colles-iate education — 
 the clerical. The worth of this profession cannot be over- 
 estimated, if we take into account the importance of the 
 science upon which it rests, the opportunity it has of get- 
 ting the popular ear, and the perfecting influence which 
 it is capable of exerting upon society. 
 
 The science which is the subject-matter of the clerg}^- 
 man's investigation and exposition is that of religion. It 
 must, necessarily, be matter of consciousness, because its 
 principles are practical as well as theoretic, and, therefore, 
 in order to their thorough apprehension, require entrance 
 as much into the practical heart as into tlie speculative 
 head. The principles of this science are addressed to the 
 highest faculties of tlie human soul and provide for its 
 well-being during the infinite portion of its existence. 
 They therefore run deep and reach out wide, and both 
 directly and indirectly affect the whole individual, the 
 whole state, the whole race. Heligion, cither as a power 
 of salvation or condemnation, seizes eveiy rational being 
 with a grasp never to be shaken off, and having nuide an 
 entrance to his joy or anguisli, is never to be expelled. 
 If his wliole l>eing is brouglit into sweet harmony with its 
 laws and truths, he dwells in heaven ; if his whole being 
 is alienate from its j)urity and holiness, it still i-eniains, 
 because it must, since he is rational, and he dwells in 
 hell. 
 
 licligion, as its ctyniol(»gy denotes, is the great bond 
 0*
 
 302 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 M'hich is to hold the rational creation together and to God. 
 There is no other bond of such strength and extent. All 
 the other ties that bind finite spirits together derive their 
 permanent jxnver from this great vinculum, and if its 
 Author should suffer it to be broken, the primitive mate- 
 rial chaos would be but a faint emblem of the disorder and 
 ruin that would reign in the intelligent universe. And 
 especially would man be the sufferer, in such a tremen- 
 dous catastrophe ; for, cut loose from all the restraints 
 which natural and more especially revealed religion im- 
 pose, the unchecked depravity of a fallen race would 
 bring it into awful dissension and collision with itself. 
 
 Religious principles are therefore the most important 
 of all. In the Divine idea and plan, all other knowledge 
 is to derive its vigor and life from them, and they are in- 
 tended to run through all the individuals and all the insti- 
 tutions of the human race. Throuixh the arts and throuo-h 
 the sciences, through the laws and the legislation, through 
 the manners and the customs, through the thoughts and 
 the opinions, through the individual life, the domestic and 
 social life, the political life — in fine, through all the im- 
 mense material embraced in the whole being and action 
 of mankind, this pure and mighty power is intended to 
 stream. 
 
 But not only is the clerical profession important because 
 of the magnitude of the science upon which it is founded, 
 it is also important because of the opportunity given to it 
 for getting the attention of man. By Divine appointment, 
 every seventh day of human life is given to this profes- 
 sion, that it may have a hearing. Wherever the Christian 
 religion goes, be it into civilized or savage nations, the 
 herald of Christianity has a set time to proclaim its doc- 
 trines, which is as regular in its coming as the rising of 
 the sun.
 
 SCIENTIFIC AND POPTLAR EDUCATION. 203 
 
 This dedication of a seventh part of human life to the 
 hearing of Christian truth is one of those many perma- 
 nent arrangements of Divine Providence that exert mighty 
 influences M'ithout observation. We may say what we 
 will of the power of the press, and the rapidity of com- 
 munication, and all the other engines of modern times for 
 influencing and impi'oving mankind, there is no instru- 
 mentality which, for the kind and degree of its influence 
 upon society, is to be compared with the stated preaching 
 of the Sabbath day. Think of the nature of the truths 
 preached and of the magnitude and solemnity of the conse- 
 quences connected with their reception or rejection, and 
 then remember that throufjh the leiio;th and breadth of 
 this land, and of all Protestant lands, in thousands of 
 churches, millions are listening to the preacher ; that the 
 principles of religion, even when they do not effect a 
 saving lodgment in the heart, yet give vigor and clearness 
 to tlie intellect : that from these churches and conirrea-a- 
 tions, a strong and restrainiui; influence is contiiiuallv 
 going off and diffusing itself through that portion of 
 society which does not place itself within hearing of 
 Divine truth ; and moreover remember that this does not 
 occur once every year, but once every week, and estimate, 
 if possible, the amount of influence exerted by t]ie 
 clerical profession upon the permanence and progression 
 of society. 
 
 AVe have thus briefly considered the business and inllu- 
 ence of the three professions, and it must be evident to 
 every reflecting mind, as we turn I)ack to their connec- 
 tion with scientific in distinction froin practical education, 
 and their oi-igin in the higher literary institutions, that 
 BU(;h education is invaluable, and such institutions are in- 
 disj)cnsablc. The decay and destruction of tin; higher 
 literary institutions involves the decay and destruction of
 
 204 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 
 
 scientific knowloflij^e, and of professional life, instruction^ 
 and influence. It must be apparent even to the most 
 Buperlicial observer, that the removal and want of a phy- 
 sician, a lawyer, and a clerii^yman, in a particular town 
 would work disastrously upon both its temporal and ex 
 ternal interests. Cut off from all connection with profes- 
 sional life and influence, disease and the still more dread 
 ful fear of disease would ravage it ; not having the fear 
 and reverence of law before their eyes, because they have 
 not its expounder and representative in the midst of them, 
 a cruel injustice would rule in the breasts of the physi- 
 cally strongest, as milimited as the selfishness of the 
 human heart; and with no one to preach the truths and 
 offer the consolations of the Cliristian religion, the popu- 
 lation would become more brutal than the brutes, because 
 the wants of man would be unsupplied. If all this is 
 apparent to a su}>erflcial glance, what will he see who 
 glances wide and deep, over and through a whole common- 
 wealtli destitute not only of the system of liberal learn- 
 ing, but of those institutions and classes of men whose 
 business it is to perpetuate, improve, and diffuse it ? 
 
 The result then to which we arrive is, that only by the 
 maintenance and improvement of scientific education can 
 even the popular intelligence of the present age be pre- 
 served. This lias its root and life in that more profound 
 wisdom which is slowly evolved, from age to age, by the 
 scientific, the liberally educated mind ; which in the 
 phrase of Milton, is " the result of all his considerate dili- 
 gence, all his midnight watchings, and expense of palla- 
 dian oil." And those institutions whose proper ofiice it is 
 to impart this education are not an accidental and un- 
 necessary, but an organic part of state institutions, and 
 should no more be torn off alive and bleeding from the 
 body politic, than any other members should be. The
 
 SCIENTIFIC AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 205 
 
 ■vrhole population has an interest in their preservation, be- 
 cause they have an interest in the preservation of courts 
 of justice, of legishitive assemblies, of the pulpit and 
 church of God. The solid well-being of a commonwealth 
 depends on them. Their first founders on this continent 
 were the Puritans, and they were among the earliest of 
 the rock-foundations laid by those wise men. The whole 
 sound growth, the whole healthy development of IS^ew 
 England, has been directly coimected with their existence 
 and influence. Our benevolent and learned physicians, 
 our judicious and calm-ej^ed jurists, our serious and 
 thoughtful clergy, have been trained up in them. And, 
 Anally, they have ever been great defences against the 
 downward tendencies of human nature when left to itself, 
 bv cherishing in the public mind that conservative vener- 
 ation for law and order, and intelligence, and morality, 
 which is the best of all preparations for the reception of 
 the saving doctrines of the Christian religion.
 
 INTELLECT [JAL TEMPERANCE.* 
 
 GEXTLEilEN : 
 
 Tou have invited me to address you upon a subject 
 which, in its widest extension, is closely connected with 
 the true cultivation of man. Temjperance, in the ancient 
 and fnl] meanin<^ of this word, must enter as a pervading 
 element into the whole of human development, if it is to 
 be rii;ht, fair, and harmonious. I am conscious, therefore, 
 of the greatness of the theme ; and, while I distrust my 
 ability to handle it, I feel confidence when I remember 
 that if in any way it should happen to come before your 
 minds in the clearness of its own light, and in the fulness 
 of its own power, it would exert an influence which you 
 could not resist. I am encouraged, when I remember 
 that I may be the means of rousing your minds, and of 
 impelling you to the contemplation of a subject which, if 
 Been in all its relations, and felt in all its force, would 
 have a great effect uj)on the course of your discipline. 
 
 Tiicre are two Greek words that are translated by 
 the one word, temperance. The one signilies a right 
 mixture ; a due comljination and minirlintr <'f elements. 
 The other signifios to l)e strong; to iiave control. The 
 corresp(7nding Latin word, which has been transferred to 
 our language, has primary reference to time, and thus to 
 
 * A discourHO at tho UnivcTHity of Vermont, April .'tO, 184-1.
 
 208 INTELLECTUAL TEMPKRANCE. 
 
 Hinitnti'on and restraint within appointed bonnds. Theso 
 dillerent words indicate tliat the (ireek and the Koman 
 mind had one and the same general conception, which it 
 would express by tlieni. Tiie idea of self-control under- 
 lies each of them, and according as this attribute is seen 
 in a different pliasc, a different word is employed to 
 denote it. Did the ancient mind behold self-control re- 
 sultinir in a riijht comminirling of all the elements of the 
 being ; a fusion into a precious amalgam of elements 
 Avhicli, if separated from each other, or blended together in 
 M'rong proportions, would be worthless; it called this self- 
 control, evKpaaia. Again, if it viewed self-control as result- 
 ing in inward strength, and in endowing the being with a 
 power over the low and mean part of him, it denominated 
 the cause, iyKpdreia. Again, if it looked at self-control as 
 setting metes and bounds beyond which the appetites and 
 passions must not go, and as appointing the times and sea- 
 sons when the several powers of man might and might 
 not be operative, it called self-control temjperantia. 
 
 Temperance in its essence, then, is self-control. In its 
 widest sense ; in its application to all the parts of the 
 human constitution, and to all the departments of human 
 life and action ; it is evidently a word full of meaning. 
 As denoting a principle that may, and ought to run 
 through all the powers of man, intellectual as well as 
 sensuous, making them its bearer, imparting health and 
 vigor to them, freeing them from passionate impulses, 
 causing them to work orderly and harmoniously, and thus 
 securing that beautiful and perfect result which should 
 come from the development of a creature made in the 
 image of the First Perfect and the Fii-st Fair — as denoting 
 such a principle as this, temperance is one of those words, 
 the knowledge of which, in the language of Coleridge, is 
 of more value than to know the history of a campaign.
 
 DfTKLLECTTJAL TEMPERANCE. 209 
 
 Tlie entrance of this principle of self-control into the 
 material part of man, and its efKciency in the subjection 
 of the appetites of the body, have been almost exclusively 
 dwelt upon, especially in our own time. And this fact 
 shows that even in his efforts at self -improvement, man un- 
 consciously reveals his moral ignorance and degi'adation. 
 The very fact that men have so generally contented them- 
 selves with the subjection of the appetites and passions of 
 the body, and have not striven to control the more refined 
 and more dangerous passions of the mind and heart, evin- 
 ces that man is not naturally inclined to aim at the ideal, 
 and to reach after absolute perfection. Not that what 
 has been done should have been left undone, but that 
 which has been left undone should have been done. Man 
 ought not to be subject to his eating and drinking, and ho 
 ought not to be a slave to his pride and ambition, lie 
 ought not to rest content until he has control of himself 
 in all the spheres of his life ; until evei-y power of his 
 being is under the sway of law. 
 
 Since temperance, in its extended signification, opens 
 such a boundless field of inquiry and thought ; since the 
 })rinciple of rational self-control so connects itself with all 
 that man is, and can become ; the thorough study of it, and 
 the complete apprehension of it, must be the work and 
 result of a life, of an innnortal life. We shall find 
 enough to occuj)y our meditations for the present hour, 
 if we confine ourselves to one aspect of the subject. And 
 I invite your attention to: The influence of ten)2>et'ance, or 
 self-control, uj>o>i intcllerfaal development. 
 
 The Konl of maji is a kingdom by itself. It is under a 
 constitution and laws, like a state. 'J'iu! lu-pnldicof Plato, 
 and the Town of Man-Soul of Ihinyan, — the two of the 
 race who, in many respects, have attained the deepest in- 
 eight into man, — are i)roof8 that the closest aiuilogy exists
 
 210 INTELLECTUAL TEMPEKANCE. 
 
 between the state and the mind ; that what is tme of one 
 may be transferred to the other. The representations of 
 the Apocalypse ; the phxn, the architecture and adornment 
 of the City of God ; are likewise evidence that the linite 
 spirit has its polity like the state; that the purity, stability, 
 and harmony of the soul are best symbolized by the j)ur- 
 ity, stability, and harmony of a realm. And the study of 
 the soul itself discloses that the same qualities must enter 
 into man's growth as an individual, that enter into his 
 growth as a nation, or a race. That which contributes to 
 the true well-being of man individually, piromotes the true 
 well-being of man collectively. The genuine culture of 
 every man as a part, is the genuine culture of humanity 
 as a whole. 
 
 A profound writer upon the state mentions permanence 
 and progression, as the two fundamental elements in its 
 well-being. * By the harmonious balance of these two 
 counterpoising interests, the state is to exist and grow. 
 The genuine growth of the individual mind, in like manner, 
 depends upon the presence of these two elements. That 
 intellectual culture which is not at once permanent and 
 progressive is ungenuine. 
 
 The mind requires conservatism and permanence in cul- 
 ture, that its progress may be steady and permanent. There 
 is no real conflict between conservatism and progress, 
 though such is a common opinion. No mind can move for- 
 ward, except as it moves forward from a preceding position. 
 It conserves in order to progress. The child learns to 
 walk, only after it has learned to stand. Men must hold 
 on upon all the old attainments, in order to make new 
 ones. That discipline alone is progressive w^hich never 
 loses anything ; which, selecting onl/ good materials, takes 
 
 * Coleridge : Church and State.
 
 INTELT.ECTCJAL TEl^IPEKANCE. 211 
 
 them up and incorporates them permanently with the sub- 
 stance of the understanding. Tried by tliis test, how often 
 does intellectual culture prove to be defective. When the 
 student looks back upon the whole of his education, he 
 finds that not all of it has been stable ; that not all of it 
 is with him. He sees, as he looks at the studies of certain 
 periods of his life, that they did not contribute to his per- 
 manent growth; that certain states of his intellect, certain 
 prepossessions for certain authors, certain moods of his 
 mind towards certain systems of truth or falsehood, were 
 not elements of culture adapted to the deepest and highest 
 needs of the soul. The student, when he has become well 
 acquainted with his past course of study, is compelled to 
 ackiKjwlcdge, with sorrow, tbat too nnich of the food with 
 which he has striven to satisfy the cravings of the intellect, 
 did not become organic, did not turn into flesh and blood, 
 did not prove to be a means of vitalization, but was rejected 
 by the mind, when it had recovered itself from its momen- 
 tary intoxication, as not nourishing the principle of its life. 
 That is a happy scholar, too, who, as he hjoks into his mind, 
 finds that l)y its innate vigor it has entirely purged out 
 the poison, and has rid itself wholly of the bad effects of 
 such a process. That student shoidd be a grateful being, 
 who can say that no one of the periods of student-life 
 has left a deleterious influence behind it; a deleterious 
 influence that is "felt in the blood and felt -dlouix the 
 heart." 
 
 Every scholar should aim to cultivate the inlellcct in 
 such a manner that the culture shall be right, and therefore 
 shall stay with liim. No element of knowledge ought to 
 be appropi-iated iiv the mind that ought not to become 
 a part of the mind ; an immortal jmit of Jiii innnortal 
 mind. The characteristics of the discipline shonhl be 
 such as to permit of its going along wilh tlie per.soH,
 
 212 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 throng-h the wliole of his endless existence as a rational 
 bein<r. Is that to be called culture Avhich does not last? 
 which, like the dry bark of the tree, is to be thrown off 
 peiiodically ? Docs a mood of the intellect, a prejudice of 
 the mind, which is shallow because it has been awakened by 
 an unworthy object, which endui-es but for a brief time, 
 and i>jivcs place to another as shallow as itself, contribute 
 anything to permanent and genuine education? Does 
 that mental application which affords no food for profound 
 thouij-ht, and rouses none of the ori^-inal and fundamental 
 powers of the man, deserve the name of study ? Do the 
 iieeting and shifting notions and opinions that come and 
 go and go and come, in some periods of our life, deserve 
 the name of discipline? Do they awaken that which is 
 deepest in the mind? Do they make an entrance into 
 '' that place of understanding which is hid from the eyes 
 of all living, and kept close from the fowls of the air"? 
 These vaporous clouds whicii brush across the sky do not 
 stir the blue depths of the ether ; they have no influence 
 in purifying the "ancient heavens," that they may "be 
 fresh and strong," 
 
 Progression is self -evidently a necessary element in in- 
 tellectual discipline. By i:)rogression is not meant the 
 mere accumulation of facts, the mere aggregation of in- 
 formation, but the steady increase of intellectual power, the 
 constant evolution of that energy which is latent in every 
 human mind. The life-power by whicli the mind is to 
 progress is within it, and he who most industriously and 
 boldly draws upon it, while he nourishes it with all good 
 learning, \vill make the farthest advance. Intellectual prog- 
 ress is the gradual unfolding of all the mental faculties; 
 the development of the vitality of tlie mind. Hence, those 
 who have made the greatest advance in mental discipline, 
 and have contributed most to the progress of the race, have
 
 INTELLECTUAL TEMPEKANCE. 213 
 
 been distinguished for their ability to draw npon the 
 native force of their own intellects. 
 
 True progression in mental discipline is, therefore, inti- 
 mately united with permanency of cultivation. The one 
 cannot be without the other ; the one nourishes the other. 
 When, on the one hand, the mind is acquiring a cul- 
 ture that has its abidinor seat in its most fundamental 
 powers, it is advancing tlie development of these powers ; 
 and this, we have seen, is the definition of mental prog- 
 ress. And when, on the other hand, the mind appro- 
 priates only those elements which by nature are adapted to 
 its growth, and, like a tree, carefully rejects all those which 
 do not permit of a solid and vital assimilation, its culture 
 is permanent. 
 
 And here, again, I appeal to the student's consciousness 
 upon this point. As he looks into his intellect, to see 
 wliether it has made true progress in all its career, he 
 is mournfully conscious that the fulness of its inher- 
 ent power has by no means been brought out by culture. 
 The consciousness of weakness, and the distrust of his own 
 nn'nd, are most generally caused by the sense of unfaith- 
 fulness, and the lack of thoroughness in self-training. It 
 is indeed true, that tliev are sometimes the result of a 
 praisewoithy humility, especially when the mind stands in 
 front of the immense problems of human life and destiny ; 
 yet even in this case, the scholar can say: "When lam 
 weak, then am I strong ; though I distrust myself, I liavc, 
 nevertlielcss, a calm confidence." Happy is that schohir, 
 who, as he looks within, can say: "I am all tiiat I (;oidd 
 j)OssibIy be, at tliis stage of n)y intellectual growth ; my 
 powers, at this period of my existence, could ii"! have 
 been more fully uiifold(;d than they are; I ;iiii conscious 
 of an inward energy that has its root and ground in a cul- 
 tivation that has always been pcrmaneiil and progrestjivc."
 
 214 INTKIXECTUAL TKMrERANCE. 
 
 r>lessed is that student, who, at any and every stage of his 
 life can say: "T have always nurtured ray mind with its 
 proper food ; I have never weakened its force, for a mo- 
 ment even, by food not convenient for it ; I have never 
 pt(^l>pod the sprinc: of its living impulse ; it has constantly 
 had a free and pure play." 
 
 Having thus seen that permanence and progression are 
 essential elements in true intellectual discipline, and hav- 
 ing brietly noticed their characteristics and relations to 
 each other, it will be easy to see that their existence is im- 
 possible, urdess the mind is under the sway of the princi- 
 ple of self-control ; unless the scholar obey the injunction 
 of the apostle : " Giving all diligence, add to your knowl- 
 edge temperance." 
 
 Any one who attentively watches the workings of his 
 mind soon becomes aware that it has tendencies to way- 
 ward, Htful, and ])assionate movements. Its energy does 
 not always go forth in an even flow, and its powers do not 
 always work in a manner proportioned to their relative 
 worth. The fancy often rules the reason ; the power of 
 irregular and lawless association often overcomes the power 
 of methodical and orderly thought ; and hours that ought 
 to have brought up a mass of solid and pure truth, from 
 the deep mines of the spirit, construct nothing but day- 
 dreams and air-castles. There is, indeed, no agent so 
 wayward, and yet so mighty in the use of its power, as 
 the human mind. AVhcn its energy has ceased to be 
 under the influence of that self-government which a man 
 is obligated to exercise over his entire being, it works with 
 an absolute intensity. There is, for the thoughtful ob- 
 server, no sight more terrific than the vision of an intel- 
 lect expending the fulness of its immortal vigor upon 
 wrong objects, and putting forth its supernatural power 
 lawlessly.
 
 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 215 
 
 This waywardness and lawlessness of mind, this intel- 
 lectual intemperance, is utterly incompatible with genu- 
 ine discipline. Tliere can be neither permanence nor pro- 
 gression in a culture of this kind. Such workings of the 
 intellect rack and wear it. This convulsive and unnat- 
 ural use of mental power has ruined the noblest minds ; 
 minds strong and stable in their natures ; minds which it 
 took a lifetime to ruin. But when the human intellect 
 is under this principle of self-control, and when it meekly, 
 and constantly, and wholly surrenders itself to its actu- 
 ation, it is developed rightly and grows beautifully. For, 
 this self-government, this temperate restraint, if traced to 
 the fountain, will be found to flow " fast by the oracle of 
 God." It is a principle alive with the breath of Law, and 
 instinct with that Heason which is the parent of order, 
 harmony, and beauty, both in the realm of nature and 
 the realm of spirit. The scholar who submits to it will 
 be freed from those wa^'ward impulses, and passionate 
 movements, to which we have seen the mind has a natural 
 tendency. Like the great power of gravitation in nature, 
 this power, if all in every part of the soul, will bespeak 
 its presence. It will reveal itself by harmony, by sym- 
 metry, l)y regularity of mental action ; in a word, by all 
 the characteristics of genuine cultivation. 
 
 There are several results of this intellectual temperance, 
 which still further enforce, and illustrate, what has been 
 said respecting the permanent and progressive discMpline 
 of the mind. 
 
 The scholar who has control over In's intellect possesses 
 tiie power of inethodtad thouf/ht,. By this is meant the 
 ability t(j suiTcndcr tlw; mind to the guidance ;inil actu- 
 ation of its highest law. When we examine the laws of 
 mental action that are within us, wc find that some are 
 imnietiiodical an<l in-r-giilar in their operation, and that if
 
 216 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 we yield our minds to their impulse they produce no solid 
 ami ahidiiii!; thoiiglit. The fiuicy and the law of assof.i- 
 ation include, pcrliaps, the substanee of these lower laws 
 of mental action, and every one knows that he who habit- 
 ually surrenders himself to the guidance of his fancy, and 
 M'ho floats along supinely upon the current of tlie vain 
 images, the obscure feelings, and the dreamy sensations 
 that are called forth b}'' the power of involuntary associ- 
 ation, is an inefficient day-dreamer, and incai)able of 
 manlv thought. 
 
 There is a higher law than these, which is the true 
 regent of the mind. There is a part of us which demands 
 truth, and not unsubstantial fancies ; wliich yearns after 
 eternal verities, and not airy nothings; which strives to 
 stop the flow of immethodical and fanciful association, 
 and to cause the true Ilippocrene, the inexliaustible foun- 
 tain of methodical thought, to gush forth. There is a part 
 of us Mdiich checks the wanderings of the intellect, and 
 seeks to lead it into the path of reason and law — that 
 " path which no fowl knoweth, and which the vulture's 
 eye hath not seen." There is a law of mental action 
 which, if obeyed, introduces logic;, clearness, profundity, 
 and truth into the mental operations. 
 
 The power of methodical thinking, as I have remarked, 
 is the ability to surrender the mind entirely and continu- 
 ously to the actuation of this its higher law. It is an ability 
 which no scholai", who knows the meaning of it, dares say 
 that he possesses in absolute perfection. It is an ability 
 which, by the mass of professed students even, is pos- 
 sessed in a very imperfect degree. It is an ability which, 
 when it exists in a high degree, imparts a force to the in- 
 tellect that is almost superixuuian, and to the workings 
 of which no limits can be set. If the power of method- 
 ical, scientific, concatenated thought once becomes deeply
 
 INTELLECTUAL TEIMPERANCE. 217 
 
 seated, and a fixed habit in a mind, an eternal culture and 
 an eternal progress have begun in it. All the fine intellec- 
 tual power of the race has come from this power ; all the 
 reason and truth which the human mind has evolved in 
 past ages own it as their parent. The musical tiTith of 
 Plato, the solid truth of Bacon, the sober trutli of Ilookei', 
 and the lofty truth of Howe, all own it as their father. 
 
 But that discipline which enables the mind to keep 
 upon the track of pure truth, and, in the phrase of Bacon, 
 to "hound" the nature of it, of necessity cultivates it in 
 a genuine manner. Truth is the aliment and the element 
 of the mind, and if, by any pi-ocess, the mind is enabled to 
 live by it and in it, it will grow. Think how your intel- 
 lect would have unfolded, if the whole past course of 
 your study had been a train of deep, methodical contem- 
 pL'ition ; if you had never allowed your mind to expend 
 its energies in a desultoi-y, involuntary way ; if all its 
 activity liad been deliberate, voluntary, and ever referring 
 to the true end of the scholar's being — the attainment of 
 absolute verity! Think of the results tliat would have 
 come from such a disc,ij)liiie. How completely master you 
 would be over your intellect ; how easily and yet how 
 mightily you could control its power ; what a grasp you 
 would have upon the legitimate objects of human knowl- 
 edge ! 
 
 Germany, the laiul of scientific thought, affords an 
 astonishinfr instance ol the llli^■ilt, 1 had almost said 
 the omnipotence, arising from tlio siil)ji'clion of the intel- 
 lect to the law of method. Whatever jiulgnu-nt may be 
 passed upon tiie various systems of German ]»liilos(»phy, 
 no one can deny that they exiiii)it a depth, ii height, a 
 breadth, and a rounded completeness of system th:it 
 betoken ;i marvellous j)o\ver of consecutive; ihoughl, and 
 more, porhajts, than any othei' plu'MdUiena in litcraiy his-
 
 218 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 lory, manifest the boundless energy inhering even in the 
 finite mind. Look, for example, at that system in which 
 the speculative intellect of the race seems to have reached 
 its culmination — the system of Ilegel. See how wonder- 
 fully the power of systematic thought works, and what a 
 mighty power of construction it possesses. See how, by 
 its su]>ernatural magic, the system rises like St. Peter's 
 cathedral, with a 
 
 " Vastness which gi'ows, but grows to harmonize ; 
 All musical in its immensities." 
 
 Now, this power of concatenated thinking results from the 
 temperate restraint which the mind has acquired over 
 itself. It has gained the ability to subject those fitful and 
 desultor}^ movements of which I have spoken, to the law 
 of method ; to make all the intellectual powers move on 
 harmoniously towards the attainment of a prescribed end. 
 Although it is true that mere system-building, of itself, 
 contributes little more to the right discipline of man than 
 mere castle-building (for the products of the speculative 
 understanding contribute no more to the practical life of 
 the spirit than the products of the fancy), yet when we 
 consider the influence and tendency of this scientific habit 
 of the mind, we find that it has worth, and, in the end, 
 promotes a permanent and progressive culture. 
 
 And this naturally suggests a second result of intellec- 
 tual temperance. The scholar who can control his mind, 
 BO that it can thiidc in a long, iniinterrupted train, will 
 have it brought into contact with nohle and ennobling 
 ohjects. No man can follow the leading of a contem- 
 plative and methodical intellect, without coming into 
 great and sublime regions, where there are grand and 
 lofty objects of vision. The reason of this lies in the fact
 
 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 219 
 
 that truth is infinite, and has a living connection existing 
 between all its parts. The mind that has touched the 
 borders, if truly progressive, must go to the centre of the 
 land. One truth is connected with all truth. The method- 
 ical mind, therefore — the mind which will not and can- 
 not be diverted by trifling and alien objects — will be led 
 on and on in au endless progression. One truth seen 
 lX)ints to the next ; one relation of truth to other truths 
 suo-o-ests another and still another relation to other and 
 &till other truths, and the mind thus launches further 
 and further into the infinite ocean of thouo-lit. And as 
 it " goes sounding on its dim and perilous way," it will 
 see sublime and animating scenes. It will come into 
 new hemispheres with new constellations ; it will sail 
 amid the dazzlini"- Mitter and the thunderino- crash of the 
 
 rj CD o 
 
 icy ocean ; it will plough up the phosphoric light of the 
 tropic seas. And even when the student is led on by a 
 merely speculative interest ; even when he does not seek 
 truth tliat he may become better by it, but solely that 
 he may know ; he derives some genuine cultivation 
 imconscionsly. He learns, at least, to hold his mintl to 
 one subject, and to think in trains. To resume our 
 comi)arison, as the intellect is passing through the many 
 worlds of truth into which concatenated thinkini'- hriuirs 
 it, and is skirting their borders, infiuences from them 
 will come oft to it. 
 
 "As when to them who sail 
 Beyond the Capo of irojio, and now aro ])a.sHcd 
 Mozambic, oif at nca northeast wii.ils blow 
 Sabasan odors from the spicy shore 
 Of Araby the blcBs'd." 
 
 Even the merely speculative tliiidccr feels some of the 
 inlluencc which tlio great objects of practical thought, and
 
 220 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 practical faith, exert upon the spirit. Ilciice, such think- 
 ers as Spinoza and Ilcgel, though utterly eiToneous in 
 their pantheistic premise and their pantheistic conclusions, 
 di) nevertheless exhibit a loftiness of scholastic character, 
 and a sedateness of mental habitude, that cannot exist in 
 a man who leads an unthinking and frivolous life. They 
 seem to have acquired from the mere atmosphere of the 
 temple some of the solemnity of the true worshipper. 
 
 This tendency of methodical thought to bring the intel- 
 lect into contact with noble objects is most certainly a 
 soui'ce of good culture. The mind takes its tone and 
 character from the tliemes of its contemplation, and if 
 these are noble and lofty, the mind will become so like- 
 wise. Even those high scientific problems which are ab- 
 stract and cold for the Jieart, and cannot furnisli all the 
 cultivation which an immortal being needs, are infinitely 
 w^orthier than those low and trivial subjects upon which 
 llie mind, unless restrained, will naturally expend its 
 force. If the scholar is marked by intellectual temper- 
 ance ; if he has acquired the power of orderly thought, 
 and the ability to keep his intellect in one train of reflec- 
 tion, he will, as a matter of course, be conversant with 
 great subjects. It is only a fanciful and lawless applica- 
 tion of the mind, which can be content with the vanities 
 of literature. That intellect which is self-controlled, and 
 master of itself, will feel a degradation in an immethodi- 
 cal and desultory use of its power, and will not be at 
 liome except among high truths and themes. 
 
 I turn, now, to notice briefly two other qualities which 
 are at once signs and results of genuine mental culture, 
 and are also intimately coiniected with intellectual self- 
 control. I mean freedom and enthusiasm. These terms 
 are often misunderstood. They are often associated with 
 lawlessness and disorder. Of course if this be their
 
 
 miELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 221 
 
 nature, they cannot be signs and results of self-control. 
 This is not their natnre. Freedom, in its true meaning, 
 is self-snbjection to law ; and hence holiness is the only 
 true freedom, and the Holy Spirit is the only " free 
 spirit." * Enthusiasm is defined, by an eminent thinker, 
 to be the enlar(i:;ement and elevation of soul that arise 
 fi'om the intuition of ultimate principles, f If these are 
 the correct definitions of freedom and enthusiasm, it is 
 evident that thev can exist in an intellectonlv when it is 
 self -governed, and that they will exist necessarily, if it is 
 self -governed. That scholar who rules his mind, and thus 
 checks its wavwarduess, is a free scholar. As that man 
 is possessed of a bold, courageous, physical freedom, who 
 has self-possession, and can at all times keep in check the 
 timid instincts of the physical nature, so that scholar is 
 free in the higher sense, who has habitual control over the 
 instincts of the intellect. For self-control is for the mind, 
 what self-possession is for the body. And the student 
 who is under law is also full of enthusiasm. The deepest 
 aiid most joyful enthusiasm issues from the calm intensity 
 of that contemplation which is the result of discipline. 
 All lofty feeliug in the soul springs from moods that are 
 deep; tliat are fed by great principles and profound 
 meditation ; even as the deepest green of the leaf, and the 
 stateliest growth of the trunk, shoot up from roots that 
 strike far down into a strono; black mould. Genuine en- 
 tliiisiasm in the scliolar is the infallible sign of genuine 
 and thorough discipline. 
 
 J cannot but direct your earnest thouglit to these two 
 attributes of the di.scii)lincd schohir. Freedom and <'ii- 
 thusiasm arc tlie bloom am! llower of the scholar's life 
 
 • PH.ilin li. 12. 
 
 f Coleridge : StatcKman'a Manual, Works. I., I'.V.': IlaiixiiH' Edition.
 
 222 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 There is no vision so frladdeiiiiiij!- to tlie heart of tlic lovor 
 of letters as the vision of an intellect under self-control, 
 rejoicing in the consciousness of power and fi'eedom, and 
 rushing onward with a subdued yet deep enthusiasm 
 through the inliuite realm of truth. There is enjoyment, 
 likewise, in the possession of these intellectual (jualities. 
 Schiller has asserted that the hijifhest eniovmenl is the 
 freedom of the mind, in the living play of all its powers. 
 This is not the highest enjoyment, for there is a higher 
 jo}^ than that of the intellect ; but it is the highest enjoy 
 ment of the intellect. And it is joy, to feel the gush and 
 play of intellectual power ; to be conscious of the living 
 currents of a mind healthy and free, under the principle 
 of self-control. But these qualities, contributing so greatly 
 to the progress and happiness of the scholar, nnist be 
 earned by a thorough discipline. Like all things great and 
 good, they are the fruit of struggle, and of self-surrendry 
 to law. 
 
 Thus have w^e seen that intellectual temperance, the 
 rational' self-control of the intellect, secures a permanent 
 and progressive culture that manifests itself in the power 
 of methodical thought, in an habitual intercourse with 
 noble and ennobling objects of reflection, and in intellec- 
 tual freedom and enthusiasm. 
 
 The principles wdiich have been advanced can be sub- 
 stantiated by an appeal to literary liistory. And I iiivite 
 you to look at the glorious ages of English literature, for a 
 proof that intellectual self-control secures genuine intel- 
 lectual discipline. Go back into the sixteenth and seven 
 teentli centuries, and consider the Bacons, the Hookers, 
 the Raleighs, the Miltons — those masculine births of the 
 masculine ages of England. The scholai", as he goes back 
 to these men and their times, feels himself to l)e in a se- 
 date age, an age of reason, and law, anc" intellectual self
 
 INTELLECTUAL TE^rPERANCE. 223 
 
 government. These were men of thorongh self-restraint, 
 and, therefore, men of methodical thought, of cahn, 
 rational insight into philosophy, statesmanship, and divin- 
 it}'. If we happen to name these great names in the 
 same hreath with the Byrons and Rousseaus of modern 
 days, we feel that tliere is a difference in kind. The so- 
 briety of intellect, the mental abstinence, and the solidity 
 of culture in the former, are of no kith or kin with that 
 waywardness of intellect, that litfuhiess of mental action, 
 that entire absence of stable discipline, and that ntter in- 
 capability of lofty thought, which characterize the latter. 
 The' great men whom I have named did "give all dili 
 gence to add to their knowledge temperance." Their 
 knowledge was permeated by temperance. Temperate in 
 their i)rinciples, and temperate in their application of 
 them ; temperate in their opinions, and temperate in their 
 enunciation of them ; temperate in their feelings, .ind 
 temperate in their exhibition of them ; all ages will ever 
 resort to them for wise, prudent, and profound thoughr. 
 All aa-es will ever a-o to them for their own thorough dis- 
 cipline, and will look upon their minds as the most re- 
 markable examples of solid, sober, mental cultivation. 
 The greatness of their strength is not owing to theii- natu- 
 ral superiority over all men since their day. Great men 
 liave been among us, as great by nature as they. But it 
 is owing to the calm temperate control which they pos- 
 sessed over their minds ; to the |)atient, methodical habit 
 of their intellects. Their whole long lives were a perma- 
 nent and ))rogi-eKsive discipline. Their growth was slow, 
 pure, and solid, like that of tlu; l-ritish oak. hi the 
 phrase of Macon, they are " tin; liciculeses and not th(» 
 Adonises of literature." Ami they were also free and 
 enthusiastic intellects. Nowhere do wo iind more l)old 
 and unshackled thought than in the age from l-'lizabeth
 
 224 INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 to Cliarlcs the Second, and yet no a^ije has developed more 
 of absolute truth in the hio;her domains of knowlcdire. 
 These men were animated hy the freedom and lofty en- 
 thusiasm of truth and reason, and hence they moved, 
 even amon^ the deepest and most solemn themes, " as 
 with the steps of the gods." 
 
 I have thus. Gentlemen, directed your attention to the 
 relation of temperance, the ancient evKpaaia and iyKpuTeia, 
 to mental discipline. I have selected this particular 
 aspect of its influence, because it addresses itself to the 
 sj-nipathics and aspirations of true scholars. I know that 
 if the lofty purpose and the high resolve of the genuine 
 student are in your breasts, your thoughts will gather 
 around the great subject of self-control, and you M'ill have 
 an earnest longing that your intellects may be under its 
 actuation. I know that the mere interests of the intellect 
 are sufficient to awaken a desire, that this faculty may 
 develop itself under the influence of a principle that will 
 secure to it a permanent and progressive culture, and will 
 swell it with a free enthusiasm. I have also dwelt upon 
 this part of the great subject, because it presents what 
 should be the high and worthy aim of the scholar, and 
 because, if by any means you may be prevailed upon to 
 reach after it, the low and grovelling propensities of the 
 animal part will be more likely to slumber. Not that 
 liigh intellectual discipline necessarily and infallibly se- 
 cures temperance of body. The past history of literary 
 men shows that it does not. But the tendency of such 
 self-control over the intellect is to produce self-control 
 over the sense. I have, therefore, felt that every aspi- 
 ration after true intellectual discipline, that may be 
 roused in you, has some influence to draw you away 
 from the intoxicating bowl. I feel that if you are able to 
 soar in the high regions of pure intellectual cultivation.
 
 INTELLECTU-VL TIOIPERANCE. 225 
 
 and of serene tIion<^ht, you will find it harder, in the hour 
 of temptation, to descend and grovel. I know that if you 
 are capable of the clear pure jo}' arising from the intuition 
 of great truths, you will have less and less inclination for 
 the delirious and mad joy that steams up from the wine-cup 
 and the revel. 
 
 But in all that I have said, I have remembered that the 
 intellect is but a part, and an inferior part, of man ; and 
 that its actuation by the principle of self-control is no 
 more the chief end of man, than is the subjection of the 
 passions of the body. There is a part of us higher than 
 the intellect ; a part whereby we are capable of aspira- 
 tions and feelings far purer and loftier than those of the 
 intellect — the reverence, the love, and the adoration of the 
 Eternal God ; a part whereby we are capable of a disci- 
 pline more deep, more boundless, and more sublime than 
 that of the mind — the discipline of the cherubim and 
 serai)liim. And I have also rememl)ered, that upon the 
 cherishing of these higher aspirations, and the progression 
 of this higher discipline, depends your success in com- 
 pletely controlling both the intellect and the sense. All 
 power comes from ab(jve, and goes downward. It never 
 comes from beneath and goes upward. The organic con- 
 trols the inorganic; the vital force subdues the chemi- 
 cal ; the voluntary governs and uses the animal. It is 
 in vain, in any of the kingdoms, to attempt to bring up 
 power from below. l>eiiciicent and really contrc)lling 
 force, descends from something that is higher, to some- 
 thing that is lowei-. In order, therefore, that your mind 
 and body may be subjectcil pi'ilVjctly to self-control, your 
 heart must first vitalize the principle, and send it down 
 to them warm, plastic, and vivifying. Vou nnist not sup- 
 j)ose that you can attain an absolute Hclf-govcrnnKint over 
 even the lower part of you, unless the higher part is also 
 10*
 
 22G INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 controlled l;y the Inw and Spirit of God. Tii this iK/hlor 
 portion of your being, the radical dis(;ipline must bei^in. 
 From this point alone, can rational selt-control i-adiate Into 
 Your cntii-e constitution. If it <i:oes out from this centre, 
 you will ])ecome a thoroughly-discij)lincd, a holi/ being; 
 for the principle of self-control will then show itself to be 
 no other than the principle of religion, and temperance 
 will be the surrendering of the human spirit to the IIolj 
 Spirit, of the luunan will to the Infinite Will. 
 
 I know, therefore, that if any scholarly aspirations are 
 ever awakened in you, and the wish ever rises within to 
 attain genuine mental discipline, you will infallibly fail to 
 realize them in a jjerfect manner, unless you seek aid 
 from the Most High. I know that your wish will never 
 become your strong and abiding will; that you will 
 never become even what, as scholars merely, you in your 
 more hoj^ef ul and aspiring moments long to become ; with- 
 out the new birth of the soul. Ours is a fallen spirit, and 
 we shall never acquire perfect sway over any or all of its 
 powers, unless we go through the great process of re- 
 generation. I might refer you, if you needed proof of 
 this, to those great men whom I have already named. 
 They were religious men. Even those of them who min- 
 gled much with the world, and were much absorbed in the 
 distracting cares of the state, preserved a religious temjier 
 and tone. They felt that the power of the Invisible must 
 actuate them, if they were to keep their robes white ; if 
 they were to succeed in attaining a complete self-govern- 
 ment. Hear the " Student's Prayer," of Lord Bacon : 
 " This also we humbly and earnestly beg, that human 
 things may not prejudice such as are divine ; neither that 
 from the unlocking of the gates of sense, and the kind- 
 ling of a greater natui'al light, anything of incredulity or 
 intellectual night may arise in our minds, towards divine
 
 IXrELLECTrAL TEMPERANCE. 227 
 
 mysteries. But rather, tliat, l)y our mind thoroughly 
 cleansed and pui-ged from fancy and vanities, and yet sub- 
 ject and perfectly given np to the divine oracles, there 
 may be given unto faith the things that are faith's." Hear 
 Milton speak of his great work, as one " not to be raised 
 from the heat of yiouth, or vapors of wine, like that which 
 Hows at waste from the pen of some vulgar amourist, or the 
 trencher fury of a rhyming parasite ; nor to be obtained 
 from the invocation of dame Memory and her syren daugh- 
 ters; but by devout prayer to the Eternal Spirit who 
 can enrich with all utterance and knowledge, and sends 
 out his seraphim with the hallowed fire of his altar, to 
 touch and purify whom he pleases." * 
 
 I would, then, that this sul)ject might lead you, in the 
 end, to the Fountain of law and righteous self-control. I 
 would that you might not aim merely at temperance of 
 body, or temperance of mind, l)ut might seek the highest 
 and most dithcult of all attainments, a temperate will ,' 
 one that is at one with the law of God. If this be in you 
 and abound, it will ])C easy to overcome the blandishmonta 
 of the sense, and the waywardness of the intellect. The 
 will is the main part of you ; and if you knew the mean- 
 ing of this power; if you apprehended the i'lihicss of its 
 life, the inexhaustibleness of its fountains and reservoirs, 
 and felt that all heaven with its harmony, or all hell with 
 its lawlessness, will come out of it, according as it is actu- 
 ated l)y the Spirit of God, or by the spirit of Self, you 
 would earnestly seek its renewal in the Divine Image. 
 
 II ;dl your powers be(;ome pervaded by Holy Will, and 
 it invigorates and atttuates them, you will become a calm, 
 a self-controlled, and a lianin'nioiis being. The ])assions 
 of the body, and the tnore subtle passions of the intellect 
 
 * Milton : Rouhoii of (.'huroh Government, Jlook II.
 
 22S INTELLECTUAL TEMPERANCE. 
 
 and heart will gradually disappear. You will gradually 
 acquire stability, profuiulity, purity, aud loftiness of culti- 
 vation, and your soul will exhibit tluit most beautiful of 
 all growths — the development of innnortal energy under 
 Law. 
 
 " So build we tip the being that we are ; 
 Thus deeply drinking' in the soul of things 
 We shall be wise perforce ; and while ins[)ired 
 By choice, aud conscious that the will is free, 
 Shall move unswerving, even as if impelled 
 By strict necessity, along the path 
 Of order and of good. Whate'er we see, 
 Whate'er we feel, shall tend to feed and nurse, 
 By agency direct or indirect, 
 Our faculties ; shall fix in calmer seats 
 Of moral strength, and raise to loftier heights 
 Of divine love, our intellectual soul."
 
 THE PURITAX CHAEACTER * 
 
 TuE seed, or principle, of a man's character is in exist- 
 ence before him. lie is born with it. This proves its 
 ti'ansniission from progenitors, and this proves its priority 
 to birth. In order, therefore, to a full comprehension of 
 individual character, we must go back to the species of 
 which the individual is a part, A man's sinful character, 
 for example, cannot be understood, unless it is referred to 
 the apostasy of msLuHnd. This was a free act. The indi- 
 vidual, consequently, thouc^h deriving his character, is re- 
 sponsilde for it. The two conceptions of inlieritanco and 
 guilt, by this explanation, are not incompatible ; and while 
 insisting upon personal accountability, not only for partic- 
 ular actions, but for the general disposition from which 
 they proceed, we need not deny the connection of this 
 latter with what has gone before — with the sin of the race. 
 
 These remarks are true, measurably, of the character of 
 a nation. Every national character is, in an important 
 sense, the result of what has preceded it. It is not the 
 result in such a sense that the nation is irresponsible in 
 possessing it ; but in the sense that former ages nnd 
 nations exerted a great, though not a necessitating inllu- 
 cncc u[)on its origin and growtli. All nations are united 
 together ; erpially receiving intluence from the j)ast, and 
 etpuilly tran.smitting it to the future. D(;es a nation 
 
 * Reprinted from the ChriHtiiin OliBorvatory, March, 1817.
 
 230 TIIK PURITAN CHARACTER. 
 
 form a settled national character, entirely independent of 
 the past? A new star sonictimes aj^pears in the sky, 
 shining with its own light, differing from all other stars in 
 glory, and seemingly indcj)endcnt of all the rest of the 
 liost of heaven. Bnt not so with national character. It 
 does not emerge into existence suddenly and independ- 
 ently ; hut is a sknv formation, in great measure shaped 
 and tinged by former ages, institutions, and characters. 
 
 These remarks are true of the Puritan character ; and. 
 before proceeding to describe its prominent trait, let us 
 consider it in its origin, and its relation to what preceded i'. 
 
 The main elements of the Puritan character are Old- 
 English. They came down from the early periods of 
 En^lf^iid's national existence. The erreat Alfred was 
 essentially a Puritan. That trait which led him to devote 
 one-third of his time to religion, and the remainder of it 
 to a severe and strict discharge of the duties devolving 
 upon him in the course of a reign strewed all through 
 with dangers, obstacles, and discouragements, is inti- 
 mately allied to that which made the Pilgrims so deeply 
 religious and so strictly dutiful men. This character coik- 
 timied, l)ut underwent some modifications, through the 
 influence of the Norman invasion, and far more through 
 the influence of advancing civilization. The primitive 
 English character, thus modified, continued tlirough the 
 times of Elizabeth, producing great men in divinity, 
 philosophy, statesmanship, and poetry. After this period 
 it becan to be withdrawn from the mass of the nation 
 into a narrower circle. The nation, as a body, ceased to 
 be animated by the vigorous and pure life of their 
 fathei-s ; and the result was growing superstition and un- 
 spiritiiality in religion, and increasing despotism in gov- 
 ernment. But there dia remain an imier circle, in which 
 the old spij-it dwelt and reigned. Driven from the ex-
 
 THE PUKITAN CHARACTER. 231 
 
 trenilties, the life retreated to tlie heart ; and in the age 
 of the first Charles, the old English character, of which 
 Alfred was the type, existed, in a most pure and dense 
 form, in a small and despised portion of the English peo- 
 ple called the Puritans. Like Wordsworth's dalesmen, 
 
 "Pure livers were they all, austere and grave, 
 And fearing God ; the very children taught 
 Stem self-respect, a reverence for God's word, 
 And an habitual piety, maintained 
 With strictness scarcely known on English ground." 
 
 Thus was the Puritan character a thin 2: of slow and 
 solid formation. It did not start into existence in an 
 instant. Its beginnings must be traced to the union of 
 the best elements of tlie British with the best elements of 
 the Saxon nature ; and its development is the history 
 of the spiritualizing influence of Christianity upon these 
 two excellent and prime ingredients, for eight hundred 
 yeai-s. It grew with the growth, and strengthened with 
 the strength, of the nation. In times of trial and danger 
 it gave clearness to the head, determination to the will, and 
 nerve to the arm, of the best of the people. It was ever 
 on the side of liberty and law, of learning and religion. 
 As it went along through the mutations of ages, it became 
 more and more jmre from foreign particles. Gradually 
 narrowing the limits of its existence, by choosing for its 
 residence the very soundest heads and the very ])ur('st 
 hearts, in the age of Charles the First it exhibited aa 
 noble traits as ever have been soon in human beings. 
 
 England made the term " rnrltau" a rci)i-oai;h, and 
 took sjiecial pains to e.vpcl from it'-df this ex(;ell('nt char- 
 acter. Degenerate England drove ont the I'nritans. They 
 sailed over the ocean which Kej)arates the two worlds. 
 They put the Atlantic betweon them aiul llicir father-
 
 232 TIIK rUKlTAN CIIAKACTEK. 
 
 liind ; and then calmly, proudly, piously deposited the 
 elements of a great empire on the western hemisphere. 
 
 AVe now inqnire, What is the prominent trait of the 
 Puritan character? The fundamental trait of the Puri- 
 tan character, upon which all its excellencies rest, and by 
 which even its faults are to be explained, is sjnrituality of 
 inind. By spiritualit}' of mind, we do not now mean 
 what is denoted by the theological delinition of the phrase. 
 Most oii the Puritans were regenerated men, and were 
 gpiritually-minded in the New-Testament sense of the 
 term. But, apart from this characteristic, which results 
 only from the new birth, there was a peculiarity in the 
 Puritan mind which perhaps cannot be denoted better 
 than by the term "spirituality." 
 
 In accommodating the word to our present purpose, we 
 mean by it that disposition which leads its possessor to 
 believe in the invisible world, and to refer to it, both in 
 his thoughts and actions. Though man, by creation, is a 
 spiritual being, and is destined to S2">end the inlinite part 
 of his existence in the unseen world, yet he knows but 
 little about that world, and it engages but little of his 
 thought. Man generally has no sense of the reality of that 
 sphere which is to be his eternal dwelling-place. Sin is 
 the chief cause of this ignorance, and insensibility. If 
 man were pure of heart, eternity would not be a dim or 
 undiscovered country. It would have substantial reality 
 for him, and he would think and act with reference to it, 
 as the most permanent of all realities. But, besides this 
 main and universal cause of man's ignorance of the spirit- 
 ual world, there is a minor one arising from the mental 
 constitution. We sometimes meet a person thoughtful 
 by nature, serious-minded, and inclined to contemplate 
 the mvsterious and invisible. Unseen thino-s have more 
 reality to him than to the thoughtless and frivolous man
 
 THE PUKITAN CHAKACTER. 233 
 
 He naturally believes that there are more things in the 
 universe than can be seen by the eye, or touched by the 
 hand. Such a man differs from the mass, by this dispo- 
 sition to find reality behind the visible and material. It 
 is not difhcult for him to believe in the supernatural. He 
 is, in this sense, spirituallv-mindcd, and predisposed to 
 believe in, and think about, unseen things. 
 
 The same difference of constitution appears in nations, 
 as well as in individuals. We find some nations naturally 
 inclined to believe in spiritual and unseen realities, while 
 others are disinclined. Tlie former do not need, or make 
 use of, the visible symbol, but rest satisfied with tlie idea ; 
 while tlie latter find it difficult to apprehend the idea at 
 all, and need and use a inaterial sign, by which it shall be 
 signified. The former are spiritual, the latter material, in 
 their modes of thought. It has been observed by writers 
 upon this subject, that, as a general rule, this difference of 
 mental constitution follows, and accords with, the differ- 
 ence of climate. The nations of the torrid zone are sen- 
 suous in their conce[)tions, while those of the cold zones 
 are spiritual. For this reason, the paganism of the south 
 of p]urope was very different from that of northern 
 Europe. The southern heathen liad gods many and lords 
 nuxny ; but he must see them and handle them, in (udcr 
 t<^ believe in their reality; and therefore he carved nu- 
 merous id(jls, and buildcfl many temples, in wliidi his 
 divinities should dwell. The northern heulhrn had icwcr 
 gods, and could believe in their reality wilhout the aid of 
 the visible form. Jle hewed no idol, and he erected no 
 temple; he worshipped his (li\inity in spii-it, bcncatli the 
 open sky, in the free air. The keen vigoj- inlnscil inldliio 
 ho(]y by the northci-n winter, and the inllucnccs whic^U 
 rained down fr«»m the cold northern sky, glittering with 
 intensely bright stars, and gleaming and fiashiug with the
 
 234 THE ruRiTAN character. 
 
 northern Hi^lita, seem to liavc induced spirituality of 
 thouglit and conception in the northern lieatlien ; while 
 the languid air, and enervatini^ inlhiences, of the warm 
 zone, tended to make the southern heathen shio:<;ish, earthly, 
 and sensuous, in his modes of thought. 
 
 From their northern extraction, the Puritans derived 
 what we have styled, in an accommodated sense, spiritual- 
 ity of mind; or the disposition to believe in the super- 
 natural, the ability to realize it w^ithout the aid of visible 
 things, and the inclination to refer to it in thought and 
 action. This, we think, is the ground, and native princi- 
 ple of the Puritan character. From this sprang the 
 many virtues, and the few faults of the Puritans. 
 
 That we may more fully apprehend this their funda- 
 mental characteristic, let ns contemplate it as we see its 
 manifestation in the three main relationships of human 
 life, — the social, civil, and religious. 
 
 1. Every one knows that the social life of the Puritans 
 was extremely simple in its structure. Their customs, 
 manners, and habits were singularly severe. They made 
 little of fashions, and the outward appeudages of society ; 
 and that long list of modes and conventionalities which 
 is the sum and substance of much of modern social inter 
 course was unknown to them. Their inborn disposition 
 to believe that the inward and invisible is the substantially 
 true and real led tliem, in their social relations, to regard, 
 the feelinifs and sentiments of the heart, rather than the 
 actions and appeai-ance of the body. Therefore^ though 
 the social life of the Puritans exhibits an exceedingly 
 simple, in some respects a bald and uncouth appear- 
 ance, it would be a great error to deny, that underneath 
 the outward appearance there was a noble, kind, and gen- 
 erous courtesy. There has never been a human society 
 in which there was mere of genuine gentility, than there
 
 THE PURITAN CnAEACTER. 235 
 
 was ainoTio; them. The social charities and neio-hborly 
 sympathies never liad a more free phxy than in the 
 Puritan heart. Good-\A'ill, which is the essence of polite- 
 ness, animated the Pnritan community ; and exliibi- 
 tions of kindness and courtesy in that society could be 
 depended upon, as the manifestation and true index of its 
 spirit. 
 
 This state of society was the natural growth of the dis- 
 position, native to the Puritan, to believe lirmly in tlio 
 unseen, and to make more of that than of tlie visible. 
 The neighbor cared little for the outward demeanor of his 
 neighbor, but everything for his inward temper. Tho 
 friend took but little notice of the dress or manners of his 
 friend, but directed a most keen and piercing glance to 
 the tenor of his feelings. The citizen paid but little at- 
 tention to the aiidible and outward professions of his fel- 
 low-citizen, but deemed the invisible and secret .opinions 
 of his mind to be the main object of attention. What 
 cared the Puritan for the mean apparel and the rustic 
 manner, if there were only an honest, upright, and kind 
 heart throbbing in the bosom? And what cared tho 
 Puritan for the most gorgeous apparel and the most ])olite 
 demeanor, if within the breast there were nothing but self- 
 ish indifference and hypocrisy ? 
 
 Thus, there grew out of this disposition to regard tho 
 invisible, a singularly sincere and simple state of societ3^ 
 All of its ari-angcmcnts referred to what is within, and 
 unseen by the material eye. It is not denied that tho 
 Puritans, under the impulse of this strong tendency to 
 regard the unseen, neglected, in too great a degref, to re- 
 gard what is seen and outward. Put this is always a 
 minor fault, ami one that is committed only by a very 
 spiritual mind. It is V)otter to go to this e.\trem(j tiiai\ to 
 the other; aixl it is more easy to reach the golden mean
 
 23G TJIE rURITAN CHARACTER. 
 
 from this end tliaii from the otlier. It is far more easy 
 for the intensely spiritual man to cnltivate liimself into a 
 dne regard for the ontward and ap})arent, than it is for 
 the intensely earthly man to school himself into a spirit- 
 ual way of thonii^ht. Indeed, it may be said of these two 
 courses of cultivation, that the former alone is really feasi- 
 ble. Man can come down from heaven to earth, but lie 
 cannot go up from earth to heaven. lie can fall, but he 
 camiot rise. 
 
 Taken as a whole, therefore, the social life of the Puri- 
 tans is a fair and admirable structure. If, in some minor 
 respects, it is deficient ; if there is not so much finish and 
 .idornmcnt laid out upon the exterior as there might be ; 
 Btill the great plan of the edifice is noble, and the archi- 
 tecture lofty and beautiful. It has the beauties and faults 
 of the great edifices of the natural world. Like the 
 mountain, it rises into the clear sky in grandeur, and with 
 a beautiful outline ; like the mountain, it has spots that 
 are rugged and bare. 
 
 2. We come, now, to the consideration of this trait of 
 character, as exhibited in the Puritan govei'nment. The 
 principles by which the Puritans were guided in the es- 
 tablishment and maintenance of government were in the 
 highest degree rational. Those principles were spiritual ; 
 tliat is, they flowed from pure law and pure reason, and 
 not from an earthly and material source. The Puritan 
 felt that government is a great and solemn interest ; that 
 it is an ordinance of God ; that its organizing princi2)les 
 must be drawn from the invisible world, and that its 
 Banctions must come from heaven. All the reverence and 
 fear that comes down upon man from the supernatural 
 world, he felt, must be brought to bear in upholding 
 human government. Thus, did the tendency of his miiid 
 lead him to refer to the unseen, in his civil relatioJis, and
 
 THE PURITAN CHARACTER. 237 
 
 to found government upon purely rational and spiritual 
 principles. 
 
 Hence, the spirituality of the Puritan government. As 
 soon as we compare it with that of the European nations 
 from whose atmosphere the Puritans had just departed, 
 we see a striking difference. It is simple in its structure, 
 its arrangements, and its working. The European mind, 
 accustomed to a material and unsj^iritual mode of thought, 
 because its faith in the invisible was weak, and its vision 
 of pure principles was dim, had established government 
 not mainly upon law and reason, but upon forms, prece- 
 dents, arbitrary will, and absolute power. The structure 
 of government in Europe was complicated, its arrangement 
 irrational, and its working exceedingly despotic. It })re- 
 sented to the eye of an observer a long arra}' of forms 
 and ceremonies, under which it was difficult to discover 
 the first principles of law and right, even if they were 
 originally at the bottom, and l)y which those principles 
 were straitened and hindered in tiieir effectual woi'king. 
 A philo.-ophical observer of the governments of Europe, 
 at that time, would be led to su])pose that man had cither 
 entiix'ly lost sight of the pure, spiritual i)rin(;iplcs of gov- 
 ernment, or else, as was most probaijly the case, was un- 
 willing to let them have a free and unhampered operation. 
 Such an observer would see that there was but little faith, 
 among the nations, in the great principles of reason and 
 law, and that the state depended for security ui)on tilings 
 px3en and material ; upon the trappings of royalty, the 
 appendages of nobility, the pomp and (•ir(;umstan(rc of 
 ofKce, the sword and the cunnoii. 
 
 It was reserved for the Puritans to found a govcni- 
 mcnt on ])nre princi]'!*'. 'J'li(;y estiiblislicd but few olHces. 
 They strip])i!d <Mi Iimih governinciitiil institutions the 
 forms in which they had ln'cn foi- so many centuries en
 
 23S THE PUKITAN CIIAKACTER. 
 
 cased, and let men see the steady and beautiful operation 
 of just maxims, as applied to the regulation of human 
 eociety. They were not afraid to rest so i^reat a super- 
 structure as the national government, upon what ap[)ears 
 to the earthly-minded to be a very weak and unsafe foun- 
 dation, a few invisible and rational principles. They had 
 faith" in the unseen, and knew that law and reason, 
 tlu)ugh not visible to the outward eye, are full of " the 
 power of an endless life." 
 
 The more we contemplate the system of government 
 established by the Puritans, the more clearly shall we see 
 the native spirituality of the Puritan mind exhibited in it. 
 The disposition to appeal to what is within man, and so to 
 subject him to wholesome restraint, by means of rational 
 l^rinciples, is very apparent in it. Law, in its pure naked 
 reality, was brought before the inward eye; and men 
 obeyed freely, and like rational freemen, as they were. 
 Thi'ougliout the whole Puritan commonwealth, so safely 
 and beautifully did government do its perfect work, that 
 peace and order prevailed ; and the interference of the 
 ofli(;er, the outward and visible representative of govern- 
 ment, was rarely needed. Government was, in the best 
 sense of the term, self-goverument ; a voluntary subjec- 
 tion of self to those great maxims of reason and con- 
 science which are invisible, and wliich connect man with 
 the unseen world and the invisible God. Thus did the 
 prominent trait in the Puritan character manifest itself in 
 the Puritan government. 
 
 3. AVe pass now to tiie religion of the Puritans. In 
 this, too, we iiud their fundamental characteristic mani- 
 festing itself with great power and intensity. Christian- 
 ity never appeared in a more si)iritual form, than it did 
 in the first periods of the histoiy of New England. It 
 was despoiled entirely of all in which it had been clothed
 
 THE PURITAN CHARACTER. 239 
 
 bj superstition and fonnalism, and stood out unencum- 
 bered by rites and ceremonies, a free, pure, and spiritual 
 realit\'. Xe\v England felt that God is a spirit, and wor- 
 shipped him in spirit and in truth. 
 
 But, let us scrutinize more narrowly the different parts 
 of the Puritan religion, and we shall more clearl}' see their 
 Tiatural temper exhibited in it. For, be it ever remembered, 
 that, although Christianity is a living principle coming 
 down from heaven, and is therefore essentially one and 
 the same in all men, yet it will receive some hues from 
 the native traits of the mind in which it takes up its resi- 
 dence. Christianity in the French mind, though not 
 essentially, yet in its manifestation, is different from 
 Christianity in the English mind. 
 
 The Clu-istian religion })resented a remarkable ap[)ear- 
 ance, when it lodged itself among the native enei'gics of 
 the Puritan character. Naturally inclined to regard the 
 invisible as the chief reality, and disposed to make but 
 little of things seen and material, it was natural that the 
 Puritan shouhl make religion a matter pertaining mainly 
 to the unseen woi-ld, and should strip it, as far as possible, 
 of all earthly conceptions, and all material forms. Hence, 
 the spirituality of their mode of worship. They had no 
 form of prayer, Init spake as the sj)irit gave them utter- 
 ance. Tliey laid no stress upon postures, but let the body 
 bend luiturally to the movements of the soul. They were 
 afraid, to a fault, of devotional nnisic and poetry ; for 
 tliey feared lest their tlioughts should 1)0 drawn away 
 from the j)ure and naked realities oL unoiiicr world. 
 They made much of the sermon, because they felt that 
 truth is spiritual, and is a revelation Irom the invisible 
 God. 
 
 Again, if we consider the scluMue of docti-ine received 
 by tlie L'urilaiis, we shall see their spiritual Iriiduncy. It
 
 240 THE PURITAN CHARACTER. 
 
 was strict and pure. It was the theolop^yof such spiritual 
 men as Aucjustinc and Calvin. This thcolog)^ brings man 
 into the immediate presence of God. It allows of no 
 mediator between God and man, except Ilim who is God- 
 man. Tlie deity is thus brouglit into direct contact with 
 humanity; heart to heart, spirit to spirit, life to life. 
 Man is nsliered directly into the eternal world ; and, in 
 view of its scenes and realities, is led to make his peace 
 with God, through the atonement of God. This theology 
 is exceedingly spiritual and soul-searching. It charges 
 utter sinfulness upon man, convicts and eternally damns 
 him, brings him trembling in his guiltiness to the foot of 
 God, where he ought to be, and then bids him look up, 
 to see if indeed there may be mercy for him. 
 
 There have been milder types of Cliristian doctrine 
 than Calvinism. There were such in the times of the 
 Puritans; but their native spirituality of mind, among 
 other causes, led them to the reception of the strictest and 
 purest theology in the Churc^h. They desired to see the 
 plain and naked truth of God. It was their disposition to 
 remove all coverings, and get at the core. They did not 
 shrink from the consequences of such thorough scrutiny, 
 and they did not fear the results of seeing the bare, con- 
 Bcience-searchino; truths of the eternal world. Thouffh 
 the intolerable brightness should blind and blast them in 
 that guiltiness which they shared in common with all 
 men, they knew that in this way alone would they be pre- 
 pared to stand the fires of the last day. Their spirits 
 obtained no rest, until they had known the worst of tlieir 
 case, and the direst rigor of divine truth. And when 
 they had once thoroughly known the whole pure ti-nth of 
 God, they stood firm. They could never again be moved ; 
 they could never again be terrified. They were ready, 
 then, for the blast of the archangel's trump, for the resur-
 
 THE PURITAX CHARACTER. 24:1 
 
 rection of their own bodies, for the burning-iip of the 
 world, for the passing away of the heavens, and for the 
 irrevocable sentence of the final day of doom. 
 
 Thus, possessing naturally a disposition to slight the 
 formal and visible, and having this disposition intensified 
 and energized by the indwelling presence of a most 
 severely spiritual theology, is 'it any wonder that the Puri- 
 tans abhorred formalism in reli";ion ? Is it anv wonder 
 tiiat they dissented, to the bottom of their souls, from all 
 showy and seeming Christianity ? What satisfaction 
 could men find in hc^Uow rites and unmeaning ceremonies, 
 whose spirits were hungering for pure spiritual food, for 
 the living word of God? What peace could men find in 
 false and shallow exhibitions of truth, whose consciences 
 had been set on fire by the clear vision of the Divine 
 Law ? No ! these men had made thorouMi work in search- 
 ing their own spirits ; and now, nothing but the pure gos- 
 pel could give them rest. These men had looked into the 
 other world, and they felt that a formal religion and a lax 
 theology cannot prepare a man to enter into its pure, soul- 
 searching light. 
 
 Tiius, by nature, by education, and by regeneration, the 
 Puritans were spiritually-minded. That original trait in 
 their character, of which we have spoken, reached its 
 very heiglit of life and al)s<)lute inteiisity of power, 
 through the influences of the Holy Spirit, In society, 
 and in government, we found them to be highly spiritual ; 
 in religion, m'c iind them to be absolutely spiritual. 
 
 Having thus contcinplatod the prominent trait of the 
 Puritan character, it is readily seen that all the excellence 
 and glory of New England must be directly referred to 
 it, as tlieir source. Our pn^scnt comparative Him[)licity of 
 manners and purity of social life must bo referred to it. 
 11
 
 242 TIIK rUUITAN CirAUACTER. 
 
 The freedom and beauty of our government must be re- 
 ferred to it. The spirituality of our mode of worship 
 and the purity of our scheme of religious doctrine must 
 be referred to it. That we are Protestants, is owing to 
 our fathers. That, as a people, we dissent from formalism 
 in religion, is owing to their instruction and jorayers. 
 Burke said of New England, when as a people it was still 
 in the gristle, to use his own phrase, that it possessed " the 
 dissidence of dissent, the Protestantism of the Protestant 
 religion." * If that great statesman could rise from his 
 gi-ave, and look upon us now, when tlie gristle h<is become 
 hardened into bones, well strung with thews and thickly 
 netted with sinews, he could still say that New England 
 is largel}' possessed of the very dissidence of dissent 
 against all formalism in religion, and that the veriest 
 Protestantism, the pure defecated essence of the Protestant 
 religion, is its animating life and its actuating principle. 
 
 But, although we have reason to be thank'f nl, that so 
 much of the vigor of the Puritan character is still felt by 
 us as a people, we have reason to fear lest that vigor wane 
 away and die out, under the unfavorable influences to 
 which it is exposed. That vigor, though it still animates 
 us, is not so intense as it was two hundred 3'ears ago. We 
 liave lost too much of the spirit of our fathers. AV^e 
 have lost much of their faith in invisible things, and are 
 greatly engrossed in things seen and temporal. Luxury 
 and ease, the results of advancing civilization and im- 
 provement in the arts, are enervating us. False princi- 
 ples in social organization, in government, and in religion, 
 are stealing, like slow poison, through our arteries. We 
 are beginning to lose the Puritan reverence for the word 
 of God, the church of God, and the sabbath of God. 
 
 * Speech on Conciliation with America.
 
 THE PURITAN CHAEACTER. 243 
 
 It becomes ns, therefore, to make the Puritan character 
 a model for imitation. AVe ought to study it, until we 
 see it in all its massive strength and simple beauty. We 
 ought to invigorate ourselves, by drawing fresh life from 
 the spirituality of our ancestors. Let us remember that 
 our fathers were spiritually-minded, and were greatly 
 under the influence of the other world ; that they read 
 God's word, kept God's sabbath, and feared God himself 
 with a solemn awe. Their blood flows in our veins ; let 
 their spirit dwell in our breasts.
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE* 
 
 Mu. Pkesident AJfD Gentlemen : 
 
 On tlie 22d of March, 1775, Edmund Burke, pleading 
 for the liberties of the American Colonies, in the British 
 House of Commons, had occasion to allude to their marvel- 
 lous growth, as outrunning everything of the kind in the 
 then past history of England, or the world. In less than 
 seventy years, he said, the trade with America had in- 
 creased twelvefold. It had grown from a half-million of 
 pounds per annum to six millions — a sum nearly equal to 
 the whole export trade of England at the beginning of the 
 eighteenth century. This rapid growth, he continued, 
 might all be spanned by the life of a single man, " whose 
 memory might touch the two extremities." Lord Bath- 
 urst was old enough in 1704, to understand the figures 
 and the facts, as thev then stood. The same Lord l>ath- 
 ui-st in 1775 was a member of that parliament before 
 whom the great orator was recnting the new facts that 
 were stranger than fiction, in order to waken England to 
 a consciousness that the colonies beyond the sea were bono 
 of her b(;ne, and flesh of her flesh, and must be treated 
 accordingly. Warming from the gravity of his tlu-mo, 
 
 * An oddreHB before the MuaHachuHotts GoloaiKatiou Society, May 27,
 
 24G TllK AFRIOAN NATIKE. 
 
 and kindling in soul as the vision slowly evolved before 
 him, he represents the guardian angel of the youthful 
 r>athurst as drawing aside the curtain of the future, and 
 unfolding the rising glories of his country ; and, particu- 
 larly, as pointing him, while absorbed in the commercial 
 grandeur of England, to " a little speck scarce visible in 
 the mass of the national interest, a small seminal princi- 
 ple rather than a formed body," and as saying to him : 
 " Young man, there is America ; which, at this day, 
 serves for little more than to amuse you with stories of 
 savage men and uncouth manners ; yet it shall, before you 
 taste of death, show itself equal to the whole of that com- 
 merce which now atti-acts the envy of the world." * 
 
 We have alluded to this well-known, but ever fresh and 
 fine prosopopoeia of the great Englishman, because it 
 spontaneously comes into memory when one begins to 
 read, to think, or to speak upon Africa. That tropical 
 continent lies nearly as dim and vague before the mind of 
 this generation, as the cold and cheerless America did be- 
 fore the mind of Eiiirland when Johnson and Burke were 
 boys. With the exception of a small strip of the Atlantic 
 coast, the wilds of this Western world were as unknown 
 to the Englishman of 1700, as the jungles of Soudan or 
 the highlands of Central Africa are to us. And yet it 
 may be, that there are youth of this generation who will 
 live to see those dim beginnings of Christianity, of civili- 
 zation, and of empire, which are now scarcely visible on 
 the African Atlantic coast, expanded and still expanding 
 into vigorous and vital churches, into strong and mighty 
 states. The guardian angel, in this instance too, might 
 with perhaps as much prol)ability of verification, say to 
 the youth whom he leads by the hand : " Young man, 
 
 * Speech on Conciliation with America.
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. " 247 
 
 there is Afi'ica; which, at this day, serves for little more 
 than to amuse you with stories of savage men and uncoutli 
 manners ; vet it shall, before you taste of death, take its 
 place among the continents, and be no longer an unknown 
 world." 
 
 For, nothing is more wonderful than the changes and 
 transformations of history. But, involved as every pres- 
 ent generation is in the great stream, and whirled along 
 by it, it is not strange that no generation of men are ever 
 fully aware of the strength and rapidity of their own 
 movement. He who belongs to another generation, and 
 looks back, can sees that in such a centurj', and in such a 
 quarter of the globe, a mighty current was running. The 
 6i)ectator always sees more than the actor. The rare pro- 
 phetic mind, also, that beholds the future in the instant, 
 may foresee and predict a history too great and grand for 
 contemporaneous belief. The philosophic statesman is 
 aware of what isgoino: on in the stru<::<rlino: masses around 
 him, and auspicates accordingly. But the common man, of 
 the busy present time, never knows the rate he is moving; 
 because he is liimself absorl^ed and carried headlong in the 
 movement. It is not strange, therefore, that all hopeful 
 glowing vaticination, in respect to changes upon this sin- 
 smitten planet, is regarded with distrust. Such anticipa- 
 tions are supposed to belong to the poet and the orator. 
 They have no support in the data and calculations of the 
 statistician or tlie statesman. 
 
 (Jailed upi^n then, as we are at this time, to consider 
 the present and ])rospective condition of the most 
 wret(thed and unpromising (puirter of the globe, by the 
 voice of that Colonizing Society which has already done 
 more than any other single association lor the welfare of 
 Africa, and which is destined, wc believe, under that be- 
 nign Providence which ha.> protected and blcs.-cd it thus
 
 218 TIIK AFKIUAN NATLKE. 
 
 far, to SCO its own great itlcas and plans realized ; called 
 uix)n to speak and to think for a hundred millions of our 
 fellow creatures, by a small corporate body, not yet a 
 half-century old, and annually disbursing only a few 
 tht)nsands of dolhirs, we desire to assign some reasons for 
 believing that a career similar to that of the British colo- 
 nies in America, and similar to that of all the great colo- 
 nizing movements of the past, awaits the Republic of 
 Liberia. 
 
 What, then, are the grounds for expecting that the 
 plans and purposes of the American Colonization Society 
 will be ultimately realized, in the Christianization of the 
 African continent ? 
 
 1. The first reason for this expectation is of a general 
 nature, Africa has no past history. It is the continent 
 of the future ; for, it is the ordy one now left to feel for 
 the first time the recuperating influences of a Christian 
 civilization. Keligion, law, and letters began their march 
 in Asia, and a large part of that continent once felt their 
 influence. From thence they passed into Europe ; and 
 Europe is still the stronghold of religion, law, and letters. 
 AVestward they then took their way ; and the vast spaces 
 of the American continent are still waiting for the Chris- 
 tianityand republicanism that have so rapidly, and firmly, 
 taken possession of tliat comparatively small belt called 
 the United States. It is true that these influences were, 
 for a time, felt alono; the northern border of Africa. 
 Egypt and Carthage were once civilized ; and a very 
 vigorous Christianity, for three centuries, erected its altar, 
 and kept its fires bright, along the southern shore of the 
 Mediterranean. But Egypt, though African in natui-eand 
 blood, derived its ideas from Asiatic sources; and its 
 place in history is Asiatic rather than African. That 
 ancient and wonderful pantheistic civilization whicli built
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 249 
 
 Thebes and the pyramids, was but the corrupted remains 
 of a yet more ancient Asiatic monotheism ; as South tells 
 us that " an Aristotle was but the rubbish of an Adam, 
 and Athens but the rudiments of paradise." Carthage 
 was Phoenician ; and when both Egypt and Carthage were 
 absorbed into Rome, North-xVfrica belonged much more 
 to the European than to the properly African quarter of 
 the globe. The great continent, then, notwithstanding 
 all these attempts at approach for thousands of years, lies 
 lone and solitary. It is out of all historical connections ; 
 so much 80, that the genei'alizing Ilegel, after a very 
 brief characterization of it, in his Philosophy of History, 
 dismisses it with the remark : " We now leave Africa, 
 and shall make no further mention of it. That which 
 we understand by Africa proper is totally destitute of a 
 history; is totally unopened and undeveloped; and can, 
 therefore, l)e merely hinted at, on the threshold of Uui- 
 Tcrsal History." * 
 
 Kow, there is something in this fact that inspires ex- 
 pectation. It may be vague, but it is large and full. The 
 mode and manner may be left to conjecture, or imagina- 
 tion ; but the fact that one whole quarter of the globe 
 has never yet been visited by the great influences of reli- 
 gion, law, and letters, taken in connection with the fact 
 that these influences are a part of the plan and destina- 
 tif>n of God in reference to the whole world, aiul the 
 tohofe human fiimily, lead to the confident faith that this 
 will not always be so. Nature, it was said, abhors a 
 vacuum. Empty spaces will be filled and peopled. His- 
 tory treads no step l)ackwanl. I lor voice cries, " Ever 
 onward ! " as the guiding Genius, according to Schiller, 
 continually sounded in the ear of Columbus on the gray 
 
 J J, ♦ ilrg.;i's Wcikc, IX., 12:}.
 
 2')0 TIIK AFRICAN NATURE. 
 
 waste cf waters, " Ever westward 1 Ever to the West ! " 
 Who expects that poj^iihition, law, and manners will ever 
 flow hackward again, from the Alle<^lianies or the Ilocky 
 Mountains ? Who expects that the great changes and 
 alterations of the future are to take place on the old 
 theatres of Assyria, Macedonia, Greece, and Rome ; or on 
 the more recent, yet already antiquated arenas of Modern 
 Europe ? The winds rush where there is vacancy. The 
 great historic currents of the next half-millennium must 
 disembogue where they find room. 
 
 The fact, then, that there is no pre-occupancy, and no 
 effete civilization, in the African world, is a ground of 
 expectancy and of courage in regard to it. It is a nega- 
 tive preparation for great results, when the time arrives. 
 
 2. A second ground of confident hope, in reference to 
 the future of Africa, is found in the qualities of the 
 African nature. The characteristics of the African man 
 are still almost as unknown, as those of the African soil or 
 the African flora. There are two reasons for this. In the 
 first place, the African has never been in a situation where 
 the depth and reserve of his nature has been drawn upon. 
 Only the superficies of his being has been called into 
 exercise ; so that his real and true manhood lies as hidden 
 as the sources of the Nile. In the second place, and as a 
 consequence of this, only his surface-traits and character- 
 istics have appeared in his portraiture. These, moreover, 
 having been exorbitantly unfolded, because there lias 
 been none of the balance and moderation of a deeper edu- 
 cation and culture, have been as extravagantly depicted. 
 The black man in literature is, therefore, either a weakling 
 or a caricature. The comic side of him, alone, comes into 
 view. The single sonnet of AVordsworth upon the chief- 
 tain Toussaint, and the " sparkles dire of fierce, vindictive 
 Bong," from the American Whittier, are almost the only
 
 THE AFKICAN XATLKE. 251 
 
 literary allusions to the sublime and tragic elements in the 
 negro's nature and condition ; certainly the only allusions 
 that, without any abatement and introduction of ludicrous 
 traits, ally him soleli/ with human 
 
 " exultations, agonies, 
 And love, and man's unconquerable mind." 
 
 The African nature is the tropical nature. All the 
 races that have hitherto struggled upon the arena of his- 
 tory have belonged to the temperate zone. The Egyptian, 
 the Assyrian, the Babylonian, the Persian, the Greek, the 
 Macedonian, the Roman, the Goth, the Frank, the English- 
 man, the Anglo-American — all lived north of Cancer. 
 And the fact, that thus far the inter-trupical portion of 
 the globe has furnished few or none of the elements of 
 human history, is very often cited to prove that it can 
 furnish none. It has almost come to be an axiom, that 
 tiie hot zone cannot ripen man. Brazil may crystallize 
 diamonds of the purest water, and Africa may distil the 
 most elaborate juices and gums; but high intelligence 
 and free will nnist grow up beneath northern skies. 
 
 Now, it is undoubtedly true that i\\c, fallen human be 
 ing needs stimulation, and that ainfid man has done best 
 M'heu he has l>een crowded from the outside. Easy and 
 pleasant circumstances have always proved too much for 
 liis feeble virtue. Hence, though he was created in para- 
 dise, and lapped in elysium so long as he could bear it, 
 yet, the very moment he unfitted himself for such ])erpet- 
 ual ])eace and joy, lie was driven out among the thorns 
 and thistles, and com[)elled to eat his bread in the sweat 
 of hia brcnv'. In c<»nse(picnce of human ap(jstafiy, tiieii, 
 and f<jr no other reason, the general movement of inimau 
 history liaa been in climes and under skies that havo
 
 252 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 
 
 tasked man, and have fretted him to action. While, 
 therefore, it is conceded that the coklor zones and the 
 harder soils have been favorable, like the primitive curse 
 of labor itself, to the best unfolding of an imperfect and 
 a corrupt humanity, it stills remains true, that man Avas 
 originally made for an outwai-d woi-ld of genial warmth, of 
 luxuriant growth, and of beauty. The primitive man was 
 nude ; his light labor was merely to prune away luxuri- 
 ance; and his spiritual mind, sanctified by direct inter- 
 course with angel, seraph, and the Eternal Mind, could 
 both endure and profit by the otherwise enervating bliss 
 and beauty of Eden. This original intent and adaptation 
 of the Ci-eator warrants the belief, that as there are some 
 circumstances and influences under a temperate sky that 
 are favorable to human development, so there are some, 
 also, beneath a torrid one. Wherever man can sro and 
 live, there he can grow and thrive. Wisdom rejoiceth in 
 all the habitable parts of the earth ; and her delights are 
 with all the sons of men. 
 
 What, then, are the fundamental peculiarities of the 
 African, or of man within the tropics, that afford ground 
 for faith and confidence that human nature will here also, 
 in due season, exhibit a culture and character unique and 
 fine ? 
 
 Before proceeding to give only the very brief answer, 
 which the time allows, to this question, it is necessary to 
 direct attention to the comprehensiveness of the word 
 " African." We mean by it, and it properly denotes, a 
 physical and mental structure that belongs to the African 
 continent as a M'hole, in the same sense that the Asiatic 
 structure belongs to Asia, and the European structure be- 
 longs to Europe. The term, therefoi-e, includes a variety 
 of races ; all, however, characterized by certain common 
 traits. From the mouths of the Nile to the Cape of Good
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 253 
 
 Hope, the observing traveller will find a primary type of 
 mankind, different from the Shemitic, and different from 
 the Japhetic ; a style of man which is original and sni- 
 generis ; and the minor varieties of which can easily be 
 accounted for, by the physical changes that are made by 
 varieties in the modes of living, and particularly in the 
 degrees of proximity to the burning equatorial line. 
 
 It is the misfortune of Africa, that only the most de- 
 graded portion of its population have been its representa- 
 tives before the world. The enslaved, and thereby ira- 
 bruted negro is the only specimen from which the civilized 
 world obtains its ideas, and draws its conclusions, as to the 
 dignity and capabilities of the tropical man. But, the 
 coast negro, as we shall soon have occasion to see, is, in 
 his best estate, merely the extreme of the African type ; 
 and even he has not yet been seen in his best estate. 
 What would be thought of a generalization, in respect to 
 the native traits and capacities of the whole Celtic stock — 
 of the entire Ijlood of polished France, and elorpient Ire- 
 land, and the galhmt Scotch Highlands — that should be 
 deduced from the In-utish descendants of those Irish who 
 were driven out of Ulster and South Down in the time of 
 Cromwell ; men, now, of the most repulsive characteris- 
 tics ; " with ojien projecting mouths, prominent and ex- 
 posed gums, advancing cheek-bones, depressed noses, 
 hciglit, five feet two inches on an average, bow-legge<l, 
 aljortively featured, their clothing, a wisp of rags ; spectres 
 of a people that were once well-grown, able-bodied, an<I 
 comely." But such a judgment would be of e(]ual value 
 with that narrow estimate of the natural traits and char- 
 acteristics of the inhabitants of one entire quarter of the 
 globe, which rests \ii»<»n an ac(piaintan(re with a small i)or- 
 tion of them, a m(!re inlinitesimal of them, carried into h 
 foreign land and reduced to slavery.
 
 25 i THE AFIilCAN NATUKE. 
 
 The African seems to differ from the European and the 
 Asiatic, by a fuller, more profuse, and more sensuous 
 orixanization. lie is emi)hatically the child of the Earth 
 and the Sun. His tissues are not compact, tougli, and 
 iibrous, like those of the more northern races. On the 
 contrary, they are tumid, and betoken a luxurious soil. 
 The organs of the senses — the eyes, nose, mouth, and ears 
 — are " rich," in the technical phrase of the physiogno- 
 mist ; and in the extreme types are animal and coarse. 
 Man is like the earth he lives upon ; and the African man 
 corresponds to that tropical soil and climate, in which 
 every seed swells and sprouts with the rank luxuriance of 
 a jungle. The great generical feature in the African, 
 then, is richiess and fulness in the physical organiza- 
 tion / and, in proof that it is so, we shall cite the testi- 
 mony of travellers and physiologists. 
 
 The French Denon tells us, that " instead of the sharp 
 features, the keen, animated, and restless visages, the lean 
 and active figures of the Arabian," he finds " in the land 
 of the Pharaohs, full but delicate and voluptuous forms ; 
 countenances sedate and placid ; round and soft features ; 
 with eyes long, ahiiond-shaped, half-shut and languishing, 
 and turned np at the outer angles, as if haljitually fatigued 
 by the light and heat of the sun; thick lips, full and 
 prominent; mouths large, but cheerful and smiling; com- 
 plexions dark, ruddy, and coppery ; and the whole aspect 
 displaying, as one of the most graphic delineators among 
 modern travellers has observed, the geiiuine African 
 character, of which the negro is the exaggerated and 
 extreme representation." I31umenbach's examinations of 
 the Egyptian mununies led him to the belief, that there 
 are three varieties in the physiognomy expressed in Egyp- 
 tian paintings and sculptures. One of these was the 
 Ethiopian, which, he says, " coincides with the descriptions
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 255 
 
 given of the Egyptians by the ancients, and is chiefly dis- 
 tinguished by prominent jaws, turgid lips, a broad flat 
 nose, and protruding eyeballs." " Among the modern 
 Copts," says Prichard, " many travellers have remarked a 
 certain approximation to the negro. Volney says that 
 they have a yellowish, dusky complexion, resembling 
 neither the Grecian nor Arabian ; and adds, that they 
 have a puffed visage, swollen eyes, flat nose, and thick 
 lips, and bear much resemblance to mulattoes." Ledyard, 
 ■whose testimony Prichard remarks is of the more value as 
 he had no theory to support, says : " I suspect the Copts 
 to have been the origiii of the negro race : the nose and 
 lips correspond with those of the negro. The hair, where- 
 ever I can see it among the people here (the Copts), is 
 curled, not like that of the negroes, but like that of the 
 mulattoes." * 
 
 But if the ancient Egyptians and modern Copts exhibit 
 the full, sensuous, and luxurious organization of the 
 African, and properly belong to the African race, it cer- 
 tainly will not be diflicult to establish the same claim for 
 all the remaining dwellers on the continent. The former 
 were nearest to Asia and Europe, and were most affected 
 by foreign influences; and yet the type could not be 
 changed ; tlic round check, the full protuberant eye, the 
 dark hue, could not be converted into their contraries. 
 
 Passing southward, into the l)urning heart of Africa, 
 we And the trojjical man in yet greater intensity and 
 power. The races of Soudan display tiie fervid type of 
 humanity fully formed, and in the highest degree. There 
 are varieties in this great central region ; the lowest being 
 found on the (iuinea coast, and the higher ones meeting 
 the traveller as lie rises those great terraces i)y wlii<li t hr con- 
 
 ♦ Prichard'H Natural IlUtory of Mau, ip. lol-ir.O.
 
 250 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 
 
 tinent lifts itself up from the sea. The negroes of the Gold 
 Coast, thougli dwelling amidst miasm and fever, and feel- 
 ing only the very worst inflncnces of European intercourse, 
 are nevertheless characteri^ied by Barbot as " generally 
 M'ell-limbed, and well-proportioned ; having good oval 
 faces, sparkling eyes, eyebrows lofty and thick, mouths 
 not too large, clean white and well-arranged teeth, fresh 
 red lipf?, not so thick and pendent as those of Angola, nor 
 their noses so broad." "Among the Ashantee tribe of 
 this same Guinea race," says Bowditch, "are to be seen, 
 especially among the higher orders, not only the finest 
 figures, but, in many instances, regular Grecian features, 
 with brilliant eyes, set rather obliquely in the head." 
 
 Of the Senegambian nations, the Mandingoes are re- 
 markable for their industry; and, of all the inter-tropical 
 races, have shown the greatest energy of character. Their 
 features are regular, their character generous and open, 
 and their manners gentle. Their hair is of the kind 
 termed completely woolly. The Fulahs, another Senegam- 
 bian people, forge iron and silver, and work skilfully in 
 leather and wood, and fabricate cloth. An intelligent 
 French traveller describes them as fine men, robust and 
 courageous, understanding commerce, and travelling as 
 far as to the Gulf of Guinea. The color of their skin is a 
 kind of reddish-l^lack, their countenances are regular, and 
 their hair longer and not so woolly as those of the com- 
 
 mon negroes 
 
 * 
 
 These statements may be overdrawn in some particulars, 
 and further exploration is undoubtedly required, in order 
 to form a sure and completely satisfactory judgment re- 
 specting the tribes of Soudan. But, certainly, all the 
 information thus far obtained, goes to evince that this 
 
 * Prichard's Natural History of Man, pp. 297-307.
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 257 
 
 Negro-land is filled np with no puny populations, but 
 witli barbaric races of a powerful structure — the bone 
 and muscle out of whicli a Christian civilization shall 
 hereafter form a powerful style of man.* 
 
 Finally, threading our way downward, from the terraces 
 to the southern -ward slope of the African continent, we 
 find the Hottentot and Kaffir, the most degraded of the 
 African races, — yet owinor the excess of their degradation, 
 by which they fall below the other African tribes, to the 
 contact and influence of a corrupt European civilization. 
 Unless a- genuine Christian influence shall eventually be 
 thrown in upon them by missions, by education, and by 
 commerce, it was, indeed, as one remarks, an ill-omened 
 h(jur when a Christian navigator descried the Cape of 
 Storms. The Hottentot, by war and vices, has to a great 
 extent degenerated into the Bushman ; but the Kaffir 
 still retains his aboriginal traits. Professor Lichtenstein 
 describes them as follows : " They are tall, strong, and 
 their liml)8 well proportioned ; their color is brown ; their 
 hail", black and woolly ; they have the high forehead and 
 ])r()minent nose of the Europeans, the thick lips of the 
 negroes, and the high cheek-bones of the lIuttentots."f 
 
 This rapid survey of the inhabitants of the continent, 
 from north to south, justifies us, then, in attributing a 
 common continental character to them all ; and a coiiti- 
 nental character that is neither feel)le nor emasculated, 
 but, on the contrary, one that is muscular, arterial, and 
 [)rodigal. There is a gencrical type of the Afri(tau natury, 
 constituted by the assemblage of certain jthysical and 
 mental charactcristicH, which may be found all over the 
 
 * Since thi.n was written, twenty yearaof innrvellouH exploration, by 
 liivinffHtone and iiLIkth, Huh iipittied (Jeiitral Afri<;ii in oviiry din^ction, 
 and this description of the African races liiw been ulmndautly couftrracd. 
 
 f Prichard's Natural History of Man, p. ."517.
 
 258 THE AFRICAN NATUKE. 
 
 African continent, whereby this portion of the globe be- 
 comes as distinct and peculiar as Asia, or Europe, or 
 America. And it is from this inter-tropical humanity, 
 that we are to deduce a ground of belief, and confidence, 
 that Ethiopia will yet stretch out her hands to God, and 
 that Africa is finally to acquire a place iu the universal 
 history of man on the globe. 
 
 The cliief characteristic of the African nature is the 
 union of recipiency with i^obssion. The African is docile. 
 He has nothing of the hard and self-assertinor nature of 
 the Goth. He is indisposed, like the dweller of the cold 
 and stimulating zones, to stamp his own individuality upon 
 others. On the contrary, his plastic, ductile, docile nature 
 receives influence from every side, gladly and genially. It 
 is not probable that great empires will be built up on the 
 African continent, that will extend their sway over other 
 parts of the globe — as the Persian sought to obtain rule iu 
 Europe, but was thwarted by Greece; or as the Roman 
 extended his dominion over both Asia and Africa. The 
 lust of empire will probably never run in African blood ; 
 for, foreign conquest requires a stern, self-reliant, indocile, 
 ambitious nature, that would force itself upon other races 
 and regions ; and of this, the tropical man has little or 
 nothing. It is rather to be expected that the Afi-ican will 
 confine himself to his own home, within the tropics, and 
 will there take up, into his own rich and receptive nature, 
 the great variety of elements and influences that will be 
 f urnislied by other races and portions of the globe. 
 
 Under such circumstances, a unique and remarkable 
 development of human nature must occur. A new form 
 of naticjual life will take rise. For, this plastic character, 
 this deep and absorbing receptivity, will be an alluvium 
 in which all seeds that are planted will strike a long root, 
 and shoot up a luxuriant growth. National history, thus
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 259 
 
 far, exhibits stiinulant natures, and stimulant character- 
 istics. The types of nationality that figure in the past, 
 have general Iv been moulded from this sort of material — 
 a species which has reached its height in the Anglo-Saxon. 
 This quality is, indeed, a strong, intense, and grand one ; 
 and we are the last to disparage its worth. The triumphs 
 of modern Cliristianity, and modern civilization, are inti- 
 mately connected with its powerful and persistent action 
 in individuals and nations. But, this tense and stimulant 
 nature, characteristic of man in the northern zone, has its 
 deficiencies, also, like everything human. In isolation, 
 and after long strain, it becomes wiry, hard, brittle, broken. 
 It would not be well that it should be the sole type of 
 hutnanity; or that no other elemcuts than it can furnish 
 should enter into the texture and fabric of national or 
 individual life, from generation to generation. The Saxon 
 himself, in order to his own preservation even, as well as 
 his own best development, needs some infusion of equa- 
 torial elements. It would be well, if his already over- 
 wrought stimulancy could be somewhat tranquillized and 
 enriciicd by the languor and sluggishness of the tropics. 
 It would be well, if the hollow features of the Anglo- 
 Amei'ican could assume somewhat of the rounded fulness 
 of the Sphinx's or the Mcnmon's face; if his eager and 
 too shallow eye could be made bulbous, and deep, like 
 that of Soudan. 
 
 This, then, is the groundwork of the coming nationali- 
 ties in Africa. It is a mild, docile, nnising, anil reci[)icnt 
 Tjatui'e, which is to drink in all the inllucnces that shall 
 \)()\\v foi'th from the ol<l, Hn<l peilia{is thi.ii declining civi- 
 lizations of tiie other zones. It is the artist, h nature, open 
 at every pore, sensitive in every globule and cell of tissue, 
 pulsing with a warm and somewhat slumbrous life — adccp 
 base, for a high structure.
 
 2G0 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 
 
 But, this lethargic quality in the tropical man is allied 
 with an opposite one. He is also a creature of passion. 
 In the phrase of Mark Antony, there is a "fire tliat 
 quickens Xilus' slime." Like his own clime, the inhabi- 
 tant of the troj)ics combines great antagonisms in his con- 
 stitution. This slumber of his nature is readily stirred 
 into wildest rage : as the heavy and curtained air of the 
 equator, which has hung dense and still for days and 
 weeks, is suddenly disparted by electric currents, and, in 
 an instant, is one wide, livid blaze of lightning. This 
 quality, like all counterbalancing ones, is not strictly con- 
 trary to the one that has just been described. AVere it 
 so, the one would neutralize and kill the other. There 
 would be no interpenetration of the two, if nothing but 
 the relation of sheer and mere contrariety, like that be- 
 tween fire and water, obtained between these two qualities 
 in the African nature. It is antithesis, not contrariety. 
 For, this very passion itself originates in, and springs 
 directly out of, the lethai'gy. The nature has been slum- 
 brous and dormant, only that it may, at the proper time, 
 be fiery and active. The one balances, not neutralizes, 
 the other. Were there an unintermittent dran£:ht and 
 strain upon the entire man, there could never be this trop- 
 ical vehemence. But the slumber is recuperative of the 
 constitutional force ; and, in and by the oscillations of 
 passion and lethargy, the wondrous life goes on. 
 
 That the African is a passionate being, is attested by 
 all history. No one can look at the features of the Mem- 
 Don, without perceiving that beneath that placid contour 
 there sleeps a world of passion. Shakspeare has given 
 Cleopatra to us in her own proud words : 
 
 I am fire and air ; my other elements 
 I give to baser life. "
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 261 
 
 The inflnences of Christianity do not destroy, but refine 
 and sanctify, this quality. Tlie Xorth-Africau church of 
 the first centuries was full of divine fire. It flashes in 
 the laboring but powerful rhetoric of Tertullian. It 
 glows like anthracite in the thoughts of Augustine, whose 
 svmbol in the church is a fiamin<i: heart ; and over whose 
 mighty and passionate sensualism the serene, spiritualiz- 
 ing, and divine power of Christianity ultimately, and 
 onlv after an eleinen-tal war within like that of chaos, 
 wrought out an ethereal and saintly transformation that 
 has not yet been paralleled in the history of the church. 
 
 But we need not go into the distant past, or into the 
 distant African continent, for evidence upon this point. 
 "We cannot look into the eve of the dei^raded black man 
 who meets us in our daily walks, without perceiving that 
 he i)elongs to the torrid zone. The eye, more than any 
 other feature, is the index of the soul, and of the soul's 
 life. That full, licpiid, opaline orb, that looks out upon 
 us from face and features that are stolid, or perhaps 
 repulsive, testifies to the union of passion and lethargy 
 in tiiis fellow-creature. That large and throbbing ball, 
 that sad and burning glance, though in a degraded and 
 down-trodden man, betoken that he belongs to a passion- 
 ate, a lyrical, and an eloquent race. 
 
 This tropical eye when found in conjunction with Cau- 
 casian features is indicative of a very remarkable organi- 
 zati(;n. It shows that tremulous sensibilities are reposing 
 upon a l>ase of logic. IS'o one could \\\ his gaze, for a 
 moment, iipon that great Northern statesman who has so 
 recently g(jne down to liis grave, without perceiving that 
 this rare comljination of the temperate with the tiopical 
 was the pliysical substrate of what lie was, and what ho 
 did. That deep-black iris, cincturcfl in a pearl-white 
 sclerotic, and more than all, that fervid torrid glaucc and
 
 262 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 
 
 gleam, were the exponents and expression of a tropical 
 nature ; while the thorough-bred Saxonisni of all the rest 
 of tlie plwsical structure indicated the calm and massive 
 strength that nuderlay, and supported, all the passion and 
 all the lire. It was the nnion of two great human types 
 in a single personality. It was the whole torrid zone en- 
 closed and npheld in the temperate. 
 
 It will be apparent from this analysis, that the African 
 nature possesses a latent capacity equal, originally, and 
 after its own kind, to that of the Asiatic or the European. 
 Shem and Japhet sprang from the very same loins with 
 Ham. God made of one blood those three great races by 
 which he repopnlated the globe after the deluge. This 
 blending of two such striking antitheses as energy and 
 lethargy, the soul and the sense ; this inlaying of a fine 
 and fiery organization into drowsy flesh and blood ; this 
 supporting of a keen and irritable nerve by a tumid and 
 strong muscular cord — what finer coml^ination than this is 
 there among the varied types of mankind? The ol)jec- 
 tion urged against the possibility of a historical progress 
 in Africa similar to that in the other continents, upon the 
 false ground that the original germ and basis was an infe- 
 rior one — an objection that shows itself, if not theoreti- 
 cally yet practically, in the form of inaction, and an ab- 
 sence of enthusiasm and enterprising feeling when the 
 claims of Africa are spoken of — this objection is invalid. 
 The philosophic and the philanthropic mind must, both 
 alike, rise above the prejudices of an age, and look beyond 
 a present and temporary degradation that has been the 
 result of centuries of ignorance and slavery. If this be 
 done, the philosopher sees no reason for refusing to apply 
 ihe same law of progress and development (])rovided the 
 external circumstances be favorable, and the necessary 
 conditions exist) to tlie tropical man, that he does to the
 
 THE AFRICAN NATOIE. 263 
 
 man of tlie temperate or the arctic zones ; and no reason 
 for doubting that, in the course of time, and under the 
 genial influences of tlie Christian religion — the mother of 
 lis all — human nature will exliibit all its hiirh traits and 
 qualities in the black races, as well as in the white. And, 
 certainly, the philanthropist, after a wide survey of liis- 
 tory ; after tracing back the modern Englishman to the 
 naked Pict and bloody Saxon ; after comparing the filthy 
 savage of Wapping and St. Giles, with the very same 
 being and the very same blood in the drawing-rooms of 
 Belgrave Square ; has every reason for keeping up his 
 courage, and going forward with his work. There liave 
 been much stranger transformations in history, than the 
 rise of African republics, and African civilizations, and 
 African literatures will be. 
 
 But, how is the way to be prepared for this? From 
 what point or points, and through what instrumentalities, 
 is the alteration to begin ? It is this second branch of the 
 subject which, we now proceed briefly to examine. 
 
 1. It is natural to ex[)ect that the movements of God's 
 providence, in the future, will be very much like those of 
 the past ; and that civilization and culture will, hereafter, 
 pass into the unenlightened parts of the globe in very 
 much tlie same way they have heretofore. But, history 
 shows that this has uniformly taken place by the exodus 
 of colonies. Heligion, law, and letters are not indigenous, 
 but exotic, in all the past career of man on the globe. 
 One race hands the torch of science to another. One 
 quarter di the globe is both the parent and teacher of 
 another. There are autochthones nowhere. There are 
 IK) strictly self-taught men anywhere. Ami in the last 
 exatnination, and at the primary origin and source, we arc 
 com])olled to rise above earth and man altogether, and lind 
 the first beginnings of knowledge and religion in tlio
 
 26^ THE AFKIOAN NATURE. 
 
 filcies. From first to last, there is an imjMrting act from 
 the higher to the lower. The more intelligent makes 
 revelations to the less intelligent. The genealogy cannot 
 stop short of the Creator himself. Cainan was the son of 
 Enos, " which was the son of Seth, which was the son of 
 Adam, which was the son of God." 
 
 These changes and movements in hnman civilization 
 are particnlarly visible at those points where civilization 
 passes from one continent to another continent. The 
 knots in the grape-vine reveal where the life gathers, and 
 concentrates in order to a new expansion. Europe re- 
 ceived letters and civilization from Asia. The little dis- 
 trict of Greece was the radiating point ; for, Rome re- 
 ceived them from Greece, and gave them to all her empire. 
 But, the original sources of Greek culture were colonists, 
 few and feeble, from Egypt, Phoenicia, and Asia Minor. 
 The Egyptian Cecrops and Danans brought over the seeds 
 of civility to Attica and Argos, fifteen centuries before 
 our era. The Phoenician Cadmns carried over an Asiatic 
 alphabet soon after. And the Lydian Pelops soon fol- 
 lowed with his wealth, and knowledge of the mechanic 
 arts.* But, the consequences of this immigration from 
 another continent were not felt, to any great extent, upon 
 Europe at large, until a thousand yeai-s had rolled by. 
 The Greek, with all his treasures of wisdom and of 
 beauty, was shut up from the " barbarian " world, until 
 the Poman broke down the barrier, and Grecian culture 
 then had free course. And if w^e should allow a millen- 
 nium, for a colony upon the African coast to diffuse law, 
 manners, letters, and religion, over the African continent, 
 it would be as rajiid a movement as that to which Ancient 
 Rome and the wlujle Modern World owe their secular 
 
 * Heeren's Ancient Greece, Chapter IIL
 
 THE AFKICAN NATURE. 265 
 
 civilization. The radiating points for the "Western Con- 
 tinent were the Spanish, and more especially the British 
 colonies. The movement here has been much more rapid 
 than anvthinof in the historv of the Old World. And yet, 
 after more than two centuries, not one-quarter of this 
 Western hemisphere is f nlly under the inliuence of Chris- 
 tian civilization. 
 
 The history of the past, then, indicates that Africa 
 must receive religion, law, and letters in the same way 
 that the other continents have received them. They must 
 be given to her. The colonist must carry the seeds of 
 civilization and of empire into the tropical world. Chris- 
 tendom owes colonies to the only portion of the globe that 
 has never yet been a part of Christendom. Europe and 
 America ought to adopt the utterance of the great apos- 
 tle to Grecian and to barbarian Europe — an utterance to 
 which both of them, under God, owe their religion and 
 their cidture, more than to any other single cause — and 
 say: "We are debtors, as much as in us lies, to barba- 
 rian Africa." Each of them ought to prove its sincer- 
 ity, by entering with energy upon a great colonizing 
 movement, and planting Christian colonies all along the 
 c<jast. 
 
 2. In the second place, it is the colonist of African 
 hlood, upon whom the chief reliance must be ])laccd, so 
 long as the colonizing period continues. For, the tropi- 
 cal climate necessitates the sluggish blood of the tj-opical 
 man. It is certain death, to expose the nervous, higli- 
 Btrung, and never-relaxed nature of the Caucasian, to the 
 fervors of the burning zone, and the dami)S of an equa- 
 torial night-fall. The dweller in this portion of the 
 globe nuist l)e able to rise and fall, like a barometer, with 
 the climate ; to act and toil vehemently for a time, and 
 then to pass into a recuperative inaction. All the colo- 
 12
 
 266 THE AFRICAN NATUKE. 
 
 iiists of history liave gone from temperate, to temperate 
 regions. The true colonist for the tropics, then, is the 
 man of the tropics. It may be, that the white man can 
 live upon the hio-h grounds of the interior, when the heart 
 of Africa shall have been opened to commerce, and made 
 yet more salubrious by agriculture and civilization ; but, 
 for a long time to come, the black man must lay the foun- 
 dations of empire and civilization, and build up the super- 
 structure. 
 
 And, without intending to disparage in the least the 
 other agencies that have been and will be employed, all 
 present indications go to show that it is the Liherian 
 colonist who must take the lead in this great movement. 
 For, the Liberian is the tropical man more or less pene- 
 trated by the cold and calm ideas of the North. He car- 
 ries with him some American discipline and education. 
 He has not lost his ancestral traits ; for, while in bond- 
 age, he has still lived upon the borders of that great zone 
 from which his forefathers were stolen. He can not only 
 endure, but he loves a hot and languid clime. And yet, 
 he has felt the stimulation of that active race among 
 whom he has lived. The wrath of man has praised God. 
 The American negro has been made aggi-essive, and 
 enterprising, by his enslavement. He has been fitted to 
 be a colonist, and to impress himself upon the passive and 
 plastic millions of Africa, by a process that involves awful 
 iruilt in the human authors of it. Tlie Liberian colonist 
 has, thus far, obtained a firmer foothold than any other, 
 upon the African continent. He has established a re- 
 public whose independence is acknowledged by the lead- 
 ing powers of the world; and whose nationality has now 
 entered into the history of nations. There is a definite 
 point of departure, and a living germ of expansion in 
 Liberia.
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 267 
 
 Furthermore, this Liberian republic is a really Chris- 
 tian state. There is not now, probably, an organized 
 commonwealth upon the globe, in which the principles of 
 Christianity are applied with such a childlike directness 
 and simplicity, to the management of public affairs, as in 
 Liberia. New England, in the days of her childhood, 
 and before the conflicting interests of ecclesiastical deno- 
 minations introduced jealousies ; Geneva, in the time of 
 John Calvin, wlien the church and the state were practi- 
 cally one and the same body, now acting through the con- 
 sistory, and now through the council ; in line, all religious 
 commonwealths in their infaiu;v, and before increasiui' 
 wealth and luxury have stupefied conscience and dimmed 
 the moral perception, furnish examples of the existing 
 state of things in the African i-epublic. Even the common 
 school education, which the Liberian constitution provides 
 for the whole population, has been given by the mission- 
 ary, and in connection with the most direct religious in- 
 structions and inH nonces. The state papers of the Libe- 
 rian Executive and Legislature breathe a grav^e and seri- 
 ous spirit, like tliut which inspires the documents of our 
 own colonial and revolutionary periods. It is not neces- 
 sary, in the heart of New England, and l)efore such an 
 audience as this, to enlarge upon the significance of the 
 fact, that the most influential radiating point for civilization 
 in Western Africa is a religious repuhlic. No reflecting 
 man can ponder the fact, and tin'nk of all it involves, with- 
 out ejacuhiting, from the depths of his soul: ''(Jodsavo 
 the ('ommonweahh of Liberia." 
 
 Such, then, is the general nature of the argument for A fri- 
 can colonies, and for the American Colonization Society. 
 The race itself, which it proposes to elevate and Christian- 
 ize, is one of the three great races in and through which God 
 intended, after the total destruction of all antecedent onea
 
 268 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 
 
 by the ilood, to re-people the globe and subdue it. The 
 tropical man and the tropical mind is destined, sooner or 
 later, to enter into human history, and to have a history. 
 It is in thin faith, tliat the Society whose anniversary we 
 are celebrating toils and prays. It has been its misfor- 
 tune, that its vision has been clearer than that of others, 
 and that it has, consequently, cherished plans that have 
 appeared impracticable. But, this is always the misfor- 
 tune of faitli within the sacred sphere, and of genius 
 within the secular. Each of them may say to the torpid 
 soul : 
 
 " I hear a voice thou canst not hear ; 
 I see a hand thou canst not see." 
 
 Through good report, and through evil report, the 
 American Colonization Society has pursued its straight- 
 onward course, and now begins to see what it foresaw. It 
 sees four hundred miles of the African coast secured, by 
 fair purchase and peaceble occupation, to the area of free- 
 do.m. It sees this coast-line widened into a surface of 
 fifty miles towards the interior, and destined to extend 
 rapidly inland and coastwise. It sees the slave trade 
 extinct not only within Liberian jurisdiction, but shrink- 
 ing away from the remoter borders of it. It sees ten 
 thousand colonists from America, with their descendants, 
 mingling with, and giving tone to, three hundred thou- 
 sands of native population. It sees a large annual com- 
 merce coming into existence, and one that is increasing 
 in rapid ratio. It sees a regular republican government 
 working firmly and equally through the forms of law, 
 and administered with singular prudence and energy. It 
 sees a S3'stem of education, from the primary to the colle- 
 giate, exerting its elevating influence upon the mass of 
 the peoj^le, and an incipient literature, in state-papers and
 
 THE AFRICAN NATURE. 2G9 
 
 public addresses. It sees the clmrch of Christ crowning 
 all other institutions, and giving direction to the mind and 
 heart of the rising state. 
 
 Looking back, then, over the brief forty years of its ex- 
 istence, and pointing to what God has wrought by it, is 
 not the American Colonization Society justified in boldly 
 appealing to the philanthropist, for tlie means of still 
 greater benefits to the African, and to Africa ? For, the 
 time has now arrived for enlarged operations. Africa is 
 evidently upon the eve of great events. The explorations 
 of Barth, and Vogel, and Anderson, and Moffat, and 
 Livingstone; the English Niger expeditions; the curiosity 
 and courage of individual explorers, in search of the head- 
 waters of the Nile ; the discovery of fine stalwart races all 
 through the interior ; the very rapid growth of African 
 commerce, at points upon both the Eastern and Western 
 coasts ; the very mystery, itself, which overhangs this part 
 of the globe, the more stimulating because all the rest of 
 the world lies in comparative sunlight — all these things 
 combined tend to the belief that, comparatively', more will 
 be discovered, and more will be done, in and about 
 Africa, within the coming century, than in and about any 
 other quarter of the globe. The other continents have 
 had tlicir hour of deliverance. The hour for Africa has 
 now, for the first time, come. Her scores of races prove 
 to have capacities for Christianity and self-govenunent. 
 Tlie American cmancii)ationist is ready and waiting to 
 send out, amcjng them, hundreds and thouKunds of 
 Americanized colonists. Shall not the philanthropists of 
 this land now make full proof of the colonizing method ? 
 — tliat method which w:us employed with such vigor by 
 liome in Romanizing the barbarians whom siie conquered ; 
 that method by which liritain, the modern Ilome, has 
 made her drum-beat to be licanl round the globe ? And,
 
 270 THE AFRICAN NATURE, 
 
 especially, shall not the church of Christ secure a foot- 
 hold and a protection for its missionaries in Africa, by 
 lielping to extend the influence of those Christian colo- 
 nies which have hitherto been their best earthly protec- 
 tion, and in connection with which, alone (so the history 
 of past missions in Africa, for four hundred years, plainly 
 shows), can missionary operations be carried on with 
 permanent success ?
 
 COLERIDGE AS A PHILOSOPHER AND 
 THEOLOGIAN* 
 
 The epithet " myriad-minded," which Coleridge applied 
 to Shakspeare, is applicable to himself. He possessed an 
 almost universal capacity. The elements of the poet, the 
 philosoplier, the theologian, the critic, and the artist, were 
 mingled in his constitution. The only important branch of 
 human knowledge for which he had little inclination was 
 mathematics; and even this had its equivalent, in that 
 tendency to subtle and scholastic ratiocination so character- 
 istic of him. •' I have known," said Wordsworth, " many 
 men who have done wonderful thinf^s, but Coleridge is 
 the only wonderful man that I ever knew." This breadth 
 and opulence of endowment accounts, in part, for the 
 diversity of judgment passed upon him. From the first 
 appearance of this author down to the present time, lie 
 has been the subject of analysis and criticism, both offen- 
 sive and defensive, to an extent unparalleled in the in- 
 stance of any other literary man within the same length 
 of time. Critics tliemselves have been embarrassed by the 
 imiversality of his genius, and the variety of his prt)duc- 
 tions, and have generally confined themselves to one side 
 
 • PiihlUhcfl in 18.j2, as an introduction to Harper's edition of Colo- 
 ridge' a Works,
 
 273 COLERIDGE AS A PIIIL080PHEK 
 
 of his mind, and one class of his works. The result is, 
 that one gift of the man lias been extolled to the deprecia- 
 tion of another. Those, and they are tlie great majority, 
 who have been impressed by tlic rich and exhaustless 
 imagination of Colei-idge, and by his contributions t(^ tiie 
 liijlitcr and more beautiful forms of literature, have hi- 
 mented that so much of tlie power and vigor of his intellect 
 should have been enlisted in philosophy; while the lesser 
 number, who have been stimulated and strengthened by his 
 profound speculations as they have been by no contempo- 
 raneous English writer, have regretted that the poetic na- 
 ture prevented that singleness of aim, and unity of pursuit, 
 which might have left as the record of his life a philoso- 
 phic system, to be placed beside those of Plato and Kant. 
 With the exception of the clear and masterly essay, pre- 
 fixed to his edition of the Aids to liejlection, by the late 
 Dr. Marsh, wliose premature decease, in the full vigor of 
 his powers, and the full maturity of his discipline and 
 scholarship, is the greatest loss American philosophy has 
 yet been called to meet, we recollect no thoroughly elabo- 
 rated, and truly profound estimate of the philosophical 
 opinions of Coleridge. Tliere are two reasons for this. 
 In the first place, the speculative opinions of Coleridge 
 were a slow formation, and although they finally came to 
 have a fixed and determined character, yet durihg the first 
 half of his literary career he was undoubtedly not clear 
 in his own mind. The consecpience therefore is, that the 
 philosophy of Coleridge must be gathered from his writ- 
 ings, rather than quoted from them, and hence the diffi- 
 culty, for the critic, which does not exist in the instance 
 of a rounded and finished treatise, to determine the real 
 form and matter of his system. In the second place, the 
 literary world has not been interested in the department 
 of philosophy. Those problems relating to the nature of
 
 A^T) TUEOLOGIAIT. 273 
 
 man, the universe, and God, which in some ages of the 
 world have swallowed up in their living vortex all the 
 best thinking of the human mind, and which in reality 
 have been the root whence have sprung all the loftiest 
 growths of the human intellect, have been displaced by 
 other and slighter themes, and hence the English philos- 
 opher of this age has been a lonely and solitary thinker. 
 There have been times, when the striking expression of 
 Ilazlitt would apply with literal truth to the majority of 
 the literary class : " Sir, I am a metaphysician, and noth- 
 ing makes an impression upon me but abstract ideas." 
 But the age in which one of the most subtle and profound 
 of English minds made his appearance, and cast his bread 
 upon all waters, was the least abstract in its way of 
 thinkinj;, the most concrete and outward in its method 
 and tendency, of any. These two causes combined will 
 account, perhaps, for the fact that while the ix)etical and 
 strictly literary productions of Coleridge have, on the 
 whole, met with a genial reception and an appreciative 
 criticism, his philosophical and theological opinions have 
 been at the best imperfectly undei-stood, and, more often, 
 much misunderstood and misrepresented. AVhile, there- 
 fore, Coleridge has done more than any other man, with 
 the exception of Wordsworth, to form the poetic taste of 
 the age, and to impart style and tone to the rising genera- 
 tion of English poets, and as a literary man lias done more 
 by far than any other one, to revolutionize the criticism 
 of the age — wiiile, in this way, "he has been melted into 
 the risinj; literatures of Encjland and America" — Coleridf]ro 
 as a thinker has accomplished less. 
 
 And yet it is our bclicjf, that in this latter character, in 
 the capacity of a philosopher and theologian, CoUn-idgo 
 is to exert liis greatest and best intlueucc. After his im- 
 mediate influence upon poetry and belles-lettres uljuU have 
 12*
 
 274: COLEKIDGE AS A IMIILOSOPIIER 
 
 disappeared in tlie ever-shifting development of national 
 literature, the direction and impulse which his speculative 
 opinions have given to the English thinking of the nine- 
 teenth century will, for a long time to come, be as distinct 
 and unmistakable as the gulf-stream in the Atlantic. It 
 is for this reason that we shall, in this introductory essay, 
 confine our remarks to the philosophical and theological 
 opinions of Coleridge ; and it will be our aim, as fully as 
 our limits will permit, to contemplate him as a thinker, 
 the main tendenc}" of whose thinking is in the right direc- 
 tion, and the general spirit and inliuence of whose system 
 is profound and salutary. It will be our object to justify 
 to the general mind that respectful regard for Coleridge's 
 philosophical and theological views, and that confidence 
 in their general soundness, which is so marked a charac- 
 teristic of that lesser but increasing public who have been 
 swayed by him for the last twenty years. In doing this, 
 however, we mean not to apjDcar as the mere passive 
 recipient of his opinions, or as the blind adherent of each 
 and every one of them. How far we are disposed to look 
 upon Coleridge as an original thinker, in the high sense 
 in which the phrase is applied to such philosophers as 
 Plato and Aristotle, as Des Cartes and Kant, and to what 
 extent we think he may be regarded as the author of a 
 system, and the head of a school in philosophy, will appear 
 in the course of our remarks. 
 
 And we would here, in the outset, direct attention to 
 the manner in which the opinions of Coleridge originated. 
 It is unfortunate that no biography at all worthy of the 
 man is in existence ; his own most interesting, but most 
 fragmentary Biogi'ajpliia Literaria still being the best 
 account of his intellectual and moral history yet given to 
 the world. With the aid, however, to be derived from 
 the biographical materials now before the world, a care-
 
 AOT5 THEOLOGIAN. 275 
 
 fill stndy of his writings themselves will enable the dis- 
 cerning student, not only to gather the general system 
 finally adopted, and to some extent developed by Cole- 
 ridge, but also to trace the origin and growth of it. A 
 full account, however, of the inward as well as outward 
 life of Coleridge, by a congenial mind, would be, in many 
 respects, the richest contribution to psychology that could 
 be made. 
 
 For, the mental development of Coleridge was eminently 
 an historic process. He did not, as do the majority of 
 thinking men, begin with the same general system and 
 method of thought with which he ended, but, like the age 
 in which he lived and upon which he impressed himself, 
 he passed by a slow and most thorough process from a 
 sensuous to a spiritual system of speculation. Bred up in 
 the reigning empirical philosophy of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, it wa^only gradually, and as we think, through the 
 intermediate stage of pantheism, that he finally came out, 
 in the maturity of his powers, upon the high ground of 
 a rational and Christian theism. In like manner, and 
 parallel witli this, he went through a great theological 
 change. Beginning with the Socinianism which, at the 
 close of the last century, existed not merely in an inde- 
 pendent and avowed form of dissent from the Established 
 church of England, but also to some extent in the clergy 
 of this church itself, Coleridge, partly from the change in 
 liis philosophic views, and still more as we believe from 
 severe inward struggles, and a change in his own religious 
 experience, in the end embraced the Christian system 
 with a depth and sincerity, a humility and docility of 
 spirit rarely to be found in the history of philosophers 
 ami poets, of whom " lew are chosen." And, linally, the 
 same revolution, the same change for the better, and 
 growth, appears in his political opinions. Embracing
 
 270 COLERIDGE AS A PIIILOSOniER 
 
 with "prond precipitance of sonl" the cause of a false 
 freedom, he gradiuilly moderated his views, grew conser- 
 vative, and in tiie end settled down upon the principles 
 of the majority of cultivated Englishmen, and rested in 
 them. 
 
 Now, this peculiarity in the origin and formation of the 
 s^'stem of opinions finally adopted by Coleridge, and by 
 which alone he ought to be known and will be known to 
 posterity, deserves serious and candid attention for several 
 reasons. In the first place, the student will thereby be 
 saved fi'om the errors into which many individuals, and 
 to some extent the age itself, have fallen, of attributing 
 to Coleridge, as the ultimate and fixed view of his mind, 
 opinions that had but an early and transient existence in 
 it, and which sustain about the same relation to his final 
 system, that the pang and the throe do to the living birth. 
 The question for the student in relation to Coleridge is 
 not : What did he believe and teach on this point, and on 
 that point, in the year 1800 ? but, What did he teach and 
 believe in the fulness of his development, and in the 
 maturity of his ripened reason? The question is not: 
 What can be logically deduced, and still less what can be 
 twisted and tortured, out of this or that passage in his 
 writings ? but, What is unquestionably the strong drift and 
 general spirit of them as a whole ? No writer more needs, 
 or is more deserving of a generous and large-minded 
 criticism than this one. Without reserve, he has commu- 
 nicated himself to the world, in all the phases of experi- 
 ence and varieties of opinion through whi(;h he passed — in 
 all his weaknesses and in all his strength — and such an 
 exposure as this surely ought not to be subjected to -the 
 same remorseless inference as that to which we of riglit 
 subject the single treatise on a single doctrine, of a mind 
 made up.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 277 
 
 Again, this recognition of the manner in which the opin- 
 ions of Coleridge were formed will, at the very same time 
 that it opens the eye to all that is true and sound in them, 
 also open it to whatever is defective or erroneous. How 
 much there is of the latter, is a point upon which each 
 mind must judge for itself, and such fi-eedom of judg- 
 ment is one of the plainest lessons and most natural fruits 
 of the general system contained in these volumes. Provided 
 only the judgment be intelligent and free from bigotry, 
 we believe Coleridge will suffer no more than the finite 
 human mind must suffer, when it allows itself to expatiate 
 in all regions of inquiry, and attempts to construct a sys- 
 tem of universal knowledo-e. If we remember the im- 
 mense range of Coleridge's studies and the vastness of his 
 schemes, and also remember that though he had not the 
 constructive abilitv of an Aristotle or a IIc2:el, and did 
 not fairly and fully realize a single one of his many plans, 
 he yet has left on record some expression of his mind, 
 upon nearly or quite all the more serious and important 
 subjects that come before the human understanding, wo 
 shall not be surprised to find some misconceptions and 
 erroi-s in his multifarious productions. But, these mis- 
 takes and deficiencies themselves will be the most uner- 
 ringly detected, and the most effectually guai-dcd against, 
 by him who is able to view and criticise them from the 
 very vantage-ground itself, to which his mind has been 
 lifted by the principles of the general system of Cole- 
 ridge. Having made tliese " the fountain-light of all his 
 day, the master-light of all liis seeing," the inquirer after 
 truth will 1)C able to detect the errors to which the human 
 mind is always liable, and which in the }»resent instance 
 are, as we verily believe, the excrescences merely. 
 
 But, however it may liave ])een with Coleridge himself, 
 it is plain that this slow process of renunciation of erruno-
 
 278 COLERIDGE AS A rillLOSOrilEU 
 
 ous systems, and reception of more correct ones, is one cf 
 increased interest and worth for the inquirer. Like the 
 lietractations of Augustine, the retractations of Coleridge, 
 if we may call them such, have a negative worth almost 
 equal to that of the positive statements to which they 
 lead. This rise of the mind through doubts and preju- 
 dices to a higher and more rectified position ; this nearing 
 the centre of absolute truth, by these corrections ; is 
 always one of the most instructive passages in literary his- 
 tory. And especially is it so in the case of Coleridge. 
 We see, here, one of the most capacious and richly-en- 
 dowed minds of the race, after a slow and toilsome course, 
 first through materialism, the less profound, and lastly 
 through pantheism, the most profound of the two erro- 
 neous systems of speculation in which many of the most 
 gifted intellects contemporaneous with him were caught 
 and stopped, ultimately and with a deep and clear con- 
 sciousness finding rest in Christianity, as the eternal 
 ground not only of life but also of truth, not only of re- 
 ligion but also of philosophy. Coleridge lived contem- 
 poraneously with that most wonderful, and for the specu- 
 lative intellect most overmastering of all mental pro- 
 cesses, the pantheistic movement in the German mind. 
 But while he was at one period of his life — the heyday 
 of hope and aspiration — involved in it so far as to say 
 that his head was with Spinoza, we find him freeing him- 
 self from it, at an after-period, when the whole continen- 
 tal mind was drawn within reach of its tremendous sweep 
 as within the circles of a maelstrom. lie worked his way 
 through and out of a system the most stupendous for its 
 logical consistence, and the most fascinating for the im- 
 agination, of any that the world has yet seen, and un- 
 doubtedly stablishcd and settled his own mind, whether 
 he may have done the same for others or not, in the Chris-
 
 AKD THEOLOGIAN. 279 
 
 tian theism, at a time when the speculation and philoso- 
 phizing of his (lay were fast departing from the centre of 
 truth, and drawing nearly all the inquiring intellect of 
 Germany and France with them. During the last quarter 
 of his life, as matter of fact, Coleridge was the oracle and 
 the teacher for many minds who were seeking rest and 
 finding none in the sphere of philosophy, and whether he 
 relieved their doubts and cleared up their difficulties or 
 not, no one of them ever seems to have doubted that he 
 ■was clear and settled in his own mind, and that though he 
 might not succeed in refuting the positions of atheism 
 and pantheism, he was himself impregnable to them. 
 But, there is reason to believe that many minds were 
 strengtiiened and armed by him, and that the philosophy 
 and theology of England is at this very moment very dif- 
 ferent from what it would have been, had the thinking of 
 Coleridge not been working like leaven in it.* It is a re- 
 mai'k of Goethe, that our own faith is wonderfully in- 
 creased on learnin(T that another mind shares it with us ; 
 and perhaps one of the strongest reasons for a wavering 
 Boul, for believing in the highest truths of philosophy and 
 religion, and for rejecting the skepticism of the human 
 understanding, lies in such examples as that of Coleridge. 
 His belief was not hereditary and passive. He was not 
 ignorant of the arguments and gigantic schemes which 
 the speculative reason has constructed in opposition to the 
 truth. He had painfully felt in his own being the diffi- 
 culties and doubts to which man is liable, and to which 
 
 * Even the recent picture of Coleridge by Carlylo unconsciously be 
 trays a sense of the superiority of this intellect, in reference to the 
 deeper problems of man's existence and destiny; while Sterling seems 
 to have derived from the oracle at Ilighgate, most of that struggling 
 faith in God, and in man's freedom and immortality, which throws 
 such a sadly-pleasing air over his biography.
 
 280 COLERIDGE AS A PIlILOSOrilER 
 
 the aciitest intellects have too often Bnccnmbed. lie had 
 been over the whole ground from Pyrrho to Ilegel, and, 
 after all his investigation, saw his way clear into the re- 
 gion of Christian revelation, and rested there. Surely, 
 Buch an example is an argument and an authority for the 
 doubting mind. All that Burke * says of the relation of 
 the culture of Montesquieu to the Constitution of Eng- 
 land, in that splendid passage, at once the most magniii- 
 cent rhetoric and the strongest logic, applies with fuller 
 and far deeper force, to the relation of an endowment, a 
 discipline, and an acquisition, like that of Coleridge, to 
 philosophy and Christianity. 
 
 It is in reference to this historical formation and enun- 
 ciation of the opinions of Coleridge that this, so far as we 
 know, first complete collection of his works finds its justifi- 
 cation and recommendation. It has been said in respect 
 to the publication of such portions of his writings as the 
 Table Talk and the Literary Itemains, that their ex- 
 tremely fragmentary character ought to exclude them 
 from a permanent collection of a great writer's works, and 
 that, at least, they should be subjected to a revision that 
 would strike out the less important matter, the sometimes 
 hastily conceived and rashly uttered remark. But, in the 
 light of what has been said, the value of every jot and 
 tittle of what Coleridge and his friends for him have ever 
 printed is clearly apparent. Not that everything he has 
 left on record has high intrinsic worth ; not that every- 
 thing he has written can be regarded as the pure product 
 of his own brain ; not that everything contained in his 
 writings is to be received as truth by the reader ; but each 
 and everything has value and interest, if for nothing else, 
 as exhibiting the course and development of his intellect. 
 
 * Appeal from the New to the Old Whigs, sub fine.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 281 
 
 In this reference, the volumes containing the Table Talh 
 and Literary Remains are of the highest vahie, not only 
 for the wonderful pregnancy and saggestiveness of hia 
 remarks upon all things human or divine, bnt for the 
 acquaintance they give tlie reader with the interior pro- 
 cess and change going on within him. A careful perusal 
 of these, in connection with the dates, throws great light 
 upon the history of Coleridge's mind. Aside, however, 
 from the importance of these productions in this respect, 
 they have great intrinsic worth. Besides tlie profound 
 and piercing glances into the highest truths of metaphysi- 
 cal philosojihy, scattered throughout the Literary Re- 
 mains, unquestionably the best philosophy of art and of 
 criticism, and the very best actual criticism upon the great 
 creative minds in literature, that is accessible to the merely 
 English reader, are to be found in this same miscellany. 
 
 It is of course impossible in an essay, to attempt a criti- 
 cism in detail upon all the ^incipal topics npon which 
 Coleridge has philosophized, even if we were competent 
 to the task, and we shall therefore confine ourselves to a 
 few points wiiich we think are deserving of consideration, 
 and which will tend to place their author in a just and 
 fair light as a thinker. 
 
 1. And in the fii'st place, we think this author is to be 
 recommended and confided in, as the foremost and ablest 
 English opponent of pantheism. We do not speak of 
 formal oj)position to this tlie most j)owerful and success- 
 ful of all systems of false philosophy, for Coleridge has 
 left on record no professed and finished refutation of 
 Spinoza or Schelling, Init we allude to the whole plan and 
 structure of tlio philosophy which he finally adopted and 
 defended, as in its own nature the most effectual prevent- 
 ive of the adoption of j)aiitheism, and the best positive 
 remedy for it when adopted, to be found out of that coun-
 
 282 COLERIDGE AS A PUILOSOPnEB 
 
 try wliic-li has furnished both the most virulent bane and 
 the most powerful antidote. The distinctions lying at 
 the foundation of his -vvholc system, if recognized and re- 
 ceived, render it impossible for the recipient to be diverted 
 from the true method of thinking, into one so illegitimate 
 as the pantheistic, to say nothing of their incompatibility 
 with the fundamental positions of pantheism. No inge- 
 nuity whatever, for example, can amalgamate the doctrine, 
 of which Coleridge makes so much, of an essential distinc- 
 tion between nature and spirit, with the doctrine of the 
 siobstantia u?ia et luiica. If the natural is of one sub- 
 stance, and the spiritual is of another ; if the distinction 
 is not merely phenomenal but metaphysical, and no possi- 
 ble heishtenina: and clarification of the former can result 
 in the latter; then there is a gulf between nature and 
 spirit, between matter and mind, that cannot be filled np. 
 This distinction, moreover, not only permits, but naturally 
 conducts to, the conceptionej^f an uncreated and a created 
 substance — conceptions that are precluded by the assump- 
 tion which the pantheist supposes he must make in order 
 to introduce unity into the system of the universe, that 
 there is ultimately only one substance, uncreated, infinite, 
 and eternal. The very moment that the materialism 
 which is to be found in ideal pantheism, notwithstanding 
 its boast of spirituality, as really as in material pantheism, 
 is eliminated and precluded, by the recognition of a differ- 
 ence in kind between nature and spirit, the inquirer is 
 left alone with the self-determined, jpersonal spirit, the 
 contrary and antithesis of nature and of matter, with its 
 reason and its conscience, and thereafter may be safely 
 left to answer the questions : Is tliere an uncreated per- 
 sonal God ? am I a created and accountable bein,^ ? am I 
 destined to a conscious immortality of existence % But if 
 this distinction is denied, and nature and spirit, matter
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 283 
 
 and mind, the world and God, are all one essence and 
 substance, and the distinctions denoted by these terms are 
 merel}' formal, subjective, and phenomenal, then such 
 questions as the above are absurd and impossible. 
 
 We are 'aware, that in these pantheistic systems the ^ 
 terms nature and spirit, the world and God, are as freely -^ 
 employed as in theistic systems, and that in the last and , 
 most remarkable of them all, that of Hegel, philosophy 
 itsejf^ is divided into the philosophy of nature and the 
 philosophy of spirit. But, on the hypothesis of a one sole ^ 
 substance, the subject-matter of each must be one and the 
 same, and the inquirer in the latter department is only 
 investigating a mere modification of the same thing which 
 he has just investigated in the former. Metaphysics are 
 nothing but physics, and vice versa. lie has risen into no 
 essentially higiier sphere of being or of cognition, by pass- 
 ing from the philosophy of nature to that of spirit, as he 
 understands and employs these terms, because he has not 
 passed into any essentiallij different sphere. The vice of 
 the whole system is in the fatal error, the pantheistic pos- 
 tulate, at the outset. There is and can be but one sub- 
 stance, and, notwithstanding all the modification it may 
 undergo in infinite space and everlasting time, it remain-s 
 but one substance still. But, this vice is impossible in any 
 system of pliilosopliy, or in any method of thinking, that 
 starts with the fundamental hypothesis of a difference in 
 kind between the substance of the luitural and the sub- 
 stance of the K2)iritual, or between matter and mind.* 
 
 Now, the earnestness and force with which this distinc- 
 tion, so fundamental to theism and preclusive of panthe- 
 ism, is insisted upon by Coleridge, particulaily in the ^1/^/6' 
 
 * We use matter in a Homcwhat loose way in this connection, in order 
 to illustrate the techuical uhc of the word nature as the contrary of 
 Bi>irit, and not Ijccau.so it contains all that is meant by nature.
 
 284 coLERrooE as a rniLOSOPiiEB 
 
 to Refection, the most complete and self-consi stent of liia 
 strictly })hilosopliic writings, will strike every reflecting 
 reader. It is not merely formally laid down, but it enters 
 so thoroughly into his whole method of philosophizing, 
 that it can be eliminated from it only as oxygen can 
 from atmospheric air, by decomposition and destruction. 
 And especially are all pantheistic conceptions and tenden- 
 cies excluded by the distinction in question, when it is 
 further considered that the constituent element in the 
 spiritual is freedom, as that of the natural is necessity. Li 
 
 1. nature, as distinguished from spirit, there is no absolute 
 
 \^,beginning, no first start, consequently no self-motion, and 
 
 consequentl}' no responsibility. Nature, says Coleridge, is 
 
 V an endless line of antecedents and consequents, in con- 
 tinuous evolution. To be in the middle of an endless 
 series, is the characteristic of a thing of nature, says 
 Jacobi, * between whose statements regarding this general 
 distinction, in the last part of his Von gottlichen Dingen, 
 and those of Coleridge in the Aids, there is a striking 
 coincidence. In the mental and spiritual realm, on the 
 contrary, this law and process of continuity by which we 
 are hurried back from the effect to its foregoing cause, 
 and froTn this foregoing cause to its foregoing cause, and 
 so backward forever into an infinite series, and can never 
 reach a point where a movement has no antecedent, because 
 it really begins, by 5e//-movement — that point where a 
 responsible movement is first found, and which is to be 
 reached, not by a gradual ascent within the sphere of 
 the natural to the highest degree of the same kind, but by 
 a leap over the gulf that divides the two great domains 
 from each other — this law of continuous cause and effect, 
 we say, is excluded from the sphere of the spiritual, by 
 
 * Werke, UI. 401. Leipsic Ed. 1810.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 285 
 
 virtue of its differing in Miid from the natural ; by virtue 
 of its being of anotlier substance, and, consequently, of 
 having an essentially different function and operation from 
 nature and matter. It is true, that we speak of a continu- 
 ous evolution and development, and properly too, within 
 the realm of spirit as well as of nature, but the continuity in 
 this instance is not continuity without beginning, or the 
 continuity of the law of cause and effect, which is the 
 only law in the natural world, but continuity that has a 
 true beginning or tirst start, or the continuity of self- 
 determination. Development in the mental or spii'itual 
 world — that of the human will, for example — begins with 
 the creation of the will, and proceeds freely and responsi- 
 bly so long as the will exists. The development or move- 
 ment, in this instance, is not, like that of a movement in 
 nature, a mere and pure effect. If it were, a cause must 
 be found for it antecedent to, 2L\\^other than it ; and this 
 would bring the movement out of the sphere of the spirit- 
 ual or ^("//'-moved, into the sphere of nature and matter, 
 and make it a necessitated unit in an endless series of 
 movements, to the destruction of all responsibility. But 
 we have no disposition to repeat what has been so clearly 
 expressed by Coleridge on this point, and reaffirmed and 
 explained by Dr. Marsh in his preliminary essay to the 
 Aids. The distinction itself, never more important than 
 at this time when materialism and naturalism is so rife, 
 cannot, after all, be taught in words, so well as it can bo 
 thought out. It is a matter of direct perc^cption, if per- 
 ceived at all, as must be the case with all a 2>rioi'i and 
 fundamental positions. Man's immediate consciousness 
 is the most convincing, because the most vital nl all evi- 
 dence, that mind is not a uK^de of matter, or spirit a 
 ])hase of nature, or voluntary agency a necessitated series 
 uf concatenated causes aJid effects.
 
 286 COLERIDGE AS A PIIILOSOI'IIKK 
 
 Now, on the pantheistic system, there is really nothing 
 but nature ; there is nothing absolutely mental or spiritual. 
 The one substance, of which all tilings are modifications 
 and developments, is nothing but a single iniinite nature. 
 From eternity to eternity, the process of emanation and evo- 
 lution goes on, and the result is, all that was, is, and is to 
 come. Though the terms God and man, spirit and nature, 
 mind and matter, may be employed, yet the objects denoted 
 by them are of one and the same substance, and therefore 
 have the same primary attributes. The history of the 
 universe is the history of a single Being, and of one, merely 
 natural, necessitated process, slowly and blindly evolving 
 from that dark ground of all existence, the one aboriginal 
 substance. There is no creation out of nothino: of a new 
 and secondary substance, but merely the shaping of the 
 old and only substance. There is, except in a phenomenal 
 and scenic way, no finite being. The All is one, and in- 
 finite. The self -consciousness of the finite subject which 
 the pantheist recognizes does not help the matter. This 
 consciousness itself is but a mockery, by which a modifi- 
 cation of the one and only Being is made to suppose for a 
 little time that it has a truly individual and responsible 
 existence. The only reality, on this scheme, is a single 
 universal nature with its innumerable processes, and all 
 the personal self-consciousness that is recognized by it is a 
 deceptive and transitory phenomenon, for the reason, that 
 there is, in an essence which is not simply under and 
 through all things, but is all things, no basis for distinct 
 ])ersonality, free self-determination, and permaiient self- 
 consciousness, either in God or man. For, there must be 
 logical coherence between attributes and their substance, 
 and it is absurd to endow with the attributes of freedom 
 and responsibility a substance, or a subjective modification 
 of a substance, whose whole history is in fact a necessi-
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 287 
 
 tated and blind evolution. In order to an infinite person- 
 ality, there must be an infinite personal Essence or Being. 
 In order to finite personality, there must be a finite per- 
 sonal essence or being. And these two cannot be or be- 
 come one Essence or Being, without destroying the pecu- 
 liar basis for the peculiar consciousness belonging to each. 
 Pantheism has, therefore, no right to the terms of theism, 
 for the simple reason that the objects denoted by them are 
 not recognized by it as metaphysically and absolutely 
 real. Pantheism is but a j^hilosophy of nature, and as 
 matter of fact it has accomplished more, or rather has 
 done least injury to the cause of truth and true philosophy, 
 when, as in the case of the earlier system of Schelling, it 
 has been confined mainly to the sphere of nature. It 
 would be unjust to deny that the pantheism of Schelling 
 has done something toward destroying the mechanical 
 theory and view of nature and natural science ; while the 
 fact that he proceeded no farther with it in its application 
 to the i)hilosophy of spirit and of intelligence, and is under- 
 stood to have renounced it in his late attempt to construct 
 a system that will solve the problems of intellectual and 
 spiritual existence, seems to corroborate the position here 
 taken, that pantheism can never at any time, or under any 
 of its forms, rise out of the sphere of nature, because it, 
 in reality, recognizes the existence of nothing but nature. 
 It has been asserted, we arc aware, and porliaps it is 
 still to some extent believed, that the matured and final 
 {)liilo8o])iiy of Coleridge is itself liable to the charge of 
 pantheism. The wai-m admiration with which he re- 
 garded Schelling, and the reception at one time of Schel- 
 ling's doctrine of the original identity of subject and 
 objc'ct, have given some ground for the assertion and 
 belief. We sliall, therefore, dwell brietly upon this point 
 of Coleridge's lelatirm to Schelling, because, while we are
 
 288 COLERIDGE A8 A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 clear tliat the earlier system of this philosopher, whatever 
 his later system shall prove to be, is nothing but Spino- 
 zisin, we are equally clear that Coleridge freed liimself 
 from it, as decidedly as he did from the mechanical and 
 sensuous philusopliy of his youthful days. 
 
 After all the study and reflection which Coleridge ex- 
 pended upon the systems of speculation that sprang up in 
 Germany after that of Kant, it is very evident that his 
 closest and longest continued study was applied to Kant 
 himself. After all his wide study of philosophy, ancient 
 and modern, the two minds who did most toward the for- 
 mation of Coleridge's philosophic opinions were Plato and 
 Kant. From the Greek, he derived the doctrine of ideas, 
 and fully sympathized with his warmly-glowing and poetic 
 utterance of philosophic truths. From the German, he 
 derived the more strictly scientific part of his system — the 
 fundamental distinctions between the understanding and 
 the reason (with the sub-distinction of the latter into specu- 
 lative and practical), and between nature and spirit. 
 With him also, he sympathized in the deep conviction of 
 the absolute nature and validit}^ of the great ideas of God, 
 freedom, and immortality, of the binding obligation of 
 conscience, and, generally, of the supremacy of the moral 
 and pi'actical over the purely sjjeculative. Indeed, any 
 one who goes to the study of Kant, after having made 
 himself acquainted with the writings of Coleridge, will be 
 impressed by the spontaneous and vital concurrence of 
 the latter with the former — the heartiness and entireness 
 with which the Englishman enters into the method and 
 system of this, in many respects, greatest philosopher of 
 the modern world. For, to say that Coleridge was the 
 originator of the distinctions above-mentioned, in the sense 
 that Kant was, is to claim for him what will never be 
 granted by the scholar ; and, on the other hand, to say
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 289 
 
 that Coleridge was a mere vulgar plagiary, copying for 
 the mere sake of gratifying vanity, is not to be thonght of 
 for a moment. The plagiary is always a copyist and 
 never an imitator, to use a distinction of Kant,* also 
 natnralized among ns by Coleridge. There is no snrer 
 test of plagiarism, therefore, than a dry, mechanical, and. 
 dead method, bv which the material handled becomes a 
 mere cajnit mortuuni. But who would charge such 
 a method upon Coleridge ? Whatever else may be laid to 
 his charge, there is no lack of life, and life, too, that 
 organizes and vitalizes. Much of that obscurity charged 
 upon him is owing to an excess of life ; the warm stream 
 gushes out with such ebullience that it cannot be confined 
 to a channel, but spreads out on all sides like an inun- 
 dation. Had there been less play of living power in his 
 mind, he would have been a more distinct thinker for the 
 common mind, and, as we believe, less exposed to the 
 charge of plagiarism. This power of sympathy with the 
 great minds of the race, in all departments of mental 
 effort — this ojjulence and exuberance of endowment, 
 coupled with an immense range of reading, and a brood- 
 ing contemplation that instantaneously assimilated every 
 thing brought into his mind — put him uiicoiisclousJij, and 
 in ajnte of hi jn self, into communication with all the best 
 thinking of the race; and hence it is, that while the 
 beginner in philosophy finds the M'ritings of Coleridge full 
 to bursting, with principles, and germs of truth, freshly 
 jtroscntcd and entirely new to him, his after-study of the 
 great thinkers oi anctient and of modern times comjiols 
 liim to deduct from Colerid^re's merits on the score ot" al)- 
 solute discovery and invention, thou^rh not an iota from 
 them on the score of originality iu the sense of original 
 
 * Urthoilskraft, § 32. 
 13
 
 290 COLKRIDOE AS A PllILOSOniKU 
 
 treatment. It is for this reason, that tlie writlnj^s of thia 
 author are the very best preparatory exercise for the stu- 
 dent, before he launches out upon tlie " minjhty and 
 mooned sea" of general philosopliy. One who has thor- 
 oughly studied them is well prepared to begin his philo- 
 sopliical studies ; and, we may add, no one who has once 
 mastered this author can possibly stop with him, but is 
 m-ged on to the study of the greatest and choicest philoso- 
 phic systems themselves. 
 
 But, returning to the relation of Coleridge to Schelliug, 
 we think that it is very evident that his reception of the 
 doctrine of the identity of subject and object, of which 
 he gives an account in the Blographia Literaria that is 
 mainly a transfusion from Schelling, was temporary. In 
 the year 1834, we find hira speaking thus of this account : 
 "The metaphysical disquisition at the end of the first 
 volume of the Blographia Literaria is unformed, and 
 immature ; it contains the fragments of the truth, but it 
 is not fully thought out."* This, taken in connection 
 with the general drift of Coleridge's annotations upon 
 Schelling, contained in the appendix to the latest edition 
 of tlie Biographia Literaria, we think is nearly equiva- 
 lent to a distinct verbal renunciation of tlie theoi*y in 
 question, f At any rate, his rejection of tlie system of 
 
 * Table Talk, Works, VI., 520. 
 
 •)• " Spite of all the superior airs of the Natur-Philosophen, I confess 
 that in the perusal of Kant I breathe the air of good sense and logical 
 understanding, with the light of reason shining in it and through it : 
 while in the physics of Schelling I am amused with happy conjectures, 
 and in his theology I am bewildered by positions which in their first 
 sense are transcendental (iiberlliegend), and in their literal sense scan- 
 dalous." Blographia Literaria, Appendix, \Vork.s, III. ,j 70!). — "The 
 Spihozmn of Schelling's system first betrays itself." Blographia Liter- 
 aria, Appendix, Works, III., 707. — "Strange that Fichte and Schel- 
 ling both hold that the very object which is the condition of self-con-
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 291 
 
 Spinoza is expressed often and with emphasis in his writ- 
 ino-s, * althouo-h, in common with all wlio have made 
 themselves acquainted witli the works of this remarkable 
 mind, he expresses himself in terms of high admiration 
 respecting the loftiness and grandeur of many of his sen- 
 timents and reflections, even on subjects pertaining to 
 ethics and religion. But what is Schelling's identity of 
 subject and object in their ultimate ground, but the re- 
 appearance of the one substance of Spinoza with its two 
 modifications, thouo;ht and extension ? Tiie theory which 
 teaches that the subject contemplating and the object 
 contemplated are in reality but one substance, and that 
 the consciousness we have of things without ns " is not 
 o'dy coherent, but identical and one and the same thing, 
 ■with our own immediate self-consciousness," f plainly 
 dues not differ in matter, however it may in form, from 
 the theory of the substantia icna et unlea. "What is 
 gained by saying that Spinoza started with an unthinking 
 substance, but that the system of Identity starts with a 
 thinking subject, % when the position that One is All, and 
 All is One is the fundamental postulate of both systems 
 alike? This position, common to both, renders both sys- 
 
 BciousnesB is nothing but the self itself, by an act of free self-limita- 
 tion. P. S. The above I wrote a year ago ; but the more I reflect, the 
 more convinced I am of the grosH materialism which lies under tke 
 whole sj'Htem." IJiographia Literaria, Aj)[)cudix, Works, III., 7i'l.— 
 This last remark, it deserves to be noticed, is a note upon Schelling's 
 lirif fe liber Dograatismus und Criticismus : an attack upon the Kan- 
 tcan philo.sophy. The camestiiCiHs with which Coleridge, in those an- 
 notation.s upon Schelling, sides with Kant, shows that neither his head 
 nor hi.s heart was with the syslom of Identity, at the time when hi 
 wrote them. 
 
 * Aids to Reflection, Wurk.s, I., 211. Table Talk, Works, VI., 3j1, 
 302. 
 
 f I{iograi)hia Litoraria, Works, III., 34 J. 
 
 X Hegel's riiiinomcuologie, s., 14.
 
 202 COLERIDGE AB A rniLosornER 
 
 toms alike pantheistic, because it precludes that duality — 
 that difference i)i substance between God and the woild, 
 and that distinction between an uncreated and a created 
 essence or being — which must be recopjuized by a truly 
 theistic philosophy. The only difference between the two 
 systems is adjective : Spinozism being material, and the 
 system of Identity ideal pantheism. If the postulate in 
 question were limited, in its application, to the sphere of 
 the finite alone, there might be a shadow of reason for 
 saying that the doctrine of Identity does not annihilate 
 the deity as other than the world. If an idcntit}'^ of sub- 
 stance were aftirmed only between the human mind and 
 the material universe, a supramundane deity, other than 
 and above all this finite unity, might still be affirmed 
 without self-contradiction ; though, even in this case, this 
 limited annihilation of the essential distinction between 
 nature and spirit would result in its universal and abso- 
 lute annihilation, so soon as it became apparent that the 
 finite spirit, though not of the same, is yet of sirrhilar sub- 
 stance with the Intinite Spirit. But there is no limitation 
 of this sort in the system, neither can there be, for it is its 
 toast that it reduces the All to a One. It is the univer- 
 sal subject and the universal object between which an 
 identity of substance is affirmed. 
 
 But, we lay much stress upon the indirect evidence in 
 e case. It is perfectly plain, as we have already re- 
 marked, that the philosophy of Kant is the modern sys- 
 tem with which Coleridge finally and most fully sympa- 
 thized. If he is to be called after any one of the great 
 founders of philosophical systems among the moderns, 
 Coleridge was a Kantean. Not that he pushed his inqui- 
 ries no further than Kant had gone, for there is abundant 
 evidence on many a page of the Literary Remains, that 
 the highest problems of Clu'istianity, during the last 
 
 t
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 293 
 
 period of his life, were themes constantly present to his 
 deep and brooding reflection, and tliat whatever it shall be 
 found that he actually accomplished, in the way of dis- 
 tinct statement, in the unfinished work wliich was to put 
 the crown ui)on his literary life, he did satisfy his own 
 mind upon these subjects, and was himself convinced of 
 the absolute rationality of the highest mysteries of the 
 Christian faith. Yet the groundwork of all these pro- 
 cesses, the psycholoGcy and metaphysics from which they 
 all started, was unquestionably the theistic method of 
 Kant, and not the pantheistic method of his successors 
 Kven suj^posing that Coleridge at one time may have gono 
 BO far as to regard the system of Schelling (with the still 
 more remarkaljle one of Hegel, he does not seem to have 
 been acquainted, for we do not recollect any allusion to 
 him throughout the whole of his works) as a positive and 
 natural advance upon that of Kant, there is sufficient 
 reason for saying that he saw the error, and fell back 
 upon the old position of Kant, as the farthest point yet 
 reached in the line of a true philosophic progress, regard- 
 ing the systems that sprang up afterward as an illegiti- 
 mate j)rogeny. And in so doing, he only exhibited in an 
 individual, the very sairie process that lias gone on, and is 
 still going on in the Germanic mind itself. There was a 
 time, when even the serious theist was inclined to regard 
 with favor at least, that wondrous evolution of the theo- 
 ntic brain, the three systems of P^ichte, Schelling and 
 Jl('"-cl, as a natural and normal development from Kan- 
 teanism, and so to n^gard the four systems as being in one 
 and the same straight line of advance. It is true, that at 
 the very time wlien these later systems were rising into 
 existence "like an exhalation," a iii;in like -lacobi was 
 found, to protest against the deviation and erroi-, and to 
 proclaim, with a serious and deep-toned eloquence that
 
 294: COLERIDGE AS A PIIILOSOPIIEB 
 
 will ever endear him and his opinions to every serious- 
 minded scholar who feels that his own mental repose, with 
 that of the retlectinii; mind generally, is bound up in tiio 
 ideas of theism, that these later systems were not oenuine 
 offshoots from Kant, but wild grafts into him. But, at 
 the time, the national mind was caught in the process, and 
 it was not until the speculative enthusiasm had cooled 
 d(jwn, and the utter barrenness of this method of philoso- 
 phizing, so far as all the deeper and more interestiiig 
 pr()l)lems of philosophy and religion are concerned, had 
 revealed itself, that men began to see that all the move- 
 ment had been off and away from tlie line of true prog- 
 ress, and that the thinker who would make real advance 
 must join on where Kant, and not Hegel, left off. 
 
 In thus siding ultimately with the Kantean Philosophy, 
 rather than with the system of Identity that succeeded it, 
 Coleridire had much in common with Jacobi. Indeed, it 
 seems to us that, speaking generally, Coleridge stands in 
 nearly the same relation to English philosophy, that 
 Jacobi does to that of Germany, and Pascal to that of 
 France. Keither of these three remarkable thinkers has 
 left a strictly scientific and finished system of philosophy, 
 but the function of each was rather an awakening and 
 suo-crestive one. The resemblance between Coleridge and 
 Jacobi is very striking. Each has the same estimate of 
 instinctive feelings, and the same religious sense of the 
 pre-eminence of the moral and spiritual over the merely 
 intellectual and speculative. Each clings with the same 
 firm and lofty spirit to the ideas of theism, and plants 
 himself with the same moral firmness upon the imperative 
 decisions of conscience aiid the moral reason. But, in no 
 respect do they harmonize more than in their thorough 
 rejection of the pantheistic view of things ; of that mere 
 naturalism which swallows up all personality, and, there-
 
 AXD TIIEOLOGI^V:^. 295 
 
 by, all morality and religion. In reading Jacobi's Von 
 gottlichen Dingeyi, one is strack Avith the great similarity 
 in conception, and often in statement, with remarks and 
 trains of discussion in the Aids to Reflection. The co- 
 incidence in this case, it is very plain to the reader, does 
 not arise, as in the case of Coleridge's coincidence with 
 Schelling, from a previons study and mastery of a prede- 
 cessor, Ijut from sustaining a similar relation to Kant, to- 
 gether with a deep sense of the vital importance and 
 al)Soliite truth of theism in philosophy. The coincidence 
 in this case is not a mere genial reception, and fresh trans- 
 fusion, of the thought of another mind, but an indepen- 
 dent and original shoot, in common with others, from the 
 one great stock, the general system of theism. Add to 
 this, that both Coleridge and Jacobi were close students 
 of Plato, and by mental constitution were alike predis- 
 ])osed to the moulding influence of this greatest philoso- 
 ])hic mind of the pagan world, and we have still another 
 ground and cause for the resemblance between the two. 
 
 Now, in this resemr)lance with Jacobi, we find still 
 aiKjther indirect proof of the position, that Coleridge's 
 a<loption of the s^-stem of Schelling was temporary, and 
 that he returned, with still deeper faith and clearer in- 
 sight, to the theistic system. For, no mind of the age in 
 which he lived, or of any age, was more decidedly and 
 determinedly theistic, than Jacobi. His Letters to Men- 
 (lelsxohn iijwn the Rijxteiii of Sjtinoza, and still more, be- 
 cause more regularly constructed, his treatise on Dinine 
 Things and tlteir Jieveiation, arc among the most genial, 
 (certainly, and we think among the most impressive, and 
 pi-actically effective, oi all attacks u])on the pantheistic 
 naturalism. Wc know that it was fashionable, espccialljf 
 when the hard logical ]»roce8ses of llcgcdiauism wero 
 more influential and authoritative as mcjdels than they
 
 296 COLERIDGE AS A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 now are, to decry tlic metliod of Jacobi as unscientilie, 
 and to endeavor to wealcen the force of his views, by tlio 
 assertion, that his is the mere "philosophy of feelin*^." 
 But there is reason to believe, that this same thinker, 
 thongli deficient as must be acknowledi^ed in the logical 
 and systematizing ability of Kant and llegel, has done a 
 giant's work, in aiding to bring the German mind back 
 to tlie position of theism in philosophy. His influence, 
 healthful and fruitful, is to be traced through the whole 
 of the spiritual school of theologians. If there is any one 
 of the many philosophers of Germany, who is regarded 
 with admiration and veneration by this class of reflecting 
 men — a class which shares largely in the disposition of its 
 great head, Schleiermacher, to establish theology upon an 
 independent basis, and thereby divorce it altogether from 
 philosophy — it is Jacobi ; and this, principally on the 
 ground of his earnest religious abhorrence of that specu- 
 lation of the mere miderstanding which, under the name 
 of philosophy, has so invariably ended in the overthrow 
 of the foundations of ethics and religion. 
 
 "We have dwelt the longer upon this point of Cole- 
 ridge's relation to Schelling, because we believe it to bo 
 the fact that the philosophic system which he finally 
 adopted, and which is the prominent one in his writings, 
 is irreconcilable with the system of Identity, and if so, 
 that it is of the highest importance that the fact be known 
 and acknowledijed. Moreover, the establishment of the 
 position we have taken acquires some additional interest, 
 in relation to the charge of plagiarism which has of late 
 been frequently urged. This charge becomes of little 
 im2:)ortance, so far as the question of Coleridge's original 
 jjower as a philosoijher is concerned, so soon as it appears 
 that this reception of the views of Schelling was only one 
 feature in the temporary pantheistic stage of liis mental
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 297 
 
 liistory, and of still less iiiiportanee, when it is further 
 considered, that Schelling himself is entitled to but syaall 
 credit on the score of absolute invention — the philosophy 
 of Spinoza being " the rock and the quarry," on and out 
 of which the whole system of Identity was constructed. 
 Indeed, in leaving this system, Coleridge has been imi- 
 tated by Schelling himself, if, as there is reason to be- 
 lieve, the later system of this philosopher is a renuncia- 
 tion of his earlier, and not a mere development of it. 
 How far either of these two minds possessed that highest, 
 and most truly original philosophic power — the power of 
 forming an era in the history of philosophy, by carrying 
 the philosophic mind onward through another stadium ii* 
 its normal course and development — remains yet to be 
 seen. This point cannot be settled, until the publication 
 of the Logosojjfda of Coleridge, and the recent system of 
 Schellinor. 
 
 The influence, however, of this pantheistic system upon 
 Coleridge was for a time undoubtedly great, harmonizing as 
 it did with the imaginative side of his nature, and promis- 
 ing, as it always has done, to reduce all knowledge to a 
 unity — that promise always so impressive and fascinating 
 for the human intellect, and which moreover addresses, 
 though in this instance bv a false method, one of the 
 necessary and organic wants of reason itself. Besides the 
 disquisition in tlin twelfth chapter of the Bhxjrapliui 
 Liieraria^ there are some statements in the Friend, * 
 i('sj)ecting the mutual relations of nature and the mind of 
 man, and trains of reflection, that spring, as it seems to 
 us, from the ])antheistic intuition, and wiiich, run out to 
 their legitimate consequences, would end in a mere natur- 
 alism, of which all of Coleridge's more matured, and more 
 
 ♦ See EHsnys X. and XI. of the Friend, Works II. , 448- 472. 
 13*
 
 298 COLERIDGE AS A I'llILOSOI'IIER 
 
 Blrictly scientific views are a profound and powerful re- 
 futation^ and against which, his own moral and spiritual 
 consciousness, certainly for the last twenty years of his 
 life, Avas one loud and solemn protest. * 
 
 * Mrs. II. N. Coleridgfc, in a note to Chapter IX. of the Biographia 
 Literaria, remarks that her lather, ''soon after the composition of the 
 Biojjraphia Literaria, became dissatisfied with Schelling's system of 
 philosophy, considered as a fundamental and comprehensive scheme, 
 and objected to it as essentially pantheistic." She then adds, that she 
 is "not aware, however, that he at any time altered or set aside the 
 doctrine of Schelling, put forth in the Biographia Literaria, on nature 
 and the mind of man, with their mutual relations ; or, indeed, that he 
 discovered any positive error, or incompatibility with higher truth, in 
 such parts of Schelling's system as are adopted in the Biographia Liter- 
 aria, and which he I elicved himself, in the main, to have anticipated." 
 
 It is difficult to reconcile this last statement with the preceding re- 
 mark, that Coleridge finally regarded the system of Schelling as " es- 
 sentially pantheistic." The doctrine of Schelling, on "the mutual 
 relations of nature and the mind of man," which Coleridge has rejiro- 
 duced in Chapter XII of the Biographia, is, that there is originally an 
 identity of substance between them, and that both are only different 
 modifications, or phases, of one and the same substance or being. 
 According to this scheme, commonly called the system of Identity, that 
 which in one of iis aspects is nature, in the other aspect is spirit ; and 
 it is the peculiar power and i rerogative of the philosophic as distin- 
 guished from the spontaneous or common consciousness, to perceive 
 this identitj", and thus to reduce back all the raanifoldncss in the 
 spheres of both nature and spirit, or matter and mind, to the absolute 
 .•md primary unity whence it all emanated, and which it all is — to the 
 one substance, in the phraseology of Spinoza ; to the absolute subject- 
 object, in the phraseology of Schelling ; to the absolute conception, in 
 the phraseology of Hegel. 
 
 Now, we see not on what possible ground Schelling can be charged 
 with pantheism, if not on that of this doctrine of the original identity of 
 subject and object, — a doctrine which Schelling applied to the universal 
 object and the uuivcrsal subject; asserting identity of substance not 
 merely between nature and the mind of man, Imt between nature and 
 all mind. It is certainly the ground upon which both his and Hegel's 
 83'steni8 are now generally regarded as i)antheistic, and is the doctrine by 
 which the later German philosophy differs from the earlier toto gencre.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 299 
 
 111 this connection, also, it may be proper to speak of 
 the objection made to the system of Kant himself, that it 
 is essentially skeptical. This objection is founded upon 
 
 Kant, with Des Cartes, affirmed the old doctrine of a duality between 
 nature and spirit, matter and mind. He left the subject and object 
 apart from each other when contemplated back of cousciousuess, and 
 in their original metaphysical relations. And it is the standing objec- 
 tion of the system of Identity to the Kantean philosophy, that it is 
 dualistic ; that it does not reJuce all thing.s, both natural and si^iritual, 
 material and mental, to unity of essence ; while it is the constant re- 
 ply of the latter, that there can be no reduction of all things to this 
 speculative and pantheistic unity, for the good reason that there is 
 no such unitj'. God and the universe are not one substance. Mind 
 and matter differ in essence. In other words, the dogmatism of the 
 pantheist affirming a single substance, of which both God and the world 
 (so called; arc aUke modifications, is met by the dogmatism of the theist 
 affirming a supramundane and spiritual Being who creates the world 
 out of nothing, — thus affirming a primary and a secondary substance, 
 the latter wananent in the former, it is true, but not emanent from it, 
 or identical with it. And the question as to which of these two dog- 
 matisms is legitimate ; which of these two postulates — that of one, or 
 of two substances — is valid ; must be settled by a p.sj-^chological method. 
 That postulate is the true one which harmonizes best with the various 
 forms of human consciousness, especially those relating to ethics and 
 religion ; which best explains them all ; and best solves the various 
 problems that arise in human cousciou.sness. 
 
 It may be said, and it has been, that the system of Identity admits 
 distinctions in the one universal sub.stance, and only denies division or 
 literal duality. IJut, a mere distinction in one and the same essence 
 does not constitute another essence or being. To illustrate by refer- 
 ence to the Christian doctrine of the trinity — the distinctions that sub- 
 Kist in the one single essence of the Godiiead do not constitute three 
 ettHenccH or beings. The distinctions are consubstantial, and arc in, and 
 of, one HiiltKtancf: only. I'nlesH, therefore, tlio di.Htinction between God 
 and the worlfl is founded in an absolute duality of essence ; unless the 
 di.itiitction is 6.K\o koX &K\o, and not merely 6.Wos Koi &\\os ; it is no 
 Huch distinction as tlicism adinns, and religion must aflirin, between 
 the Creator and creation. It would be impo.ssiblc that the self-conscioua- 
 nesH of God and that of man should bo ditfercnt and diverse from 
 each other (and they must be, in order to the existence of the rclatiou.i
 
 300 COLERIDGE AS A nilLOSOrHER 
 
 the fact, that the Critical philosophy denies thepossibilit}', 
 vnthin a certain sjjhere, of an absohite knowledge on the 
 part of the huniau mind, because its knowledge is con- 
 formed to forms and modes of cognition that pertain to 
 the human understanding, and are peculiar to it. The 
 thing hi itself is not known, but only the thing as it ap- 
 pears to the finite intelligence. An absolute knowledge, 
 true intrinsically, and irrespective of the subjective laws 
 of human intelligence, is therefore impossible within t/tis 
 sphere. 
 
 If this theory were to be extended over the whole do- 
 
 and affections of religion), if the essence which underlies each, when 
 traced to its lowest metaphysical ground, is one and identically the 
 same essence. 
 
 We are aware of the alleged difficulty of accounting for a knowledge 
 of the objective world, on the dualistic hypothesis that there is no iden- 
 tity of substance between it and the subjective intelligence, and of the 
 confidence with which it is assumed that the mystery of cognition van- 
 ishes, as soon as it is shown that all consciousness is in reality self-con- 
 sciousness. But, self-consciousness is more mysterious and difficult to 
 explain, than mere consciousness. It is easier to apprehend how the 
 ego can cognize an object that is other than the ego, than to apprehend 
 how the ego can cognize the ego ; even as it is easier to understand 
 how the eyeball can see a tree, than to understand how the eyeball 
 can see the eyeball. How the great problem will ultimately be solved, 
 and how much Coleridge and Schelling have contributed toward the 
 true solution, will V»e answered variously. But it seems to us, thati 
 neither of these minds ultimately rested in the doctrine of Identity, as 
 the means of arriving at the true theory of perception. Schelling is 
 understood to have renounced his earlier system, and to have verged 
 toward theism, in his later views. And, certainly, all such teaching of 
 Coleridge as that the moral reason is the highest form of reason, and 
 that no merely speculative decisions can set aside those of conscience, 
 are in the vein and spirit of the Kautean philosophy, and a protest 
 against a theory that obliterates all the fixed lines and immutable dis- 
 tinctions of theism. Such teaching could not have come from a mind 
 included in the slowly-evolving, and blindly-groping processes of the 
 philosophy of Identity.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 301 
 
 main of knowledge, spiritual as well as natural, it is plain 
 that it would end in universal skepticism. If, for instance, 
 the knowledi'e which the human mind has of rii;ht and 
 wrong, of its own freedom and immortality, of the divine 
 attributes and the Infinite One in whom they inhere, is no 
 real and absolute knowledge, but is merely subjective, the 
 foundations of all morals and relif'ion would sink out of 
 sight immediately, and the human mind would be afloat 
 upon the sea of doubt, conjecture, and denial. This was 
 the identical skepticism against which Soci-ates and Plato 
 waged such serious and successful war. But Kant, by hi?, 
 distinction of the_speculative and practical reason, in- 
 tended to confine^ and actually does confine this doctrine 
 of a^subjective and conditional knowledge to the sphere of 
 the natural and tlie sensuous. AV^ithin this sphere, there 
 is no absolute knowledge, for the good reason that there 
 is no absolute object to be known. Absolute and neces- 
 sary truth is not within the domain of nature, but above 
 it altogether, in the domain of spirit.* All things that 
 are sensuous, and cognized by the understanding with its 
 subjective forms, are in continual flux ; and even in re- 
 gard to the immaterial princij^lcs beneath them, even in 
 regard to the laws of luiture themselves, we cannot con- 
 ceive of their being of such a necessary and immutable 
 quality, as we cannot but conceive moral and spiritual laws 
 and realities to be. For, they are creations ex nihilo, and, 
 as sucli, are only one out of the infinitely various manners 
 in wliich the Divine Mind can express itself in a material 
 universe. The wiiole domain of nature and of matter is 
 itnclf but a means to an end, and thcrcfoie camiot, like 
 the domain of the spiritual which is an end, have absolute 
 
 ♦ See Cudwortb'B Immutuble Morality, pasttira ; where this same vievf 
 iH mauitaiacd.
 
 303 COLEKIDGE AS A rillLOSOniER 
 
 and necessary characteriHtics, and therefore cannot be the 
 object of an absolnte knowledge. All this domain of the 
 conditional, therefore, legitimately comes before the un- 
 derstanding, with its categories or subjective forms of cog- 
 nition. 
 
 But, there is another and a liio;lier realm than that of 
 nature, of another substance, and therefore not merely a 
 higher development of the natural. The moral and spirit- 
 ual world, as it is not subject in its functions and operations 
 to the law of cause and effect, but is the sphere of free- 
 dom, so it is not coo;nizable under the forms of the under- 
 standing, but by the direct intuitions of reason. It is no 
 mere afterthought, therefore, as has been charged, but a 
 most strictly philosophic procedure in the system of Kant, 
 by which, after the whole domain of the natural and the 
 conditioned has been legitimately brought within the ken 
 of the understanding, the domain of the spiritual and the 
 absolute is assigned to a higher, even the very highest 
 faculty of the soul, as the proper organ and inlet of knowl- 
 edge regarding it. It is because such an object of knowl- 
 edge as God, e. g., cannot be truly known by being brought 
 within the limitations of time and space, and under the 
 categories of quantity, quality, &c., that Kant affirmed the 
 existence of a power in nuui, not hampered by these sub- 
 jective forms of the understanding, through which, by an 
 act of dii-ect sjuritual intuition, this highest of all objects 
 is known, ^ot fully and completely known, as some have 
 falsely asserted that he taught ; for, the object in question 
 is infinite, and reason in man is finite ; but truly and abso- 
 lutely known, so far as the cognition does extend. Kant, 
 unlike Fichte, Schcllingand llegel, never claimed for the 
 finite reason of man that lAenttude of knoM'ledge which 
 belongs only to the infinite reason, but he did afiirm, that 
 so far as the reason in man does have any knowledge of
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. SOS 
 
 God, and of spiritual objects generally, it has an absolute ^ 
 and not relative knowledtre. God is not thus, for one / 
 nian's reason, and thus, for another man's, as a color is ' 
 tluis, for the sense of one man, and thus, for the sense of 
 anotlier ; but, so far as his infinite fulness is known by 
 the finite reason, it is known as it really is, and is there- 
 fore known in the same way by all rational beings, and is 
 the same to all. The same is true of all the ideas and^ 
 objects of the spiritual, as distinguisJied from the natural " 
 world. Li the former, the human mind has an absolute, 
 i. e. unconditionally true knowledge, so far as it has any 
 at all (for there may be no development of reason, and no 
 use of the faculty at all), while in the latter, its knowledge 
 is merely subjective and conditional. Hence the promi- 
 nence, the supremacy, assigned in Kant's system tx) the 
 moral or practical reason. This is reason in its highest 
 and sul>stantive form, and no decisions of any other fac- 
 ulty of the human soul have such absolute authority re- 
 specting moral and spiritual problems, as distinguished 
 from ijroblems of nature and matter, as those of tliis fac- 
 uhy. It stands over against the moral and spiritual world, 
 ])recisely as the five senses stand over against the world of 
 Fcnse, and there is the same iininediateness of knowledire 
 in the one case as in the other. In the phrase of Jaccjbi, 
 reason, i.e. the moral reason, is the sense for tlie supernat- 
 ui-al,* and therefore we have, in facit, the same kind of 
 evidence for the reality of sjiiritnal objects, that we have 
 for that of objects of sense — the evidence of a direct in- 
 tuition, 
 
 Tlicre is, thcrofoi'c, no room for skepticism, on this sys- 
 teni, within tlie only spiiere in which tlie i)hilosoj)licr and 
 the theologian have any vital interest in keeping it out — 
 
 * Von den gottlichen Dingcn, Beilagc A.
 
 30-i COLERIDGE AS A rillLOSOPIIEB 
 
 the sphere of the moral and spiritual. However subjcc« 
 tive and relative may be our knowledo-c of the material 
 and natural, coinin<]j to us as it docs tliroui;-h the mecJian- 
 ism of the understanding, and shaped by it into conform- 
 ity with our subjective structure as creatures of sense 
 and time, our knowledge of the supernatural, so far as 
 ■\ve have any at all, is absolute and unconditional. We 
 may doubt in regard to the real nature of matter, but we 
 cannot doubt in regard to the real nature of ria^lit and 
 wrong. We may grant that our knowledge of an object 
 of sense is conditioiuil, and not absolutely reliable, but we 
 may not grant that our knowledge of a moral attribute of 
 God is conditional, and not absolutely reliable. The skepti- 
 cism of the human mind, on this system, is confined to the 
 lower and less important sphere of nature, while the " con- 
 fidence of reason," the faith that is insight and the insight 
 that is faith, can exist only in relation to the moral and 
 spiritual world ; only in relation to moral and sjjiritual 
 objects. 
 
 Kant's treatise on the practical reason, therefore, though 
 from the very nature of the subject (it being that mode of 
 reason which is intuitional, and freest from the complexity 
 of logical forms) not so artificially constructed as that upon 
 the theoretic reason, and seemingly occupying a humbler 
 place in his general system, should be regarded as the 
 sincere and serious expression of his real views upon the 
 highest form of reason, and upon the very highest themes 
 of reflection. Certainly, no one can peruse those lofty and 
 emujbling enunciations, respecting the great practical ideas 
 of God, freedom, and immortality, and those grand and 
 swelling sentiments regarding the nature of duty and the 
 moral law, that are contained in this treatise, without a deep 
 conviction that this part of Kant's system was by no means 
 an afterthought, or contrivance to save himself from uni-
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 305 
 
 versal skepticism.* If the cold and passionless intellect 
 of the sa^e of Konigsberg ever rises into the sphere of 
 feelinor and ever exhibits anvthins^ of that real enthu- 
 siasni bv which a living knowledge is always accompanied 
 and manifested, it is in this, the most practical and serious- 
 toned of all his productions. And if it is objected, as it 
 has been, that this knowledge of the spiritual is rather a 
 belief, than a knowledge, and that the function of this so- 
 called ])ractical reason is that of feeling rather than scien- 
 tific cognition, the objection must be acknowledged to 
 have ioi'CQ, ])rovided, that that only is scientific which is. 
 the result of logical deductions, and that alone is know 
 icdge which comes mediately into the mind by processes 
 of comparison and generalization. But, on the other hand, 
 if it is proper to call that, knowledge, which by virtue 
 of its iinmediateness in the rational consciousness is a 
 most orio^iual and intimate union of hoth cognition and 
 feeling, of hoth reason and faith, of both the scientific and 
 the moral, then, the knowledge in question is the abso- 
 lutely highest of all, for, it coTitains the elements of both 
 forms of perception ; and is the most truly scientific of 
 all, because, in the form of first principles, it lies at 
 the foundation of all the processes of logic, and all the 
 structures of science. 
 
 But, whatever may have been the relative position of 
 the })ractical reason and its correspondent ideas, in the 
 general system of Kant, or in Kant's own mind, no reader 
 cf Coleridgo can doubt that for him, and his system, this 
 f<»rm of reason and these ideas are paramount. Coleridgo 
 had a special interest in developing this part of philoso- 
 l)liy, and establishing an absolute validity for the decisiona 
 
 * Kant himself iwserts this. Sec Kritik der practischcn Vcrnunffc, s. 
 110. IvOHCukniuz'H Ed.
 
 30G COLEKIDGE AS A rillLOSOPHEB 
 
 of the moral reason and conscience, superadded to that 
 M'hich actuated Kant. TJie former had received into his 
 soul the peculiar doctrines of Christianity, while the latter, 
 so I'ar as we have had the means of judging, stood upon 
 the position of the serious-minded deist, and was impelled 
 to the defence of the foundations of ethics and natural 
 religion, by no other motives than such as actuated minds 
 like the emjieror Marcus Aurelius an-d Lord Herbert of 
 Cherbury. Coleridge had more than a merely moral in- 
 terest, in saving the fundamental principles of ethics and 
 religion from an all-destroying skepticism, or an all-ab- 
 sorbing naturalism, in philosophy. And hence the posi- 
 tiveness, and, in the best sense of the word, the dogma- 
 tism, with which he iterates and reiterates his affirmation, 
 that " religion, as both the corner-stone and the l<ey-stone 
 of jnorality, must have a moral origin : so far at least, that 
 the evidence of its doctrines cannot, like the truths of ab- 
 sti'act science, be Mdiolly independent of the wilW * 
 
 Now, as the defender and interpreter of this decidedly 
 and profoundly tlieistic sj'stem of philosophy, we regard 
 tlie works of Colei'idge as of great and growing wortli, 
 in the present state of the educated and thinking world. 
 It is not to be doubted that pantheism is the most formid- 
 able opponent which truth has to encounter in the culti- 
 vated and reflecting classes. We do not here allude to 
 the formal reception and logical defence of the system, 
 so much as to that pantheistic way of thinking which is 
 stealing into the ligliter and more imaginative si)ecies of 
 modern literature, and from them is passing over into tlie 
 principles and opinions of men at large. This popularized 
 naturalism — this naturalism of polite literature, and of 
 literary society — is seen in the lack of that depth and 
 
 * Biographia Literaria, Works, Til. 297.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 307 
 
 Btreno-th of tone, and that heartiness and robustness of 
 temper, which characterize a mind into which the per 
 sonality of God and tlie responsibility of man cut sharply, 
 and wliich does not cowardly shrink from a severe and 
 salutary moral consciousness. There is no remedy for 
 this error of the brain and of the heart, but in the resolute 
 and positive affirmation (worthy of the name of virtue 
 wherever found) of a distinction in essence between the 
 natural and the spiritual, with its implication of a su- 
 preme and infinite Spirit, the first cause and last end of 
 l)oth the finitely spiritual and the natural. For all phi- 
 losophy, false as well as true, must begin with an affirma- 
 tion — a postulate upon which all else rests, and which is 
 itself unsusceptible of proof, because it is the ground of 
 |)roof for all other affirmations. Pantheism itself starts 
 in dogmatism : starts with postulating, not proving, the 
 existence of its one only substance. It ha? an interest in 
 so doing. The evidence of this its so-called first truth 
 " is not altogether independent of the will.'''' Here too, 
 the voluntary and the theoretic, the practical and the 
 6j)ecnlative, are, though illegitiuiately, in one act of the 
 intellect. In respect therefore to the logical necessity, 
 tiie comjMilsory necessity, of its first premise, we see not 
 the advantage which it boasts ot" having over a theism 
 which docs not reject all aid from the moral side of the 
 human soul, or rci^ard all evidence as not trulv scientiiic 
 and absolute that is not of the nature of uuithcmatical. 
 Siiu;e, tiien, there must be a postulate to start from, in 
 eitlier or any case, let the individual mind iniilate that 
 justifiable postivity, that ration.il dogmatism, <;f the gene- 
 ral human mind (wiiich the soundly philosoi)hi/cing mind 
 only re[t('ats with a ftdler and dislinclcr consciousness of 
 tlie meaning and contenf.B of the atlirnuition) by which 
 the absolute existence of u personal supra-mundane God
 
 308 COLERIDGE AS A PlIILOSOPITER 
 
 is alTirmcd. This Being styles Iliinsell" tlie I AM — the self- 
 aHirnied self-existence ; and what is left for the human 
 reason but to imitate this positive aflirmation, and stead- 
 fasti}" to assert that "he is, and is the rewarder of tliera 
 that diligently seek him." 
 
 In driving the hesitating mind over its hesitancy, and 
 urging it up to that moral resoluteness, which is at the 
 same time the most rational freedom, whereby it takes 
 sides with the instincts of reason and the convictions of 
 conscience, rather than with the schemes and fictions of 
 the speculative miderstanding and the unethical deduc- 
 tions from them, we esteem the writings of Coleridge 
 to be of great worth. Apart from the influence of the 
 example of this most learned and most contemplative 
 mind, the clearness and profundity with which the doc- 
 trines of theism are enunciated, and their mutual relation 
 and dependence explained, is admirably fitted to propa- 
 gate the living process of insight and of faith into the 
 mind of the student. ^ For it is one great merit of this*^ 
 ( author, that wdien his views are once mastered, they be- 
 ''^iCome inward and germinant. The consciousness of the 
 keachei' becomes that of the pupil. " You may," he says 
 with perfect truth, " you may not understand my system, 
 or any given part of it, or by a determined act of wilful- 
 ness, you may, even nithout perceiving a ray of light, re- 
 ject it, in anger and disgust. But this I will say — that if 
 you once master it, or any part of it, you cannot hesitate 
 to acknowledge it as the truth. You cannot be skeptical 
 ab(nit it."* And we appeal with confidence to those who 
 have had opportunities for observing, whether, as matter 
 of fact, those minds, and especially those young minds, 
 (ever most liable to be misled by the imposing pretensions 
 
 * Table Talk, Works, VI., 519, 520.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 309 
 
 of a false and miscalled ppiritnalism in philosophy) who 
 have once come fairly and continnonsly under the influ- 
 ence of the opinions of Coleridge, have not been, not only 
 shielded from eri-or, but also, fortified in the truth. Are 
 those who have been educated and trained in this s^eneral 
 method of philosophizing liable to be drawn aside from 
 it? Does not the method itself beget and nurture a de- 
 termined strength of philosophic character, which obsti- 
 nately refuses to receive the brilliant and specious theories 
 that are continually arising in the speculating world ? 
 
 This self-conscious and determined spirit, in the recipi- 
 ent of the general system promulgated by Ct)leridge, 
 springs naturally from its predominantly moral and practi- 
 cal character. The staple and stuff of this philosopliy 
 are the great moral ideas, and the faculties of the human 
 Boul most honored and developed by it are the moral 
 reason, the conscience, and tiie will. The purely specu- 
 lative materiel of philosophy is made to hold its proper 
 Bul)ordiiuite place, and the merely speculative and dialec- 
 tic faculty is also subordinated alons: with it. IJv recoff- 
 nizing the absolute authority of conscience, not only with- 
 in the domain of religion but also of philosophy, and by 
 affirming that the will itself, being the inmost centre of 
 the man, and, ideally, conjoint and one with reason, ought 
 not to stand entirely aloof, while, by a compulsory Logical 
 process, the first truths of philosophy and religion are 
 attempted to })e fonted upon the mind with the same ]ias- 
 sivitv and indifference with which its belief of absti-aet 
 axioms is necesfiitated — by regarding, in short, the moral 
 reason and the free-will in their living Bynthesis, as the 
 dominant faculty and scat (^f authority in the human soul, 
 this system of phiU>sophy not only secures a belief in the 
 truths of theism, l)ut at tlm snmo time builds u|) and 
 strengthens the human mind. -Mental belief, in this sj's-
 
 310 COLERIDGE AS A nilLOSOPIIER 
 
 tcm, has the clement of will in it. The doctrine of the 
 Divine existence, e. g., is believed not merely j)assively, 
 and from the mere mechanic structure of the intellect, aa 
 the axioms of geometry are, but to a certain extent by 
 free self-determination. The individual believes in the 
 essential difference between riglit and wront^, partly be- 
 cause he is inclined to believe it, and not because it is im- 
 possible to sophisticate himself into the disbelief of it. 
 On this theory, man becomes responsible for his belief, 
 even in respect to the first principles of morals and re- 
 ligion, and thus feels all the stimulation of a free and 
 therefore hazardous position. 
 
 And this brings us back again, to the intensely theistic 
 character of this philosophy. It is rooted and grounded 
 in the personal and the spiritual, and not in the least in 
 the impersonal and the natural. Drawing in the outset, 
 as we have remarked above, a distinct and broad line be- 
 tween these two realms, it keeps them apart from each 
 other, by affirming a difference in essence, and steadfastly 
 resists any and every attempt to amalgamate them into 
 one sole substance. The doctrine of creation, and not of 
 emanation or of modification, is the doctrine by which 
 it constructs its theory of tlie universe, and the doctrine 
 of responsible self-determination, and not of irresponsible 
 natural development, is the doctrine by which it constructs 
 its systems of philosophy and religion. 
 
 2. In the second place, we think that this author is 
 worthy of study, for his general method of theologizing, 
 and as an able defender and expounder of the doctrines 
 of Christianity on grounds of reason and philosophy. 
 
 In treating of this point, we shall be led to sj)eak of 
 Coleridge in his other princijDal character of a theologian. 
 In regard to his general merits under this head, there is, 
 both in this country and in Great Biitain, more difference
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 311 
 
 of opinion than in regard to his general merits as a philoso- 
 pher. We are inclined to tlie belief, however, that there 
 is a growing confidence in the substantial orthodoxy of 
 his theological opinions, and that it is coming to be the 
 belief even of those who do not sympathize with his phi- 
 losophical opinions, and of course not, therefore, with 
 his method of unfoldino; and defendino; the truths of 
 Christianity, that the name of Coleridge deserves to be 
 associated with those of the o-reat Eno-lish divines of the 
 seventeenth century, and that his views do not differ fun- 
 damentallv from that bodv of Christian doctrine which 
 had its first systematic origin in the head and heart of 
 Augustine. We are ourselves firm in the belief, tliat the 
 theology of Coleridge, notwithstanding variations on some 
 })oints, of which we shall speak hereafter, and which we 
 are by no means disposed to regard as insignificant, is yet 
 heartily and fully on the Augustinian side of that con- 
 troversy which, after all, makes up the pith and substance 
 of dogmatic church history. Even in relation to the 
 difference between the Calvinistic and Arminian schemes, 
 — schemes which, though essentially the same with tiie 
 Augustinian and Semi-Pelagian, yet have a narrower 
 sweep, and allow their adherents less latitude of move- 
 ment — even in relation to tliese two schemes, respecting 
 which there is such a shrinking in the English clergy, not- 
 withstanding the strongly-pronounced tone of the Tliirty- 
 iiine Articles, from a (;loar ex])rcssion of opinion, Cole- 
 ridge lias not hesitated to say, that " Calvinism (arch- 
 i.siioj) Leightun's, for example), compared with Jeremy 
 Taylor's Arminianism, is as the lamb in tlic wolf's skin, to 
 the wolf in the lamb's skin : the one is cruel in [)hrases, 
 the other in the doctrine," * 
 
 * Literary RemaiiiH, Works, V. 200. 
 
 I)
 
 312 COLERIDGE AS A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 If tlie reader will peruse the Confession of Faith di-awn 
 np by Coleridtijc as far back as 1816,* he Mall find that he 
 expresses his solemn belief in the personality and tri-unity 
 of God, the free and guilty fall of man, the redemption of 
 man by the incarnation and death of the Son of God, and 
 the regeneration of the human soul ])y the Holy Spirit ; 
 and if he will further peruse the development of Cole- 
 ridge's views, in the Aids to Reflection especially, on these 
 cardinal doctrines of Christianity, he will find that, with 
 the exception of that part of the subject of redemption 
 technically denominated justification, Coleridge did not 
 shrink from the most thorouiyh-goinor statements. No 
 divine, not even Calvin himself, ever expressed himself 
 more decidedly than this author, in respect to such points 
 as the divinity of Christ, the depth and totality of man's 
 apostasy, and the utter bondage and helplessness of the 
 fallen will : and the mere novice in theology knows that 
 profound and thorough views of sin lie at the -foundation 
 of all depth, comprehensiveness, and correctness, in a gen- 
 eral theological sj'stem. 
 
 It is rare, very rare, in the history of literature, to find 
 a mind so deeply interested in the pursuits of philosophy 
 and poetry as was that of Coleridge, at the same time 
 deeply and increasingly interested in theological studies 
 and speculations ; and still more rare, to find the philoso- 
 pher and the poet so thoroughly committed to the distin- 
 guishing doctrines of the Scriptures. Compare Coleridge, 
 for example, with his learned and able contemporary in 
 pliilosophy, Sir James Mackintosh, and observe the wide 
 difference between the two men, in respect to the relation 
 of each to the so-called evangelical system. Compare him 
 again with his contemporary and friend, the poet Southey, 
 
 * Literary Rcmams, Works, V. 15.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 313 
 
 and notice the same wide difference, in the same respect. 
 Neither Mackintosh nor Southey seem to have had that 
 profound and living consciousness of the trutii of such 
 doctrines as those of sin and redemption, which imparts 
 so much of the thcoloo-ical character to Coleridcje, and 
 which would justify his being phiced among the divines 
 of England, were not theology, in this as in too many 
 other instances, thrown into the shade by the less noble 
 but more imposing departments of philosophy and poetry. 
 He tells us that he was drawn off from poetry by the study 
 of philosophy ; and the account we gather of his studies 
 and reflections during the last quarter of his life shows, 
 ihat he was drawji off — so far as the nature of the case 
 permits this — from philosophy itself b}^ theology : or, 
 rather, that the one passed over into the other. 
 
 Now, it seems to ns that this mind, having received 
 Buch a profound discipline in philosophy, and that too a 
 spiritual and theistic philosophy, and being led both by 
 \\^ original tendency and the opei-ation of divine grace to 
 tiie study and defence of the truths of the Christian reli- 
 gion on grounds of reason, is eminently fitted to be a guide 
 and aid to reflection in this direction. We do not recom- 
 mend Coleridge to the student as the author of a theologi- 
 cal system, but rather as the defender and expounder of a 
 general method of inquii-y and reflection npon theological 
 doctrines, in the highest degree fruitful and sound. In- 
 deed, what we have said of Coleridge's lack of con- 
 structive ability in the dei)artment of philosophy ai)plie3 
 with still more force to him as a theologian. The longest 
 and most continuous statements, that Coleridge has made 
 u])oii the doctrines of (Jhristianity, are to be found in 
 the Aids to Jli'jiection, and yet the general character 
 of this, the most elaborate and vuluabh^ of his prose 
 ])roductions, is aphoristic. The ajihoristic metiiod is, ob- 
 14
 
 314 COLERIDOK AS A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 vionsly. not the best by which to convey opinions npon 
 so intrinsically systematic and actually systematized 
 themes as the doctrines of Cliristianity ; much less, there- 
 fore, can this method be employed successfully, in con- 
 structing a whole theological system. Still, as an aid to 
 reliection, as inducing a general stjde of thinking, and 
 manner of unfolding and defending truth, this method 
 lias some decided advantages over that of the connected 
 treatise. It allows of more mental freedom on the part 
 of the pn])il, and fosters original reflection, more than a 
 work flnished in all its parts and details, "For," saya 
 Lord Bacon, " a,s young men, Avlien they knit and shape i>er- 
 fectly, do seldom grow to a further stature, so knowledge, 
 while it is in aphorisms and observations, it is in growth ; 
 but when it is once comprehended in exact methods, it 
 may perchance be further polished and illustrated, and 
 accommodated for use and practice ; but it increaseth no 
 more in bulk and substance." * 
 
 We regard the general method of theologizing induced 
 by the reflections of Coleridge upon theological doctrines, 
 as eminently profound and comjjrehensive. It leads the 
 student to prize first of all, depth, breadth, and ceitainty 
 of view, in this department of knowledge. It does this, 
 
 * Advancement of Learning, Book I. — Consonant with this, are the 
 following remarks of Schleiermacher : "Denn erinnert Each nur, wie 
 wenige von denen, welche auf einem cigenen Wege in das innere der 
 Natur und des Geistes eingedrnngen sind und deren gegenseitiges Ver- 
 hiiltniss und innere Ilarmoijie in einem eigenen Lichte angeschaut und 
 dargestellt haben, wie deunoch nur wenige von ihnen gleich ein System 
 ihres Erkennens hingestellt, sondern vielmehr fast alle in einer zarteren, 
 sollte es auch seiazerbrechlicheren Form, ihre Entdeckimgen mitgetheilt 
 haben. Und wenn Ihr dagegen auf die Systeme seht in alien Schul- 
 en, wie oft diese nicht anders sind als der Sitz und die Pilanzstatte des 
 todten Buchstabens ; weil niimlich, mit seltenen Ausuahmen, der selbst- 
 bildende Geist der hohen Betrachtung zu tiiichtig ist und zu frei fiix die 
 .stveugen Formen." — Reden uber die Religion. Erste Rede.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN 315 
 
 i 
 
 by teacliing as its first aiid great lesson, that '"' the scheme 
 of Christianity, though not discoverable by human reason, 
 is yet in accordance with it," * and that all reflection 
 upon the truths of Scripture ought, therefore, to cari-y 
 the mind down into deeper and deeper depths of its own 
 beinw-, and result in the absolute and unassailable con- 
 viction that divine revelation "is likewise divine reason. 
 The influence of Coleridge's speculations is to produce 
 and establish the belief that there is no inward and neces- 
 sary contradiction between faith and reason, but that when 
 both are traced to their ultimate and central unity, faith, 
 in the phrase of Heinroth, f will be seen to be undeveloped 
 and unconscious reason, and reason, again, this same faith, 
 developed, self-conscious, and self-inteUigent : in other 
 words, that when the believer shall have been raised b_y 
 the highest gi'ade of Christian consciousness to the higliest 
 grade of Christian knowledge, he will see that the unques 
 tionino; and childlike docility with wliich he trusted and 
 rested in the trutlis and mysteries of Christianity, was tlie 
 nK>?t rational of all mental acts, and the most philoso})hic 
 of all mental j)rocosscs. That this absolute consciousness 
 can be perfectly reached, even by the most profound and 
 holiest mind while in the flesh, we for one deny; for the 
 same reason that, within the sphere of life and practice, 
 we deny tlie doctrine of spiritual perfection here on earth. 
 But, that this knowledge, this insight into the identity of 
 the revelation of God with the reason of Cod, is a reality, 
 and may be sti-iven after, and that in its ])erfect complete- 
 ness it will l)e attained by the hunian spirit when it has 
 ceased to see thrfmgh a glass darkly, has been the stead- 
 fast belief of the lioly and the wix-, in nil iigcs ol' llie 
 ("hristian church. There is a poinr, :i liniil centre, where 
 
 * Biojfraphia Literaria, sulj (inc. 
 f Aiitliroitologif, H. 2\\).
 
 31 G COLEKIDGE AS A PIIILOSOPUER 
 
 faitli and iiisig'lit meet, even in regard to the mysteries of 
 (lii'istianitv ; and tu this point, the earnest straining eye 
 of Christian spccndation has in all ages steadily turned. 
 This point is at once the mysterious power that attracts, 
 and the goal where the whole mighty tendency is to come 
 to a rest. Only on the hypothesis that the prohlem is not 
 in its own nature ahsurd and insoluhle, but that by a 
 legitimate n)cth()d Chi'istian philosophy may draw nearer 
 aiul nearer its solution, even here in space and time, can 
 ■we account for the existence of a Chi-istian theology at 
 all. How far Coleridge has contributed, in the employ- 
 ment of this method, to the scientitic statement and philo- 
 sophical defence of the docti-ines of Christianity, and, 
 generally, what his positive merits are in respect to this 
 relation of philosophy to revelation, is a question to which 
 we would devote a short space. 
 
 In respect to the doctrine of the Trinity^ upon which 
 his thouirhts seem to have centered durino- liis latter life, 
 the position which he took, that this doctrine though mys- 
 terious is yet rational, and is therefore a legitimate object 
 of investigation foi- a rational mind, at first sight seems to 
 extend the sphere of Christian speculation beyond its 
 proper limits. For the last two centuries, it has been cus- 
 tomary among English and American theologians to re- 
 ceive the doctrine of the Trinity ]>urely on the ground of 
 its being i-evealed in Scripture, and attempts to establish 
 its rationality and intrinsic necessity have, in the main, 
 been deprecated. It has not always been so. In some 
 ages, the doctrine of the triunity of the Divine Being was 
 the battle-ground of the church, and we are inclined to 
 think tliat the Christian mind has never reached a deeper 
 depth in metaphysical philosophy, than that to which it 
 was compelled to sink by the acute objections of Arianism 
 and Sabellianism. Let any one thoughtfully peruse the
 
 AXD THEOLOGIAN. 317 
 
 creeds that had their origui in these coutroversies^ and see 
 M-ith what masterly care and ability the orthodox mind, in 
 spite of all the imperfections of human language, strove to 
 express the idea with wliich it was laboring, so as to avoid 
 the Arian, the Sabellian, and Tritheistic ideas of the 
 Divine Xature, and then ask himself if there is not some- 
 thing of the mental, something of the rational, in the doc- 
 trine of the Trinity, by virtue of which it becomes a 
 legitimate object of contemplation for the human mind, 
 and to some extent a guide to its inquiry. How could a 
 man like Athanasius, for example, contend so earnestly, 
 and with such truth of counter-statement, against a false 
 idea, unless he had the true idea somewhat clear in his 
 own mind to contendyc/'. xVnd if it be said that this was 
 derived from the bare letter of the Scriptures, and that 
 the whole controversy between the contending parties 
 hinged upon the citation of proof texts, the question 
 arises: How came Athanasius to see such a different truth 
 in these texts frcnn that which his opponents saw in them? 
 Snj))K)se a ti-ansfer of consciousness — suppose that the in- 
 ward convictions and notions, upon the subject of the 
 Trinity, possessed by Arius, could have been carried 
 over into the mind of Athanasius — would the letter of 
 these proof-texts have contained the same spirit, or mean- 
 ing, for him that liiey actually did '^ For it must be 
 recollet;ted that' the Sci-iptures do not furnish, ready- 
 formed, a systematic and scientific statement of the doc- 
 trine in question. How, then, came the orthodox mind 
 t«) dei'ive its own sharply-delined dogma from the Scrip- 
 tures, and the h(^tei(tdox mintl its own equally shai'plyde- 
 jincd dogma from the very same Scrii)tures, unless each 
 brought an antecedent Interpreting idea into the contro- 
 versy { We (jo not by any means suppose that this ortho- 
 dox idea of the Trinity s[)rang up in the orthodox mind at
 
 318 COLEKIDQE AS A rillLOSOI'IlER 
 
 this particular instant in the history of the church, and 
 entirely independent of the Scriptures. It was a slow 
 formation, and had come down from the beginning, as the 
 joint product of scriptui-al teaching and rational reflection, 
 but was brought out, by this controversy', into a greater 
 clearness and fullness tlian it had ever before apjjeared in, 
 outside of the circle of inspired minds. But that the d(jc- 
 trine of the Trinity was now an idea in the tnind of the 
 churchy and therefore contained a mental element, by vir- 
 tue of which it was a legitimate object of rational contem- 
 plation, and not a mere letter upon the page of Sci'ipture, 
 is the point we wished to bring out. 
 
 Kow we think it a return to an older and better view of 
 the subject, and not a mere novelty, that Coleridge M-as 
 disposed to affirm, that whether it can be distinctly and 
 fully shown or not, the doctrine of the Trinity is a rational 
 doctrine, and is not, therefore, a theme altogether forbid- 
 den to the theologian because it stands in no sort of rela- 
 tion to a human intelligence. We believe that the posi- 
 tion taken by him in common with the spiritual school of 
 theologians in Germany, bet^veen whose general views in 
 theology and those of Coleridge there is much affinity, 
 that the doctrine of the Trinity contains the only adequate 
 and final answer to the standing objection of pantheism 
 — viz., that an Infinite Being cannot be personal, because 
 all personal self-consciousness implies limitation — is a 
 valuable one for both philosojih}^ and theology. It pro- 
 poses a high aim for both of these sciences, and provided 
 the investigation be conducted in the light of Scripture 
 and of the Christian consciousness, and for the very pur- 
 pose of destroying the pantheistic conception of the Deity, 
 into which such abstruse and recondite speculation we 
 confess is very apt to run,* we luive little fear that the 
 
 * The Trinity oi' Hegel is an example.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 319 
 
 cause of true philosophy and reh'gion will suffer from the 
 attempt. "Whether the attempt he successful or not, surely 
 it is honoring divine revelation, and that body of system- 
 atic knowledge which has sprung up out of it, to affirm 
 with Julius Mtiller, that " the Christian religion, as it lies 
 in the Xew Testament, contains the fundamental elements 
 of a perfect system of philosophy in itself ; that there can- 
 not be a real reconciliation between philosophy and Chris- 
 tianity, if such reconciliation must come in from without, 
 and that such a reconciliation is possible only as it la 
 merely an unfolding of that which is already contained 
 by implication in Christianity : and hence, that it must be 
 possible to find, from the immediate contents of the 
 Christian religion, as its metaphysical complement^ ulti- 
 mate and absolutely scitntific statements relative to the 
 existence of. God and the world, and their mutual rela- 
 tions, in such way as that they shall of themselves consti- 
 tute a system of Christian philosophy." * 
 
 Furthermore, whetlier the attempt to construct philo- 
 sophically the doctrine of the Trinity succeed or not, the 
 assertion that it is grounded in reason, and the necessity 
 of the Divine Nature, logically cuts the root of the doc- 
 trine of a merely modal Trinity: a heresy that was re- 
 vived by the contemplative Schleiermacher. If the doc- 
 trine of the Trinity has a rational necessity, i. e., a neces- 
 sity in the Dirine Essence itself — if God, in order to he 
 2>ers(>nal and self-conscious^ and not merely that he niay 
 manifest himself, nnist be triune — then it follows that a 
 trinity of mere manifestation, whatever it may do for 
 other beings than the Deity, leaves the Deity himself des- 
 titute of self-consciousness. The position of the Christian 
 theol<*gy is, that irrespective of his muHil'estatioii in tho 
 
 * Leiiro von dcr Siinde, Bd. I. bb. 7, 9.
 
 320 COLERIDGE AS A rilll.OSorilKR 
 
 universe, antoccdout to the creation, and in tlio solitude 
 of liis (»\vn eternity, God is personally self-conscious and 
 therefore triune — absolutely self-sufUcient, and therefore 
 neediuii; to undei'iro no process of development and mani- 
 festation, in order to absolute ])lenilude and perfection 
 of existence. IJy affirmiui^ that the doctrine of the Trin- 
 ity is an absolutely rational and necessary one, because 
 the Divine Nature is essentially and necessarily trinal, 
 tlie doctrine of a relative and modal trinity is logically 
 precluded. 
 
 So far as concerns the speculations themselves, of Colo- 
 ridge, upon this doctrine, he undoubtedly received the 
 theological statement of it, contained in the Nicene Creed, 
 as the truth, and endeavored, from this as a point of de- 
 parture, to originate a corresponding philosophical deter- 
 mination of the doctrine. How much he has actually 
 contribnted to the scientific solution of the problem, each 
 reader will decide for himself. We are free to sa}'- for 
 ourselves, that we think Coleridge committed an error in 
 leavino; the scheme of the triad for that of the tetrad, in his 
 construction. The symbols of the Church proceed upon 
 the hypothesis of a simple triad, which is also a monad, 
 and hence teach a trinity in unity and a unity in trinity. 
 Coleridge, on the other hand, proceeds upon the scheme 
 of the Pagan trinity, of which hints are to be found in 
 Plato, and which can be traced back as far as Pythagoras 
 — the scheme, namely, of a monad logically anterior to, 
 and other than, the triad ; of a monad which originally 
 is not a triad, but becomes one; whereby four factors are 
 introduced into the problem. The error in this scheme 
 consists in this its assumption of an aboriginal unity exist- 
 ing primarily by itself, and, in the order of nature, he- 
 fore a trinity — of a (jrouud for the trinity, or, in Cole- 
 ridge's })hrase, a prothesis, which is not in its own na-
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 321 
 
 ture eitlier trinal or pei-soual, but is merely the imper- 
 sonal base from -which the triiiality is evolved. In this 
 way, -we think, a process of development is introduced 
 into the Godhead that is incompatible with its immutable 
 ])erfection, and with that golden position of tlie school- 
 men, that God is actus purissimus sine idla potentiali- 
 tate. There is no latency in the Divine Being. He is 
 the same yesterday, to-day, and forever. We think we 
 see in this scheme of Coleridge the influence of the pan- 
 theistic conception of potentiality, instead of the theistic 
 conception of self-completeness, and that if he had taken 
 the distinct and full personality of the finite spirit as the 
 image and likeness of the Infinite Personality, and, hav- 
 ing steadfastly contemj)lated the necessary conditions of 
 self-consciousness in man, had merely freed them from 
 the limitations of tlie finite — of time, and degree — he 
 would have been more successful, certainlv more con- 
 tinuous and progressive. While we say this, however, we 
 are far from believing that Coleridge's practical faith, as 
 a Christian, in the Trinity, Avas in the least affected by 
 this tendency to modalism in his speculative construction 
 of the d(jctrine — a modalism, too, which, as we have re- 
 marked above, is logically, and ought actually to have 
 been, precluded by the position which he heartily 
 adopted, of the intrinsic rationality and necessity of the 
 doctrine. Few minds in the whole history of the Chris- 
 tian church, as we believe, have had more awful and 
 adcning views of the Triune God, or liave bowed down 
 in more absolute and hnvly woi'ship before the Father, 
 bon, and Holy Cihost. 
 
 The reflections of Coleridge upon the great and inipoi-- 
 
 tant doctrine of iSin, we regard as of the highest worth 
 
 both in a practical and speculative respect. Indeed, a 
 
 profound conscifjusnoss of sin in the heart, and a corrO' 
 
 14*
 
 322 COLKRIDQK AS A I'lIlLOSOPIIER 
 
 spondiiiijly profound tlieory of it in the head, arc funda- 
 mental to all depth and soundness of view in the general 
 domain of theology. Coleridge speaks, in several places, 
 of his renunciation of Socinianism and reception of Trini- 
 tarianisni as resulting from a change in his philosophical 
 opinions: of a spiritual philosophy as the means of bring- 
 ing him to a spiritual religion. Without denying the co- 
 operation of this iiitiuence, we are yet inclined to the be- 
 lief, that in liis case, as in that of Augustine and of men 
 of a strongly contemplative bent generally, the change 
 from error to truth had its first and deepest source in that 
 profound and bitter experience of an evil nature which 
 every child of Adam must pass through before reaching 
 peace of soul, and which, more than any other experience, 
 carries the mind down into the depths of both the nature 
 of man and of God. The biographical materials, for 
 forming an estimate of the spiiituality and religious ex- 
 perience of Coleridge, are somewhat meagre, but there is 
 full reason for believing, from the gushes of tender devo- 
 tional feeling that burst up spontaneously, and with the 
 ntuiost unconsciousness, on the slightest hint or occasion, 
 that a most profound Christian ex]3erience lay warm and 
 tremulous under the wliole of his culture and character.* 
 We think we can see plainly in thc^se most touching ex- 
 pressions of a sense of bondage which sometimes escape 
 from him, that Coleridge, in common with the wise and 
 the holy of all ages, was slowly but triumphantly fighting 
 through that great fight between the flesh and the spirit, 
 which, far more than the splendor of a merely human en- 
 
 * See Table Talk, Works, VI. 323 (Note), 327 (Note), 478 (Note), 
 527; and Literary Remains, Works, V. 10-31, 368, 372, 290.— These 
 passages should be read by any one who would know how lowly and 
 piiuitential, how filial and trustful a Christian this "logician, metaphy- 
 eican, and bard," as Lamb called him, had become.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. ' 323 
 
 dowment, is the secret of the lofty and melancholy inter- 
 est with which, even if personally nnacquainted with the 
 struggle, every thoughtful mind contemplates the lives of 
 those elect spirits whom God's grace has chosen as its dis- 
 tinguished organs of manifestation — that unearthly contest 
 which, more than all else, is the secret of that superior 
 charm which sets the Cojifessions of Angustine as high 
 above the Confessions of Rousseau as the heavens are 
 above the earth. In this connection, we believe that the 
 ojjium-eating of Coleridge, about which so much has been 
 said in a pharisaic spirit, by those who had small if any 
 knowledge of that publican-like humility, and lowly self- 
 despair, which is the heart and kernel of a Christian as 
 distinguished from a merely pagan or ethnic character, 
 was the occasion, as are all evil habits in the regenerate 
 soul, of this deep and continually deepening religious con- 
 sciousness ; and that if that ])eculiarity which resulted 
 from this strugi>;le with an evil habit were to be taken out 
 of Coleridge's experience as a Christian, it would lose 
 mncli of its depth, expanse, and true elevation. We have 
 not the slightest doubt that, when told, " the tale of his 
 long and passionate struggle with, and final victory over, 
 the habit, will form one of the brightest, as well as most 
 interostinir traits of the moi-al and reliirions being of this 
 liumble, this exalted Chi-istian." * The [)ious-miudcd be- 
 liever who finds in his own experience a fac-simile of this 
 struggle with the relics of an evil nature, and the philos- 
 ophic incpiirer who traces the Christ ian life to its hidden 
 and lowest springs, are both of them, alik(\ far better 
 qnalilied to be judges and censors over such a frailty 
 and sin as the one in question, than those moralists who 
 are precluded, as of (jld, from both the reception and 
 
 ♦ JI. N. Colcridge'a Preface to the Table Talk, Works, VI. 252.
 
 324: COLERIDGE AS A rillLOSOlMlKU 
 
 tlio ai)pro!icnsion of an evaiio'clical spirit, by tlioir sclf- 
 riirliteDiisiiess, and whose, so-called religion is that merely 
 nei^ative thing which owes its origin not to the conflict 
 of grace with sin, but to an excess of lymph in the 
 blood. 
 
 Coleridge's view of sin, which is to be found the most 
 fully expressed in the Aids to Refiection^ is so intimately 
 connected with his view of the will, that it is necessary to 
 direct attention to the nature and functions of this impor- 
 tant faculty. The place which the will holds in his sys- 
 tem of philosophy was briefly alluded to under that head. 
 As the spiritual, i. e., self-determined, principle in man, it 
 stands over against all that is strictly and merely natural 
 in him, in the sharpest opposition. In the idea and plan 
 of the human soul it was intended to control and subject 
 to its own rational self-determination all the functions and 
 operations, all the appetencies and tendencies, of a nature 
 which unallied with such a higher spiritual power would 
 be as irresponsible, because as necessitated in its develop- 
 ment, in man, as we find it to be in the brute. All radi- 
 cal deterioration, therefore, in the human soul, must begin 
 in the stf/Z-determined part of it, for this is the only point 
 at which a radical^ responsible change can be introduced, 
 and from which it can evolve. A mere nature, as in the 
 case of irrational and irresponsible existences, is not capa- 
 ble of either a radical deterioration or a radical improve- 
 ment. It must develop itself, in the main, and substan- 
 tially, in accordance with what has been inlaid in it. 
 There are, therefore, in the world of nature as distin- 
 guished from that of spirit, no radical changes — no terri- 
 ble catastrophes like the fall of the human will, no glori- 
 ous recoveries like its renovation. There is, and must be, 
 within the realm of the strictly natural, oidy one uniform 
 evolution, in one continuous and endless line, because mere
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 325 
 
 development cannot, by a free act, go behind itself, and 
 alter tlie basis from which it proceeds. 
 
 Sin, therefore, as involving a radical change in the 
 character, development, and history of the human soul, 
 oi-i»Tiuates in the will. If man were a mere creature 
 of nature, his development would go on with the same 
 necessary uniformity with wliich a crystal or a tree is 
 built up in accordarice witli the law of nature. But he is 
 also a spiritual, i. e., se//-determined, creature, and hence 
 that possibility of sinning which has become a dreadful 
 actuality. By virtue of this power, man is capable of 
 throwing himself out of the normal line of development 
 prescribed for him by his Creator, and of beginning, by 
 an absolute beginning, a cliaracter, a course, and career, 
 the precise contrary to the right and ideal one. 
 
 Without going into further detail in regard to sin as 
 originating within the sphere of freedom — a point upon 
 wliich there is no controversy among those who hold to 
 the existence of sin at all — we wish to allude, as concisely 
 as possible, to the idea of the will itself as held by Cole- 
 ridge, and as it is found generally, we think, in the Platonic 
 as distinguished from the Locke Calvinism. For, the doc- 
 trine of sin assumes a very different form, and is accom- 
 panied with totally different i-esults, both in speculative 
 and practical theology, according as the idea of the will is 
 capacious, deep, and exhaustive, or the contrary. If the 
 will is regarded as merely the faculty of single choices, or 
 l»articular volitions, the sin that has its origin in it must 
 iiccessarily be atomic — a mure series of single and isolated 
 acts, or, in the technics of theology, actual and conscious 
 '.ransgressions. If, on flie other hand, the will is i(g:irdcd 
 as the i»ower of determining the whole soid, and the soul 
 as a whole, to an ultimate em/ of living, the sin that haa 
 its origin in it is dynamic — an inmianent process or atutc
 
 .'l2t> COLERIDGE AS A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 of thowill, having the unity, deptli and totality of a nature, 
 and, in tlicolo^ical ])ln'aseol()gy,isan evil nature, from whidi 
 all atttual and volitionary tran8i2;rcssions proceed. This 
 distini;tion between the volitionary and the V(.>hintary or 
 self-determining power — a distinction plainly marked l)y 
 the Latin arhitrium and voluntas, and equally plainly by 
 the German WillJcuhr and Wille — is important not only 
 intrinsically, but also in order to an a])prehension of Cole- 
 ridge's view of the doctrine of original sin, which, we think, 
 does not differ matei'iallv from that of Ani!;ustine and the 
 Reformers. For, although Coleridge insists earnestly and 
 at length upon the doctrine of free self-determination, he 
 is equally earnest and decided in affirming the absolute 
 bondage and helplessness of the fallen human will. Ac- 
 cording to him, the will is capable of originating its states 
 — its holy state only in concurrence with, and aided by, 
 the one Holy Will which is the ground and support of all 
 finite holiness, and its sinful state without any aid or 
 co-operation on the part of the Infinite AVill — but when an 
 evil moral state has once been originated, and the will has 
 once responsibly formed a sinful character and nature, a 
 central radical change in the direction and tendency of 
 this faculty is, from the very nature of the case, then out 
 of its power. For the will is not merely the sm-face- 
 f acuity of single volitions, over M'hich the individual has 
 ai'bitrary control, but also that central, and inmost active 
 principle into which all the powers of cognition and feel- 
 ing are grafted, as into the very core and substance of the 
 personalit} itself. So that when the will, in iln^full and 
 adequate sense of the word, puts forth its sinful self-de- 
 termination, it takes the whole soul along with it from the 
 centre to circumference, leaving no remainder of power 
 in reserve, by which the existing direction of its movement 
 can be reversed. The fall of the will, thcrefo*e, though
 
 A^^) THEOLOGIAN. 327 
 
 a free and self-moved procedure, brings this faculty into 
 such a relation to holiness, that it is utterly impossible for 
 it to recover itself back into its primitive state : it being 
 a contradiction, to attribute a power of originating holi- 
 ness, to a faculty, the ichole of whose power is already 
 absf>rbed in an unintermittent determination to sin. The 
 will, as thus conceived, .is a unit and a unity, and 
 having once freely set Itself in the direction of evil, it 
 thereby, and in the same i)roportion," becomes powerless 
 in respect to a contrary direction ; not because, be it ob- 
 served, of any compulsion from without, but because of 
 the obstinate energy and overmastering momentum within. 
 It is an impossibility for Satan to cast out Satan; because 
 it is an incompatibility. 
 
 Coleridge, in brief, while holding to the doctrine of free 
 self-determination with the serious earnestness of a phi- 
 losopher who well knew the vital importance of it in a 
 system of theism — the doctrine of responsible and per- 
 sonal free-will being the very and only corrosive of all 
 pantheistic naturalism — at the same time agreed with the 
 oldest and soundest theology of the Christian church, in 
 not afhi-uiing the existence of positive and eflicicnt power 
 in the fallen will, either to recover itself, or to maintain 
 itself ill lioliness after recovery. "The difference," he 
 says, " between a Calvinist and a Priestleyan materialist- 
 necessitarian consists in this : the former not only believes 
 a will, l)ut that it is equivalent to the ego ijyse, to the 
 actual self, in every moral agent ; though, he believes that 
 in human nature it is an enslaved, because a corruj)t will. 
 In denying free-will to the unregenerato, he no more de- 
 nies will, than in sisserting the poor negroes in the West 
 Indies to be slaves, 1 deny them to be men. Now tlio 
 latter, the Priestleyan, uses the word will — not for any 
 diotinct correspondent power, but — for the mere resultand
 
 328 COLEUIDQE AS A rillLOSOrilKR 
 
 a.ro-vegatG of fibres, motions, and sensations ; in short, it is 
 a mere generic term with him, just as when we say, the 
 main current of a river." * In tine, the fallen will in re- 
 lation to a holy state — in relation to the " new heart " 
 of the Scriptures — is a capability and not an ability, a 
 recipiency and not a self-sufhcient power, because the 
 decided and positive energy of the faculty, its actual and 
 actuating force, is entirely enlisted and swallowed up in 
 the proccvss of a sinful self-determination. This sinful 
 self-determination, involving the whole soul into itself, 
 and implicating all the energies of the inward being of 
 man with itself, constitutes that evil nature, below the 
 range of distinct consciousness, from which all conscious 
 transgression proceeds, and of which it is the phenomenal 
 manifestation. In this way, sin is seen to be a single in- 
 divisible nature, or disposition, and not merely an innu- 
 merable series of isolated acts, and this nature again is 
 seen to be essential guilt, because, as originated in a will 
 and by a will, it is self-originated and self-determined. 
 In the phrase of Coleridge, man " receives a nature into 
 his will, which by this very act becomes a corrupt will ; 
 and vice versa this will becomes his nature, and thus a 
 corrupt nature ; " and, bearing in mind the distinguishing 
 characteristics of nature and spirit, the reader will see the 
 meaning of the further pcjsition of this author, " that a 
 nature in a will is as inconsistent with freedom, as free 
 choice with an incapacity of choosing aught but evil ; 
 and that a free power in a nature to fulhl a law above 
 nature is a startling paradox to the i*eason." f 
 
 Kespecting the doctrine of Original Sin, therefore, we 
 
 * Literary Remains, Works, V. 448 ; compare, also, Aids to Reflec- 
 tion, Comment on Aphorism X., Works, I. 271-291. 
 
 f Aids to Reflection, Works, I. 281 (Note). See also Notes on 
 Jeremy Taylor's Unuin Necessarium. Literary Remains, Works, V. Ido.
 
 AXD THEOLOGIAN. 329 
 
 tliinlc there is a substantial ai^reement between Coleridge 
 and that form of doctrine which has come down in the 
 Christian church as the best expression of both the Chris- 
 tian experience, and the Christian reflection upon this 
 momentous subject ; and, as we have alread}' remarked, a 
 profound view of sin is the deep and strong soil from 
 which all sound, healthy, and healing growths in theologi- 
 cal speculation shoot up. Depth and truth of theory here 
 is the very best preventive of errors and misconceptions 
 elsewhere, and the very best mitigation and remedy for 
 them, if thev exist. 
 
 We have thus far spoken of the soundness and fruitful- 
 ness of Coleridire's general method of theologizing ; of his 
 profound belief in the inward harmony of reason and 
 revelation, and of that instinctive and irresistible desire 
 which he shared with the profoundcst theologians of all 
 ages, to exhibit and establish this harmony. AVe have also 
 dwelt upon his views upon the fundamental doctrines of 
 the Trinity and tlie Fall of man, selecting these out of the 
 great circle of Christian doctrines, because they ai-e fun- 
 damental, and in their implication contain the whole 
 Christian system. It is impossible, however, within the 
 space of an esspy, and it is not perhaps desirable, to pur- 
 sue the opinions of this author through the whole series of 
 individual doctrines, and having, as we think, shown his 
 substantial agreement, so far as the general type and 
 (character of his theology is concerned, with the Augus- 
 tinian, we pass now to a brief consideration of some 
 erroneous and defective view^ that cling to it. 
 
 Notwithstanding Coleridge's earnest advocacy of the 
 doctrine of the self-determining power of the huinan 
 will, whereby the oriirin <>!" sin is taken out of the course 
 of nature, and merely natural processes, and brought 
 within the sphere of freedom and amenability to justice,
 
 330 COLICRIDGE AS A PIIILOSOI'IIER 
 
 \\c think that the idea of guilt, t]ioup;h by no means 
 denied, or unrecognized, either in his personal experience 
 or liis speculations, was not sufficiently deep, clear, and 
 impi-essive for liiin. Sin, for liiin, as for many contem- 
 puitive minds in the Cliristian church — as it was for Ori- 
 gen in the early church, for the mystical theology of the 
 middle ages, for the school of Schleiermacher at the pres- 
 ent time — was too disproportionately the corruption and 
 disharmony of the human soul, and not sufficiently its guilt. 
 Now, the strongest motive which the theologian, as distin- 
 guished from the i)hilosopher, has for maintaining the doc- 
 trine of free will, is to find an adequate and rational ground 
 for the responsibility and criminality of the human soul as 
 fallen and corrupt. He is not so anxious to establish the 
 doctrine of self-determination in reference to the origin of 
 holiness (though in this reference the doctrine is important), 
 as in reference to the oriij-in of sin : knowing that while 
 there is little hazard in attributing too much to the divine 
 agency in the production of moral good, there is the great- 
 est hazard in implicating the deity in the origin of moral 
 evil. It would seem, therefore, that so determined an 
 advocate of the doctrine of human freedom as Coleridge 
 was, should not only have seen that the very essence of 
 sin, as self-determiiml, and thereby distinguislied from 
 all other forms of evil, consists in its ill-desert and penal- 
 ity, and that therefore its first and most important relation 
 is to law and justice, but should, especially, have allowed 
 this view to have moulded and shaped in a proper degree 
 his theory of Bedemjytion. But, the scheme which Cole- 
 ridge presents in the Aids to Reflection is defective in 
 not insisting with sufficient emphasis upon the truth, that 
 as the essential nature of sin (by virtue of which it is 
 different in kind irom all other forms of evil, and becomes, 
 strictly speaking, the only evil, per se) is ^guilt, so an
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 331 
 
 essential element in any remedial plan must be atonement, 
 or exjnation. The correlate to guilt is atonement, and to 
 attempt to satisfy those specific wants of the sinful soul 
 which spring- out of remorse of conscience, which is the 
 folt and living relation of sin to law and justice, by a 
 mere provision for spiritual sanctitication, however needed 
 and necessary this may be in its own place, must be like 
 the attempt to satisfy tliirst witli food. Coleridge was 
 repelled from the doctrine of vicarious atonement, hy 
 some of the mechanical sclicmes and forms under which 
 it lias been exhibited; but if, as the best theology of the 
 church has generally done, he had looked at it from the 
 view-point of the absolute nature of justice, and had 
 brought it under the category of want and correlate — one 
 of the most vital of all, and one with which Coleridge's 
 own mind was thorono;hlv familiar — it seems to us that 
 ho would have seen, that, although the terms ransom and 
 payment of a debt, when applied to the agency of the 
 Kedeemer, are indeed metaphorical, the term expiation is 
 not.* If he had steadfastly contemplated the subjective 
 wants of the human soul while tilled with the conscious- 
 ness of guilt, and before that sense of corruption and 
 those yearnings for holiness of heart which are the conse- 
 quent rather than antecedent of regeneration have sprung 
 
 * See Aids to Reflection, Aph. XIX., Comment, Works I. 30(5-831. 
 We never read this ardent but merely analog-ical argument against sub- 
 Btituted penal sufTering within the spiritual si)hcre of justice, founded 
 upon the m'jrely natural, and wlioily unjudicial, relation of a son to liia 
 mother, without tliinking of the words iu Wallenstein : 
 
 "O thou art fdiiifl, with thy deep-seaing ej'es." 
 
 There i« no inward anil real analogy between the two spheres. There 
 can be no legitimate arguing from a Hjihen! from which the rctri/jtUive 
 is altogether e.xcluiled, such as that of the mother and child, over 
 into a sphere iu which the retrilmtice is the princi|)al element, such as 
 that of God the just and man the guilty. It is /x«Tci/3a(TJs f u aAAo 7tVoi,
 
 332 coLKUinoK as a rniLosoniER 
 
 lip ill it, and then had gone still farther, and contemplated 
 the dread ohjectivo g-rouiid of this remorseful and guilty 
 conscience, in the divine justice, which, through this 
 finite medium, reveals itself against all unrighteousness, 
 he would have seen as the Augustines, the Anselms, the 
 Calvins, and the Howes have seen, that there is a rational 
 necessity for the expiation of guilt — a necessity founded 
 in the rational nature and moral wants of man, and 
 therefore primarily in the nature and attributes of that 
 infinitely Holy Being who made man in his own image, 
 and after his own likeness. 
 
 Moreover, in taking the position which he does — viz., 
 that the real and absolute relation of the Passion of the 
 Redeemer to the divine attributes is a mystery, in such 
 sense that nothing can be affirmed concerning it that can 
 be intelligible to the human intellect, or edifying to the 
 Imman heart (for this is said, when it is asserted that the 
 subjective consecpiences in the redeemed are all that can 
 be known npon the subject), Coleridge stands in remark- 
 able inconsistency with himself. We have seen that even 
 the Ti-inity was not by him regarded as a mystery, in the 
 modern but really improper sense of standing in no sort 
 of relation to a rational intelligence — in the sense of con- 
 taining no rational and intelligible element, npon which 
 the human mind can seize as a point of contact and com- 
 munion. And yet, one wliole side of the work of Redemp- 
 tion — that side, too, which stands in the very closest con- 
 nection with the deepest and most awful sense in the 
 human soul, the sense of guilt, and ministers to the deep- 
 est and most awful craving that ever emerges into the 
 horizon f»f consciousness, the cravino; for a deliverance 
 from guilt on real grounds, i.e., on grounds oi justice: 
 (a craving that lies at the bottom of the whole system of 
 sacrifices, Pagan as well as Jewish, and is both their
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 333 
 
 rational justification and explanation) — this whole side of 
 the work of Redemption is thrown utterly out of, and 
 beyond, the range of the human mind ; so that although 
 its consequences in tlie redeemed may be known, its own 
 inward nature, tlie a-round and cause of these very conse- 
 quences, is as utterly unknown and nnknowable as that of 
 a '' fforiron or chimiBra dire! " But, aside from this incon- 
 sistency, it is a fatal objection to this theory, that these 
 consequences themselves — this Christian peace of con- 
 science, and sense of reconciliation with a Holy Lawgiver 
 — cainiot come into existence through such an ignorant 
 and blind faith as the soul is shut up to on this scheme. 
 Such effects cannot proceed from such a cause. Here, if 
 anywhere in the whole field of the Christian consciousness, 
 there must be the miion of faith with insight. There 
 must be some knowledge of the pio'pose, and purport of 
 the death of the Son of God — some knowledge of the 
 inward and real relation which the substituted sufferings 
 of Christ sustain to divine justice — before the guilt-stricken 
 si:)irit, looking about instinctively for an atonement of 
 guilt, can confidently and calmly rest in them for purposes 
 of justification. At the very least, tiieir inti'insic adaptation 
 to the end proposed aud desired, their adequacy^ must be 
 recognized by the mind ; and what is such recognition 
 but a species and a grade of knowledge respecting their 
 nature, fitness, and rational necessity? Tiic faitii of the 
 common Christian contains implicitly the rationale of the 
 doctrine of atonemcut ; for, the oi'igiii and existence of 
 this faith itself is exj)licable, only on the hyitothesis that 
 there is reason or fitness in the doctrine ; and if it is 
 rational, it is ai>i)rchensible. 
 
 While, however, we arc noticing this defect iu Cole- 
 ridge's statement of tlie doctrine of Iledemption, it ought 
 at the same time to be observed, that he was not im[iclh'(|
 
 331 COLEREDOE AS A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 t(> the view he took, by a morbid and feeble moral seiiti- 
 nieiit, or from any disposition to mei'ge all the divine 
 attributes into an irrational and blind benevolence. It 
 was an intellectual, more than a moral defect, with him ; 
 for when he is himself o])posing Socinianism — and few 
 minds have been more heartily op[)osed to it than his — we 
 find him employing the very same oI)jections to a scheme of 
 salvation that makes no provision for the guilt of man, 
 and the justice of God, which the orthodox mind has 
 urged in all ages. " Socinianism," he says, " is not a 
 religion, but a theory, and that too, a very pernicious, or a 
 very unsatisfactory theory. Pernicious — for it excludes 
 all our deep and awful ideas of the perfect holiness of 
 God, his justice and his mercy, and thereby makes the 
 voice of conscience a delusion, as having no correspondent 
 in the character of the legislator ; regarding God as merely 
 a good-natured pleasure-giver, so happiness is produced, 
 indifferent as to the means — unsatisfactory, for, it prom- 
 ises forgiveness, without any solution of the di/fficuMy of 
 the comjMtihility of this ^ with the justice of God.'''' * 
 
 In other places,t on the otjier hand, we find him ex- 
 pressing himself respecting the more mechanical view of 
 this doctrine, witli an impatience and rashness which a 
 deeper, calmer, and more truly philosophic insight into it 
 would have precluded. For, he who has meditated pro- 
 foundly upon the Divine Being, and has thoughtfully 
 asked himself the question : lias the Deity affections in 
 any sense, and what solid meaning have such biblical 
 terms as anger and jjropitiation, when applied to Him ? 
 will not be in haste to condemn even the most inadequate 
 statement upon this " abyssmal subject," provided he sees 
 
 * Literary Remains, Works, V. 552, 553 ; and compare Works, V. 
 440-448. 
 
 f Literary Romains, Works, V. 74, e. g.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 335 
 
 that its general meaning and purport is on the right side 
 of the great controversy. Tliat Coleridge had not specu- 
 latively reached the bottom oi' this doctrine, and acquired 
 a view of it as profound and corapreliensive as that of 
 Anselm, e. g., in his Cur Deits homo f or as that to which 
 a tract like Owen's on the absolute nature of divine jus- 
 tice leads, is evident from the irresolution of his mind, and 
 the unsteadiness of his attitude.* In fine, as we remarked 
 at the outset, the defect in Coleridge's view of this subject 
 is traceable to a deficiency in his theoretic view of sin, in 
 one of its two main aspects. Tlie idea was not full. And 
 perhaps the cause of this speculative deficiency was a 
 practical one at bottom. Like many other contemplative 
 spirits, Coleridge came into Christianity gradually, and 
 not through a violent inward crisis, and hence his experi- 
 mental consciousness of sin, though not by any means 
 entirely lacking the element of remorse, was yet predomi- 
 nanth' a sense of bondage and corruption. AV^e doubt not 
 that Coleridge's exposition of the doctrine of Kedemptioii 
 (as would that of Schleiermacher) would have been differ- 
 ent from what it now is, by a very important modifica- 
 tion, had his own Christian consciousness been the result 
 of such an inward conflict with guilt as Luther's was, or 
 such a keen insight into the nature of law and justice as 
 Calvin had, instead of being, as it was, the result of a 
 comparatively quiet transition into Christianity and growth 
 therein ; in which process, the yearning after holiness and 
 pui'ity, instead of the craving after atcMiemcnt for agoniz- 
 
 * When himself attacking Socinianiam, ColurWge employs tlu; iilua- 
 BGology of the Calvinist, and seems thereby to reserve the attacking of 
 Calvinism as a prndiitm of his own ; as Jolinsou allowed no ono but 
 himself to abuse Goldsmilli. See Literary llcniaius, passim ; and ob- 
 serve the general animus of the notcg on Jeremy Taylor ^ and un A Bar- 
 ruter'^ IIiut».
 
 336 COLERIDGE AS A PHILOSOPHER 
 
 inn; giiilf in the conscience, was the predominant, though 
 not sole feeling. 
 
 In respect to the views of Coleridge npon the subject 
 of Jm^pimtion, it is not our pui-pose to enter into any de- 
 tail, but simply to notice the defect in the general princi- 
 ple adopted by him. This ])rin(riple, to state it in a word, 
 is as follows: In determinijig the absolute truth and 
 authority of the Scriptures, the objective, generally, is 
 subordinate to the subjective. With the exception of 
 those particular instances in which the objective revela- 
 tion exj)licitly claims a paramount superiority to the sub- 
 jective intelligence, by asseiting a direct dictation from 
 God, the former has intrinsic authority or validity, only 
 so far as it acquires it before the bar of the individual 
 judgment. The subjective reason, with the exception 
 specified, is placed first, as the fixed and absolute norm 
 or rule to which the objective reason is to be brought 
 up and conformed. Now, the strongest objection to this 
 theoiy of llevelation is to be derived from the very prin- 
 ciples of the philosophy adopted, as we have endeavored 
 to show, by Coleridge himself, But, even if we should 
 regard him as an adherent of the later German philoso- 
 phy, the absolute and fixed truth would not lie in the sub- 
 ject alone, but in the identity of the subject and the ob- 
 ject — in a common ground that contains both factors. 
 And even this position would be more sound, and less 
 objectionable, when applied to the mutual relations of 
 the individual mind and divi;ie Kevelation, than the one 
 which we have mentioned above, which is really ten- 
 able oidy by an adherent of Fichte's system, in which the 
 truth is laid in the subject wholly. Even on tiie princi- 
 l>les of the philosophy of Identity, the truth would not be 
 wholly and ultimately in the subjective, nor would the 
 objective Kevelation be so passively exposed to the flue-
 
 AOT5 THEOLOGIAN. 337 
 
 tuations of an individual consciousness ; because, at the 
 Terv least, there would be room for action and reaction, 
 for correction and coanter-corYedion. 
 
 But, we think it has been made out, that Coleridge, on 
 this point of the relation of the subject to the object, nlti- 
 matelv adopted the view of the Kantean philosophy, sul)- 
 stantiallj that of all theistic systems, which explains tiie 
 possibility of knowledge by a preconformity of the subject 
 to the object, instead of an identity of substance between 
 them. On this system, tliere is a dualism between the 
 object and the subject. Of the two, the former is the un- 
 limited and the universal, and stands over against the lat- 
 ter as the limited and particular. It is the ohjective^ 
 therefore, which possesses the fixed and uniform character 
 (in this instance, the infallibility), to which the subjective 
 comes up with its preconformed powers of apprehension ; 
 and the function of the latter, consequently, is a recipient 
 one, instead of an orij'inant or creative one as in the svs- 
 tern of Fichte, or a self-developing one as in the system 
 of Schelliufj and Ileii^el. 
 
 We are aware that Coleridge believed that the Scrip- 
 tures are, as matter of fact, infallibly true on all funda- 
 mental subjects, and that those doctrines which he, in 
 connnon with the Christian church, regarded as vital 
 to human salvation, are all plainly revealed in them. 
 This ought to be noticed, because tliis of itself separates 
 hi>n heaven-wide from a mere i-ationalist, and places him 
 in the same general class with the evangelical school of 
 theologians in Germany, in respect to this doctrine of In- 
 spiration. Still, we rcgai'il it an error in him, and in 
 them, that the canon is not contemjdated as a comi)lete 
 whole in and by itself, having a conunon origin in the 
 Divine ^Find, in such sense, that as a body of ini'orniulion 
 it is infallihly correct on all the subjects that come within 
 15
 
 33S COLERIDGE AS A rillLOSOPIIER 
 
 its scope and purpose. There must be truth somewhere^ 
 in regard to all, even the most uniniportaTit, particulars of 
 history, biography, and geography, that enter into the 
 puV)joct matter of the sacred canon, and it seems to ns 
 altogether the most rational, to presume and assume that 
 it lies in the canon itself — in the written Revelation con- 
 sidered as a finished and inspired unity. These secondary 
 matters are always an important, and sometimes vital part 
 of the great whole,* and as they are so integrated into the 
 solid doctrinal substance of the Scriptures that they can- 
 not be taken out of it, any more than the blue veins can 
 be fi-om the solid marble, why is it not rational to believe 
 that they had the same comvion origin with the doctrines 
 and fundamental truths themselves which are encrusted 
 and ci'ystallized in them — in other words, that the Divine 
 Mind, whether as positively revealing, or inspiring, or 
 superintending, is the ultimate Author of the whole? 
 There are but two objections to this position. The first 
 is, that the inspired writers become thereby mere amanu- 
 enses and automata. This objection has no force for one 
 ■who believes that the Divine can, and does, dwell and 
 work in the human, in the most real and absolute manner, 
 without in the least mutilating or suppressing the human, 
 and ought not to be urged by one who believes in the in- 
 dwelling of the Holy Ghost in the regenerate soul. As, 
 
 * In some instances at least, a vital part ; as e. g. , the biographic 
 memoirs of the Redeemer by the evangelists. If these are not infalli- 
 ble as history, then the whoTo Christian religion instantaneously dis- 
 appears : for then the Personage in whom it centres and rests cannot 
 be proved to have had an actual existence in space and time, and 
 the forecasting intimations which the human soul (of a Plato, e. g.) has 
 had of a future Redeemer would not save it from skepticism and de- 
 Bpair. Hence, in the contest between rationalism and supernaturalism 
 in Germany, the historical narratives in the four gospels have been tho 
 hottest part of the battle-field.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 339 
 
 in this instance, the Imman cannot be separated from the 
 Divine, in tlie individual consciousness, and all " the fruits 
 of the Spirit" seem to be the very spontaneity of the hu- 
 man soul itself, so, in the instance of the origination of 
 the body of Holy Writ, while all, even the minutest parts 
 have the flexibility, freshness, and naturalness of purely 
 human productions, there is yet in and through them all, 
 the unerring agency of the Supreme Mind. In other 
 words, the Supreme Intelligence is the orgamzing j^rinci- 
 ple of that outstanding body of information which is 
 called the Bible, and, working like any other organizing 
 principle with thoroughness^ produces a wliolo that is 
 characterized by its own characteristic — perfection of 
 knowledire — even as life in tlie natural world diffuses 
 itself, and produces all the characteristic marks of life, 
 out to the rim of the tiniest leaf. The second objection, 
 and a fatal one if it can be maintained, is, that there are 
 actual errors in the Scriptures, on points in regard to 
 which they profess to teach the truth. Let this be shown, 
 if it can be ; but until it has been shown, without possi- 
 bility of contradiction, the Christian mind is certainly 
 rational in continuing to assume and afiirm the infallibil- 
 ity of the written word. We say tliis with conlidence, 
 because, out of the great number of alleged errors and 
 contradictions tluit have been urged against tlic plenary 
 inspiration of tlie Scriptures, there is not a single one 
 established as such upon grounds that render it absurd for 
 a defender of tiie doctrine to take the opposite side. 
 Thci-o is no list of conceded and ackn(>wledi:;cd errors in 
 the Scriptures. There are many dilliculties still remain- 
 ing, we graTit, but while there is not a case in which the 
 absolute and unajipealablc settlement has resulted in es- 
 tablishing the fact of undoubted error, there are many in 
 which it h-is resulted in fuvor of the doctrine of plenary
 
 3i0 COLERIDGE AS A niTLOSOniER 
 
 inspiration. No one acquainted with the results of the 
 severe and skeptical criticism, to whicli the canon has 
 been subjected for the last half-century in Germany, will 
 deny that the number of apparent contradictions and 
 errors is smaller now than it was at the be<i;innin(^ of this 
 period, and that the remainder of the series is diminish- 
 ing. And, had Coleridge himself kept up with the prog- 
 ress of Biblical Criticism in that country where the 
 foundation of his views on this subject seems to have been 
 laid, he would nndoubtedly have seen reasons for reject- 
 ing some erroneous hypotheses which, though exploded in 
 the land of their birth, clung to him to the end of his life. 
 He seems in regard to such an important point, as the in- 
 spiration and canonical authority of the ChristopcBdia in 
 both Matthew's and Luke's gospels, e. g., not to have 
 made any advance upon the general views of the brilliant 
 but snperficial Eichorn, who was his teacher in 1799.* 
 • This whole subject of Inspiration, a most important and 
 difficult one in some respects, turns upon the true relation 
 of the subjective to the objective, and particularly' of the 
 human to the Divine Heason. We cannot but recjard this 
 middle theory of Inspiration, set forth by Coleridge in 
 'jommon with that spiritual school of theologians in Ger- 
 many which is destined to exert a great, and we believe 
 on the whole salutary influence upon the theology of this 
 countiy and Great Britain, for some time to come, as in 
 direct opposition to that sound and rational philosophy 
 which regards the objective as fixed, reliable, and absolute, 
 and conceives of the sul)jective as designed to receive tiiis 
 into itself with intelligence and freedom, and as really free 
 from fluctuation and error, only so far as it partakes of 
 the fixedness and truth of the objective. The finite rea- 
 
 ♦ Literary Remains, Works, V. 70, 78, 79, 533.
 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 341 
 
 8on is rather a recipiency than a self-subsistent power, ac- 
 ct)rding to Kant and Jacobi, and there are mai\y passages 
 in Colendse's writino-s that endorse this. The liunian 
 mind is ratlicr a capacity, than a self-sufficing f nhiess like 
 the Divine Mind ; and therefore the only rational attitude 
 of the subjective intelligence towards the objective Revela- 
 tion, and towards all i-evelation of the Supreme Reason, 
 is that of intelligent and living receptivity. The Clu-istiau 
 consciousness itself cannot safely be left to its own inde- 
 pendent movement, without any moulding and modifying 
 inlinence of the written word. The outward, fixed, and 
 self-included Scripture must go down through all tlie 
 ages and clianges of tiie Christian experience and Chris- 
 tian reflection, as the absolute norm by which the whole 
 process of practical and speculative development is to be 
 protected from deviations to the right hand and to the left. 
 The inspired Canon is to steady and solidify that living 
 process of thinking and of feeling which is embodied and 
 manifested in the Christian church, and keep it from the 
 extremes on either hand, to which a finite mind and a 
 living pi'ocess are ever liable. Neither the practical nor 
 the scientific form of a particular doctrine, or of Christian 
 theology generally, may be sought for in the Christian 
 consciousness, except as this has been rectified and puri- 
 fied by the Scriptures — in tlie sul)jective, except as it has 
 Ijeen rectifled from its eri-ors and purified from its foreign 
 eletnents, by the conscious rece[)ti<)n into itself of the ob- 
 jective which is absolutely free froui ])()th. There would 
 be more weight in the doctrine of the authority of the 
 finite reason, and the Christian consciousness, than there 
 now is, if all the processes of the human soul, even the re- 
 generate human soul, were normal processes. Rut lie 
 has studied the histc^ry of even (Miristian si)eculation to 
 little pui'itosc, who has not learned from it the need ol' an
 
 342 COLERIDGE AS A rniLOSOPIIKR 
 
 objective and fixed authority for the fallen human mind. 
 Tulceu as a whole, the thinkino' of the human mind has 
 never been nearer the central line of truth, than while it 
 has been under the intluenceand guidance of Christianity. 
 Cin-istian philosophy is far nearer this centre than the 
 best schools of merely Pagan philosophy. And yet, how 
 fluctuating has been the movement, and what constant 
 need there has been of an absolute standard by which to 
 determine and correct the aberrations of the human mind ! 
 We think that in his strong belief that Christianity is ab- 
 solutely rational, and in his earnest desire to exhibit it as 
 such, Coleridge was led, at times certainly, to attribute a 
 greater power of origination to the finite reason than it 
 really possesses, and to forget, that as an endowment super- 
 induced, and not as the whole essence of the finite mind, 
 reason in man, though the same in kind with the Supreme 
 Keason, is not that infinite lylenitude of wisdom which is 
 incommunicable to a created spirit.* 
 
 We have been the more free and full, in speaking of the 
 views of Coleridge upon the two topics of vicarious 
 Atonement^ and Inspiration^ because we believe that the 
 defect in them originated not so much from a moral as 
 from a speculative source. AVe have already spoken of 
 the manner in which he identifies himself with the ortho- 
 dox feelina: and view, in relation to the doctrine of atone- 
 ment, when himself opposing Socinianism, and any one 
 who will carefully peruse the expressions of reverence 
 for the Scriptures which spontaneously break from him, 
 and bear in mind that whatever may be the actual in- 
 fluence^ the serious and 'boAoxxxw purpose oi his little tract was 
 to strengthen the Bible in its claims upon the human in- 
 tellect as the source of religious knowledge, cannot doubt 
 
 * Compare the author's Theological Essays, pp. 3 4-210.
 
 / 
 AND THEOLOGIAN. 34:3 
 
 that Coleridge was induced to reject the common theory 
 of Inspiration from a conviction that it really defeated its 
 own end, and not because he wished to weaken, in the 
 least, the belief of Christendom in the divine oracles. 
 While, therefore, we have distinctly expressed our convic- 
 tions on these points, we wish at the same time to remind 
 the reader that these defects, though important, are not 
 the substance and staple of the theological opinions of this 
 author. Notwithstanding a partial disagreement with the 
 Christian mind upon these subjects, there is a positive and 
 profound agreement with it on all the other important 
 doctrines of Christianity ; and it should be remembered 
 tliat, in a fundamental agreement with such a body of truth 
 as the Christian religion, a basis is laid for the ultimate 
 correction of views and opinions not in consonance with 
 it. AVhen a mind has once received into itself the sub- 
 stance of Christianity, it is its tendency to deepen and widen 
 its religious consciousness, and in this process foreign 
 and contradictory elements are finally cast out of it by its 
 own saliency and vitality. In the case of Coleridge, it 
 should moreover be observed, that he was compelled to clear 
 himself of systems of philosophy and religion inimical to 
 a theistic philosophy and a spiritual Christianity, in and 
 during the development of his positive and final opinions ; 
 and hence, that it is not to be wondered at, that these latter 
 should, here and there, exhi];it the vanishing hues of the 
 former. It is not to be wondered at, that some particles 
 of the chaotic slime should have cleaved to him, compel- 
 led as he was to paw himself out of ground, like Milton's 
 
 first lion.* 
 
 ♦ Now half appeared 
 Tlic tawny lion, pawing tof,'-et free 
 Ili.s liinder partw ; t)um wpringH, an Ijroko from bouda, 
 And rampant uhakus hu brindod mane. 
 
 Paradise Lost. VII. 4C3-46a
 
 34:4: OOLERroGE AS A PHILOSOPHER. 
 
 TVc have now, as liriofly as possible, touched upon the 
 leadintif points in the philosophy and theoloo^y of Coleridj^e, 
 thereby to show what are the i^eneral drift and spirit of 
 his specuhitions in these two higliest departments of 
 knowledge. We have not been anxious to defend this 
 autlior u})on each and every one of tlie various topics on 
 which he has given the world his thoughts, believing that 
 on some of them he is indefensible. At the same time, 
 we have expressed a decided opinion, that in respect gen- 
 erally to the highest problems of pliilosophy and theology, 
 the opinions of Coleridge arc every way worthy of 
 being classed with those of the master minds of the race. 
 We are confident that his writings contain, after subtract- 
 ing the subtrahend, a body of thought upon the highest 
 themes of reflection well worthy of the study of every 
 mind that is seeking a deep, clear, and exhaustive develop- 
 ment of itself. Into the great variety of philosophical 
 theories, and the great diversity in the ways and methods 
 of thinking, characteristic of this age, we think the specu- 
 lations of Coleridge deserve to be cast, and believe that 
 just in proportion as they ai'e thoroughly apprehended, 
 and thereby enter vitally into the thinking world, will 
 they allay the furious fermentation that is going on, and 
 introduce unity, order, serenity, and health, into the men- 
 tal processes of the times. AVe believe that they will do 
 still more than this. We believe that they will help to 
 fortify the minds of the rising generation of educated men 
 in that Platonic method of philosophizing which has come 
 down through all the mutations in the philosophic world, 
 which has survived them all, which more than any other 
 method has sliown an affinitv with religion, natural and re- 
 vealed, and which, through its doctrine of seminal and 
 germinant ideas, has been the fertile root of all the finest 
 growths and fruitage of the human mind.
 
 THE COXFESSIOXS OF AUGUSTINE.* 
 
 There are a few autobiographies that challenge and 
 receive a special attention from age to age, because they 
 possess characteristics that are not found in the common 
 mass of such productions. They are the unreserved de- 
 lineation of an extraordinary intellect and of a remarka- 
 ble experience. They embody the thoughts of a deep 
 mind in its most secret and absorbed hours, the emotions 
 of a vehement soul in its most critical and impassioned 
 moments. In them, the experiences of human life reach 
 such a pitch of intensity, and such a breadth, range, and 
 depth, as to strike the reader with both a sense of famil- 
 iarity and a serine of strangeness. It is his own human 
 thought and hunuin feeling that he finds expressed ; and 
 yet it is spoken with so much greater clearness, depth, and 
 energy, than he is himself capable of, or tlian is charac- 
 teristic of the mass of men, that it seems like tlie experi- 
 ence of another spliere and another race of beings. The 
 ConfeHsions of AnguKt/ine is a work of this class; and 
 upon sending forth aiu^her edition of it, we seize the op- 
 portunity to notice some of its more distinguishing and 
 remarkable features. 
 
 * PubliHhcd in 1851), oh an intrrHluction to the writer's revision of the 
 tranBlation of AugiiHtino'H CoufeuHioiui. 
 15*
 
 340 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 1. The first characteristic that strikes the reader is, the 
 singular minyling of metuphyslcal aiid devotional ele- 
 ments in the work. The writer passes, with a freedom 
 that often amounts to abruptness, from the intensely 
 practical to the intensely speculative. In the very midst 
 of his confession of sin, or rejoicing over deliverance fi-om 
 it, his subtle and inquisitive understanding starts a ques- 
 tion the answer to which, if answei- were possible, would 
 involve the solution of all the problems that have baffled 
 the metaphysical mind from Thales to Hegel. In the 
 yery opening of the work, for example, when the sur- 
 charged and brimming soul is swelling with its thick- 
 coming emotions, and is seeking vent for its sense of the 
 divine mercy which has saved it from everlasting perdi- 
 tion, it slides by an unconscious transition to the question : 
 " Jlow shall I call upon my God, my God and Lord, since 
 when I call for Ilim I shall be calling Him into myself? 
 And what room is there within me, whither mv God can 
 come into me? "Whither can God come into me, God who 
 made heaven and earth." * At the very moment when 
 Augustine is enjoying the most heartfelt and positive 
 communion with God, his intellect feels the pressure of 
 the standing problem respecting the possibility of such 
 an intercourse — the problem which Howe has discussed 
 with such ability in that part of the Living Temple where 
 he treats of the "conversableness" of God. Such transi- 
 tions are perpetually occurring, until, in the eleventh 
 book, the author leaves his autobiography altogether, and 
 devotes the remainder of the work to an interpretation of 
 the opening chapters of Genesis, in which he debates the 
 most recondite questions respecting time and eternity, the 
 Creator and creation, and the triunity of the Divine 
 Essence. 
 
 * Confessions, I. 2.
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE, 347 
 
 It is not, however, from any open or lurking skepticism, 
 or even from anv mental nnrest, that Auo-ustiue raises 
 such inquiries. The great men in the Christian church 
 have heen little troubled by skeptical doubts. Their faith 
 was too strong, their spiritual insight too clear, and their 
 work too pressing, to be involved in that languid iniidelity 
 which assails a sentimental religiousness, ^\^ho can think 
 of the Augustines, the Anselms, the Luthers, the Caivins, 
 the Knoxes, and the Bunyans, as dallying with divine 
 truth instead of grasping it ; and nttering, instead of the 
 clarion tones of an assured and triumphant faith, tlie weak 
 moan of 
 
 " An infant crying in the night; 
 An infant crying for the light ; 
 And with no language but a cry." 
 
 These questions, so numerous and so searching, in these 
 Confessions, are not the issue or the index of a mind tor- 
 mented by doubts. They are only the exuberant play and 
 careerinjir of a subtle aud thoui^htful intellect, from the 
 vantage-ground of a living and victorious trust. Con- 
 scious of being now, at last, at rest in God, the centre of 
 being and blessedness, Augustine allows his mind to pose 
 itself with the infinite truths that are involved in the child- 
 like faith of the Christian. His purpose is not to unsettle 
 his own belief, or that of his reader; but by the mere im- 
 mensity of truth to stagger and overwhelm the under- 
 standing, and thereby fill the soul with that sense of mj's- 
 tery which is at once the constitiient element of awe and 
 tlie nutriment of worship. Nothing can be farther from 
 infidelity than the spirit with which Augustine raises 
 these inquiries respecting time, eternity, the nature of God 
 iind the human soul, the possibility and manner of" crea 
 titui from nothing, the nature of mattci', and the origin of 
 evil. Neither is there anything of gnostic jjuriusity and
 
 348 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE, 
 
 pride, in his approaclics to the frontiers of this reahn of 
 mystery, lie merely desires, by this tentative method, 
 to fill his own mind, already believing, hoping and rejoic- 
 ino; in divine realities, with a more distinct consciousness 
 of the infinitude of the world beyond space and time, and 
 of those facts and truths which, in his own phrase, cannot 
 enter by any of the avenues of the tlesh. Hence, his 
 qnestionings leave him humble, while they leave him more 
 self-intelligent. His speculation issues from his religious 
 life and feelijig, and helps both to clarify and deepen 
 it. In other words, Augustine is here practising upcm 
 his own celebrated dictum, that faith precedes scientijiG 
 knowledge. The practical belief of the truths of Christi- 
 anity contains much that is latent and undeveloped. The 
 Christian is wiser than he knows. The moment he be- 
 gins to examine the implications of his own vivid personal 
 experience, he finds that they contain the entire rudiraen- 
 tal matter of Christian science. For example, he believes 
 in the oneliving and personal God. But, the instant he 
 commences the analysis of this idea of ideas, in the con- 
 struction of the ontological argument, he discovej'S its pro- 
 found capacity and its vast implication. Again, he be- 
 lieves in God incarnate. But, when he endeavors to com- 
 prehend what is involved in this fact and truth, he is 
 overwhelmed by the richness of its contents, and the 
 multitude of its relations. His faith has positively and 
 strongly grasped these ideas of God and the God-man ; 
 but, to employ an illustration of Bernard, it has grasped 
 them in their closed and involuted form.* If he would 
 pass, now, from faith to scientific reason, he needs only to 
 
 * "Intellectus ration! iunititur, fides authoritati, opinio sola veri- 
 similitudine se tuetur. Habent ilia duo certam veritatem, sed fides 
 clausam et involutam, intelligeutia nudam et manifestam." — Bernar- 
 dus, De Consideratione, Lib, V, cap, 3,
 
 THE CONFESSIOiSrS OF AUGUSTINE. 349 
 
 reflect upon the intrinsic meaning of these ideas, until 
 they open along the lines of their structure, and are per- 
 ceived philosophically, though not exhaustively. But, 
 in this process, faith itself is reinforced aud deepened by 
 a reiiex action, while, at. the same time, the intellect is 
 kept reverent and vigilant, because the cognition, thongh 
 positive and correct as far as it reaches, is not exhaustive 
 and complete, only by reason of the immensity and infini- 
 tude of the object. 
 
 Holding such a theory of the relation of reason to faith, 
 Auo-ustine never shrinks from makino; excursions into the 
 region of metaphysical truth. Although he uniformly 
 approaches the problems of theology npon their most dif- 
 ficult side, and never attempts to become clear by becom- 
 ing shallow, yet there is little fear of philosophy, and still 
 less disparagement of reason in the writings of the bishop 
 of Hij)po. And this, because of the above-mentioned 
 tiieory. Always making his own vital and confident 
 faith the point frf)m wliich he departs, and to which he 
 returns, he is at once bold and safe. Go where he may, 
 he cannot lose sight of his pole-star ; and thus he always 
 keeps his northing. Like the mariner far out at sea, and 
 with a strong shij) under him, lie careers courageously 
 over the waste of waters, with no dread of a lee shore or 
 of suidccn rocks. Hence the fretpiency, and oftentimes 
 the strange abruptness, of his metaj)hysical query ings. lie 
 knows that all truth is consistent with itself, and that the 
 philosophical answer, if it come at all, must come out (jf 
 the nuiterial furnished by the Christian consciousness. 
 His reason cannot contradict his faith, because it is homo- 
 geneous and c()iisul)sfantial with it. The former is the 
 evolution, the latter is the involution. 
 
 2. A second cliaracteristic of Augustine's Confessions is 
 tlie union of a iiviiiu,te and exhaustive detail of sin^ with
 
 ".)0 TIIIC CONFESSIONS OF ADGU8TINE. 
 
 the most intense and spiritual oblwrrenGe of it. The only 
 work in any language that bears any comparison with 
 this of the North African Father, is that in which Ilous- 
 Beau pours out his life of passion and evil concupiscence. 
 There is the same abandon and unreserve in each ; the 
 same particularity in recounting the past conduct ; the 
 same subtle unwinding of the course of transgression. 
 Each absorbs himself iu his own biography, with an en- 
 tireness and simplicity that precludes any thought for a 
 spectator or a listener, any regard for either an unfeel- 
 ing or a sympathizing woi-ld of readers. Augustine and 
 Rousseau, both alike, withdraw into the secret and silent 
 confessional of their own memories and recollections, and 
 there pour out their confidences with utter self-abandon- 
 ment. 
 
 But, the resemblance ceases at this point. The motive 
 prompting the confession, and the emotions that accom- 
 pany it, are as different as light from darkness, as Christ 
 from Belial. Augustine's confession is really such — an 
 acknowledgment to God. Rousseau's recital is a soliloquy 
 that never goes beyond himself. The Christian bishop 
 confesses his past sinful life, ordy that he may magnify 
 and make his boast iu that unmerited grace which plucked 
 liim •' from the bottom of the bottondess pit." * lie brings 
 out his secret and scarlet sins into the lio^iit of his mem- 
 ory, that he may praise the God of his salvation for his 
 marvellous pity. " I svill now call to mind," he says, 
 " my past foidness, and the carnal corruptions of my soul ; 
 not because I love them, but that I may love Thee, O my 
 God. For love of Thy love, I do it ; reviewing my most 
 wicked ways in the very bitterness of my remembrance, 
 that Thou may est grow sweet unto me." f The mirute- 
 
 * Confessions, II. 4. 
 flbid., II. 1.
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 351 
 
 ness, the plainness, and the exhaustiveness of his account 
 of his sinful life, (^nly sets in stronger relief the strange- 
 ness of the mercy that lifted him out of it ; only fills him 
 •with a deliiium of joy and love towards his redeeming 
 God. How diflferent all this is from the motive and the 
 feeling of Rousseau, it is needless to say. It is not neces- 
 sary, perhaps, to affirm the existence of a deliberate inten- 
 tion to debauch the world by those impenitent and shame- 
 less confessions of sin and guilt, though such is unques- 
 tionably the inevitable tendency of them. It is enough 
 to say, that there certainly was no intention to waken ab- 
 hoiTcnce of evil by means of them ; and still less to re- 
 flect any light upon the Divine character and government. 
 The impelling motive probably was, to relieve an migov- 
 erned and restless nature, by a simple overflow of the 
 pent-up elements. Rousseau merely followed that im- 
 pulse of a burdened soul which necessitates self-utter- 
 ance : that law of both mind and matter which inexorably 
 forbids the perpetual suppression of struggling elements 
 and forces. All the devices of man cannot choke down 
 even the smallest spring of water, so that it shall never 
 come to the surface; and all the efforts of men and angels 
 combined camiot keep under, in eternal burial, the emo- 
 tions and passions of an inordinate and billow}'' spirit. 
 Under this stress and pressure, the "self-torturing soph- 
 ist" enters into the detail of his unwortliy and unha])- 
 ])y life, without the slightest recognition of the claims of 
 law, and apparently without the slightest fear of its ret- 
 ributions. The wild and passionate rehearsal goes on, 
 but with no reference either to the holiness or the mercy 
 of the Su[)remc ; witli no aUusion to the solemn relations 
 of an immortal spii-it either to time or to eternity. 
 
 Again, while Augustine relates the sins of liis youtli, 
 and his transgressions, with a plainness which the fucti-
 
 352 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 tious modesty of an inwardly impure mind has sometimes 
 condemned, it is always with the most genuine and unaf- 
 fected sorrow and abliorrence. A more sincere book than 
 tiie Confessions of Augustine was never written. Every 
 statement of sin is a wail over it. Rivers of water run 
 down the relator's eyes, because he has not kept the divine 
 law. The plainness of this book is like that of the proph- 
 ecy of Ezekiel ; the vilencss is brought out into sight, only 
 that it may be trampled and stamped upon. The ethical 
 indignation is like that of Moses, when he ground the 
 golden calf to powder, and mingling it with water made 
 the people drink it down. And yet it is not a spasmodic 
 or an affected reprobation. From the deptlis of a now 
 spiritualized mind, Augustine abhors his past iniquity. 
 lie is a new creature ; old things have passed away, and 
 all things have become new. With the clear and crystal- 
 line eye of the cherubim, he looks into the hole of the pit 
 whence he was digged, and beholds according to truth. 
 There is no furtive glance towards the past voluptuous- 
 ness. It is seen to be sin and guilt, meriting the wrath 
 and curse of God, and fit only to be burned up in the con- 
 suminjy fire of the Divine immaculateness. All this is 
 perceived with calmness and certainty ; so that the judg- 
 ment of damnation, which is passed by this autobiog- 
 rapher upon his personal corruption, is deep and tranquil, 
 like that of the bar of final doom. 
 
 3. But this is only a negative excellence. A third char- 
 acteristic of this work is that it palpitates with the positive 
 love of God and goodness. The writer does not merely 
 look back with aversion and abhorrence, but he looks 
 forward with aspiration and longing. He gazes with 
 a steady and rapt eye upon the supernal Beauty — the 
 heavenly Eros. His spiritualized perception reposes with 
 joy unutterable and full of glorying upon the perfections
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 353 
 
 of God, and the realities of eteniity. Hear his impassioned 
 utterance : '* Not with doubtino^, but with assured con- 
 sciousness, do I love Thee, Lord. But what do I love, 
 when I love Thee ? Not the beauty of bodies, nor the 
 fair harmony of time, nor the briglitness of the light so 
 gladsome to our e3'es, nor sweet melodies of varied songs, 
 nor the fragrant smell of flowers, and ointments, and 
 spices, not manna and honey, not limbs acceptable to the 
 embracements of flesh. None of these do I love when I 
 love m}" God. And yet, I love a kind of light, a kind of 
 melody, a kind of fragance, a kind of food, and a kind of 
 embracement, wlien 1 love my God — the light, the melo- 
 dy, the fragrance, the food, the embracement of the inner 
 man : where there shineth unto my soul what space can- 
 not contain, and there soundeth what time bearcth not 
 away, and there smelleth what breathing disperseth not, 
 and there tasteth what eating diminisheth not, and there 
 clingeth what satiety divorceth not. This is it which I 
 love when I love my God." The entire emotiveness of 
 that deep, passionate, North-African nature has been trans- 
 ferred from sense to spirit, from time to eternity, from 
 earth to heaven, from the creature to the Creator, and 
 now flows on like the river of God which is full of water. 
 Indeed, the feeling which Augustine bears towards the 
 blessed triune Gud cannot be better expressed than by 
 the word affectionateness. There is in his experience awe 
 " deep as the centre ; " there is humility absolute; there 
 is the reviirential fear of the wing- veiled clierubim ; but 
 there is also, in and through it all, that conliding, child- 
 like love which is both warranted and elicited by the 
 dying prayer of the Redeemer. This man, who so often 
 denominates himself " abominable," " miserable," and 
 " godless ; " who prostrates his whole being in shame and 
 grief unspeakable before the inflnite and adorable majes-
 
 354 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 ty of God ; yet finds an answer in his own regenerate 
 consciousness to the wonderful supplication of the Re- 
 deemer, that his redeemed " all may be one, as Thou 
 Father art in me, and I in Thee ; tliat they may be one 
 even as we are one ; I in tliem, and Thou in me, that they 
 may be made perfect in one." 
 
 This sense of union with God is very vivid in this Latin 
 Father ; as it is, also, in some of the more spiritual of the 
 schoolmen — particularly Anselm and Bernard. It is very 
 different, however, from that vague feeling of the mystic 
 theologian which, even in its best forms, sometimes hovers 
 ■upon the borders of pantheism, and in its worst forms, as 
 in Eckart and Silesius, is little better than the Hindoo 
 absorption in the Deity. On tlie contraiy, it is that intel- 
 liirent consciousness of union with God which issues from 
 the evangelical sense of reconciliation with Him through 
 the hlood of Christ. The ideas of incarnation and re- 
 demption shape the whole experience of Augustine, and 
 his communion with God has its root in the sense of sin 
 and the sense of mercy. 13 ut these two utterly preclude 
 the pantheistic intuition. He who feels himself to be 
 guilty knows most piercingly that God and man are two 
 distinct beings. And he who has rejoiced in the mani- 
 fested pity of the Creator towards the creature cannot pos- 
 sibly confound tl}e two, either in philosopliy or theology. 
 And such is the foundation upon which Augustine's filial 
 and affectionate communion with God rests. He knows 
 that if God spared not his own Son, but freely gave him 
 up a sacrifice for a guilty crcatui-e like himself, he will 
 surely, after this transaction, freely give him all tilings. 
 Springing from this evangelical root, the affectionateuess 
 of Augustine, wherel)y he cries, Abba, Father, is totally 
 different, also, from that fatal form of self-deception seen 
 in the sentimentalist's love of God. He does not presume
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 355 
 
 to cast himself upon the Divine mercy, until he has first 
 recognized and acquiesced in the Divine justice. These 
 Confessions contain none of that religionsness to which 
 the intrinsic and eternal dainnableness of sin is an offen- 
 sive truth, and which avoids all the retributive and judicial 
 aspects of revelation. Augustine never shrinks from the 
 fact, that a creature's free and wilful transgression in its 
 own nature merits, and, without faith in Christ's blood of 
 atonement, will receive, an evei'lasting punishment from the 
 living God. lie knows that the doctrine, of genuine unsel- 
 fish penitence for sni stands, or falls, with that of an absolute 
 ill-desert and an everlasting penalty ; that every species 
 of religious anxiety which reluctates at Christ's represen- 
 tations of the final doom, and at the scripture doctrine that 
 only Christ's atonement stands between a sinner and eternal 
 perdition, is spurious ; and that he who would " climb up 
 some other way " to throw himself into the arms of tiie 
 Hedeeraer, before he has knelt with a broken heart at the 
 bar of the Judge, will ultimately meet a terrific rebuke to 
 his presumption and moral worthlessness. Augustine's 
 trust in the compassion of God has for its antecedent the 
 distinct consciousness of the " wrath to come." The Di- 
 vine love is, for his mind, a self-sacrificing yiiy that " bore 
 his sins on the tree," and thereby delivered him from an 
 infinite infli(;tion that was merited and actually impending, 
 or it would not have been vicariously endured" by incar- 
 nate God. " I was going," he says, in reference to a dan- 
 gerous si<;kness in his youth, " I was going down to hell, 
 carrying all the sin.s wiiich i iiad committed both against 
 Thee an<l inysolf and others, many ami grievous sins, over 
 and above that l)ond of original sni whereby we all (.lie in 
 Adam. For, Thou hadst not forgiven me any of these 
 things in (Jhrist, nor liad He abolished by His cross the en- 
 mity which by ray sins I had incurred with Thee. And,
 
 35 G 'lUK CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 now, the fever heighteninf^, I was parting and departiTig 
 for ever. For, had I then parted hence, whither had I 
 departed but into fire and torments such as my misdeeds 
 deserved in the truth of Thy appointment."* 
 
 Such tlioroughness in Augustine's experience of both 
 tiie justice and the mercy of Clod resulted in an undoubt- 
 inrj conlidence in God. The trustfuhiess of his feeling 
 towards the Dread Supreme exhibits itself, sometimes, 
 like the prattling of a child : " I beseech Thee, my God, 
 1 would fain know, if so Thou wiliest, for what pur- 
 pose \vas my baptism then deferred ? Was it for my good 
 that the rein was laid loose, as it were, upon me, for me 
 to sin ? " f " Bear with me, my God, while I say some- 
 thing of my talents — Thy gift — and on what dotages I 
 wasted them." :{: In fact, the whole life, the entire expe- 
 rience of Augustine, with all that is insignificant equally 
 with all that is great in it, is poured into the ear of the 
 Divine Confessor. To God there is nothing great and 
 nothing small ; and this penitent, childlike, and affection- 
 ate soul passes from point to point in its detail, without 
 stopping to measure or compare. The Divine ear is not 
 heavy that it cannot hear even the minutest items of the 
 penitential record, and the filial, grateful heart is never 
 tired of the exhaustive confession and rehearsal. 
 
 Such an experience of both the law and the gospel 
 brought Augustine into most intimate relations with 
 God. " Sometimes," he says, " Thou admittest me to an 
 affection very unusual, in my inmost soul ; i-ising to a 
 strange sweetness, which, if it were perfected in me, I 
 kn(.)vv not what in it would not belong to the life to come." § 
 
 * Confessions, V. 9. 
 flbid., I. 11. 
 ilbid., I. 17. 
 §Ibid., X 11.
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 357 
 
 The Modern Church is too destitute of this child-like 
 affection ateness and this fervor of love. It is certainly 
 striking to pass from the more formal and reserved types 
 of religious experience, characteristic of an over-civilized 
 Christendom, to the simple and gushing utterances of 
 Augustine, Anselm, and Bernard. " Too late 1 loved 
 Thee, O Thou Beauty of ancient days, yet ever new ! Too 
 late I loved Thee. Oh, that I might repose on Thee ! 
 Oh ! that Thou wouldest enter into my heart, and inebri- 
 ate it. O Thou sweetness never failing. Thou blissful 
 and assured sweetness." * In one of the Soliloquies as- 
 cribed to him, Augustine addresses God as both father and 
 mother : " Et tu Doinine Deus pater orphanorum, et tu 
 mater pnpillorum tuorum, audi ejulatum tiliorum tuo- 
 rura." The soul follows hard after God, and its pantings 
 often find a natural expression in language and terms as 
 fervid as those which we are wont to associate only with 
 the most absorbing and consuming of earthly passions. 
 The rhythmi(;al and sonorous Roman speech becomes yet 
 more deep-toned and sounding in its note, as the rapt 
 mind rises upon the wings of spii'itual intuition and 
 ecstasy. The su])crlative becomes the positive. " Dulcis- 
 BJme, amantissime, benignissime, preciosissime, deside- 
 rantissime, amabilissime, pulcherrimc ; tu mclle dulcior, 
 lacte et iiivc candidior, nectarc suavior, gemmis et 
 auro preciosior, cunctisque tcrrarum divitiis et honoribus 
 mihi carior, quaiido te videbo ? Qnando apparebo ante 
 facicm tuam i Quaiido satiabor de pulchritudiiie tua^"f 
 
 * ConfeHHioiiH, X. 27 ; I. 5 ; 11. 1 . 
 
 f Augiistini, Opera, VI. 874, U28, nq. Ed. Migne. Tlie Rolilor|uic8 
 and JNIf^ditations. from wliicli tbc;.so extracts are taken, are i)rol)ably 
 ungenuiue, but tlic remark of Era.smuH respectiuy them is true • " Auo- 
 torem e»80 vol AuguHtinum, vel qui ejus lihroH non iudiligeutor legit.'' 
 They bear the inarkB, however, of llomiah inter[)olation.
 
 358 TIIE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 This language, it should be remembered, flows from a 
 mind that is naturally speculative and dialectic ; that has 
 meditated not merely profoundly, but systematicall}', upon 
 the being- aiul attributes of God. It is not the utterance of 
 a sentimentalist, but of a robust understanding, out of 
 which issued the most logical and severe of the ancient 
 types of Christian theology. When we find the most ab- 
 stract and intellectual of the Christian fathers dissolving 
 in tears, or soaring in ecstasy, we may be certain that the 
 emotion flows from truth and reality. When the rock 
 gushes out water, we may be sure that it is pure water. 
 Were it not that we find the systematic writings of 
 Augustine, which constitute the great bulk of his works, 
 calm as reason itself, consecutive as logic itself, and 
 entirely free from extravagance, we might query whether 
 a sinful mortal, an imperfectly sanctified man, could use 
 such language as the above, without a latent insincerity; 
 or, at least, without running far in advance of his real 
 emotions. But such soliloquies and meditations are the 
 moments of Christian and saintly inspiration ; hours 
 when the deep and subtle reasoning of the renewed mind, 
 having reached its term, becomes hushed and breathless 
 in the spiritual intuition, and passes over into awe and 
 worship. The knowledge of the cherub becomes the love 
 of the seraph. The one is the dark root, the other the 
 bri<''ht consummate flower of reliij'ion. 
 
 One who imbues his mind with the spirit of Augustine's 
 Confessions finds no difficulty, therefore, in understanding 
 the Song of Solomon — the figures and phrases of which 
 are so frequently employed in the meditations and pray- 
 ers of the great fathers and schoolmen. An earthly exe- 
 gesis can interpret this song of songs only from its own 
 jjoint of view. The conceptions, figures, and terms of the 
 spiritual lyric are instinctivelj' referred to earthly rela-
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF ATJaUSTIKE. 359 
 
 tioriships. An nnspiritual mind cannot, by any possi- 
 bility, rise into the pure ether and element of incorporeal 
 and heavenly Beauty, in which the writer of this canticle 
 moves his wings. But not so the Augustines, the An- 
 sehns, and the Bernards. These purged and clear eyes 
 were granted, at certain favored hours, and as the result 
 of their lono- vio-ils and meditations, the immortal vision 
 of the pure in heart. And the innnortal vision wakened 
 the innnoi'tal lono-inor. The environment of earth and 
 time became a prison to the now illuminated spirit, and it 
 pined for the hill of frankincense and the mountains of 
 myrrh. Having seen the King in his beauty, the holy 
 and ethereal soul fell into love-longing.* 
 
 4. A fourth striking characteristic of these Confessions 
 is, the insight which thoy afford into the origin ami jxrog- 
 ress of the Christian experience. They are the best com- 
 mentary yet written upon the seventh and eighth cha])ters 
 of Romans. That quickening of the human spirit, which 
 puts it again into vital and sensitive relations to the holy 
 and the eternal; that illumination of the mind, whereby 
 it is enabled to perceive with clearness the real nature of 
 trutii and righteousness; that empowering of the will, to 
 
 * The expeiicnce of the elder Edwards exhibits these same character- 
 iHticH. " I began," he says, " to have a new kiiul of apprehension and idea 
 of Christ and the work of redemption. My niind was greatly engaged in 
 meditations on Christ, on the beauty and excellence of his person. 
 These words used to he abundantly with me : ' I am the Rose of 
 Sliaron, and the Lily of the valleys.' 'I'he.so words sueincd to me 
 Bweetly to repre.sent the loveliness and beauty of Jesus Christ. Tlio 
 •whole l)0ok of Canticles used to be jileusant to nie, and 1 used to be 
 much in reading it. The sense I had of divine things would often, of 
 a sudden, kimllo up as it were a sweet burning in my heart ; an ardor of 
 Houl tliat I know not how to express." — This rajjt, exulting vision of 
 the Divine beauty and majesty, wliicli fell upun him like the dawn, iu 
 the beg'innin^ of his Christian life, would, in the middle ages, have 
 given him the title of the " angelic," or the " seraphic " doctor.
 
 360 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 the coiifUct and the victory — tlie entire process of restoring 
 the divine image in the soul of man — is delineated in this 
 book with a vividness and reality never exceeded by the 
 nninspired mind. And particularly is the bondage of the 
 fallen will brought to view. Augustine, though subject 
 to 2:)angs of conscience, and the forebodings of an unpar- 
 d ■)ned soul, from his earliest years, did not, nevertheless, 
 attain evangelical peace until the thirty-second year of his 
 life. lie died at the age of seventy-six ; so that nearly 
 one-half of his earthly existence was spent in unregene- 
 racy. He was born and bred in the midst of paganism, 
 and his tropical North-African nature immersed itself in 
 the ambition and sensuality of his clime and his race, with 
 an intensity to which the career of a Rousseau, a Byron, 
 or a Heine, affords a nearer parallel than does anything 
 that meets the eye in the externally decent and restrained 
 life of modern society. To such a soul of flame, was 
 xittered in tones that startled, and tones that shattered, and 
 ^ones that for a moment paralyzed, the solemn words : 
 " Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in chambering and 
 W'antonness, not in strife and envying ; but put ye on the 
 Lord Jesus Christ, and make not provision for the flesh." 
 It was, at first, like the giving up of the ghost. The effort 
 to obey was convulsive. " Thou, O Lord, didst press upon 
 me inwardly with a severe mercy, redoubling the lashes of 
 fear and shame lest I should again give way, and not 
 bursting that slight remaining tie it should recover 
 strength, and bind me faster. For I said within myself, 
 ' Be it done now, be it done now.' And as I spake, I all 
 Lut performed it. I all but did it, and did it not ; yet 
 sunk not back to my former state, but kept my stand hard 
 b}', and tooh breath. And I essa3'ed again, and lacked 
 somewhat less of it, and somewhat less, and all but touched 
 and laid hold u^wn it ; hesitating to die to death, and to 
 
 la
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTDfE. 361 
 
 live to life. And the worse, whereto I was accustomed, 
 prevailed more with me than the better, whereto I was un- 
 used ; and when the moment approached when I was to be- 
 come other than I was, the greater dismay did it strike 
 into me ; yet did it not strike me back, nor turn me away, 
 but held me in suspense." * What a subtle and most 
 truthful glimpse into the workings of inveterate sin, which 
 has grown with his growth, and strengthened with his 
 strength, is afforded in the petition of his early manhood : 
 " Give me continence, only not yet.'''' f These, and a hun- 
 dred others like them, bring the whole inward struggle into 
 plain view. It is a real conflict in which the kingdom of 
 heaven suffers violence, and the violent take it by force. 
 We know of no other religious book, except the Bible 
 and Pilgrim's Progress, that makes so deeji an impression 
 of reality as this one. Keligion, in the experience here 
 delineated, is veritable. The fears and forebodings that 
 lierald it are actual. The pangs and throes that bring it 
 to the birth are actual. The joys and sorrows, the assur- 
 ance and the doubts thal;-accompany its growth are actual. 
 As the doctrinal system of Augustine rests upon a basis of 
 realism, so does his practical life and history. There is 
 nothing, upon cither side, that is nominal, fictitious, ideal. 
 But, the whole excellence of this delineation of the 
 bondage of the apostate will, which is the cause of all this 
 struggle, will not be perceived, unless it be noticed that 
 Augustine continually refers the enslavement to the crea- 
 ture himself, and never to the Creator. It is the 2)roduct 
 of man's self-determination, and not of that creative fiat 
 by which man was oi-iginally made a holy, and an uii- 
 enslaved Hj)irit in the image of (iod. "My ^l)Ul the ene- 
 my held, and thoice had made a chain for me, and bound 
 
 * ConfesHionn, VIII. II. 
 t I'''J-. VIII. 7.
 
 3G2 Till: C0NFKS8I0NS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 me. For, of a perverse will comes lust / and a lust 
 yielded to becomes custom • and custom not resisted be- 
 comes necessiti/. By which links, as it were, joined to- 
 gether as in a chain, a hard bondage held me enthralled. 
 And that new will, to serve Thee freely and to enjoy 
 Thee, O God, which had begun to be in me, was not able 
 to overcome my former long-established wilfulness." * 
 Thus, the bondage is guilt ; and at the very instant 
 when the soul is weighed down with a sense of utter im- 
 potence to holiness, it is also prostrate before the judicial 
 bar with the consciousness of deserved condemnation. 
 The enslavement is not pleaded in excuse of sin, because it 
 is percei\ed to be a part of sin. " All wickedness is 
 weakness," says Milton's helpless Samson Agonistes. 
 The element of servitude, like the element of blindness, 
 or of hardness, is part and particle of that evil and abom- 
 inable tiling which the soul of God hates. The reflex 
 action, or reaction, of transgression, upon the understand- 
 ing, is spiritual blindness ; upon the heart, is spiritual 
 hardness or insensibility ; upon the will, is spiritual bond- 
 age, or inability to do good. The voluntary faculty cannot, 
 any more than any other faculty of the soul, escape the re- 
 action of its self-action. Suicide is as total an extinction 
 of life as homicide. Whosoever commits sin, by and in 
 this very voluntary act, becomes the slave {ZovKo<;) of sin. 
 The cause inevitably carries its consequence. That which 
 is done cannot be undone ; and no will that self-detcr- 
 minedly apostatizes from God can be again the sound and 
 strong faculty in reference to good, that it was before 
 apostasy, excej^t through the intervention of Divine reno- 
 vating power. The moral bondage, therefore, like the 
 moral blindness and the moral hardness, enters into the 
 
 * Confessions, VIII. 5.
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF ACGUSXraE. 3G3 
 
 sum total of human depravity, and goes to swell, and not 
 dhninisli, the sum-total of human condemnation. All 
 this is implied in Augustine's anthropology. Nowhere 
 is there a more profo\ind consciousness of the impotence 
 of the apostate will, and nowhere is there a more heart- 
 felt and humble sense of personal ill-desert, than is ex- 
 pressed in these Confessions. " In these spiritual things," 
 says Augustine, '' ability is one with will, and to will is 
 to do ; and yet the thing is not done. Whence is this 
 strange anomaly (monstrum) ? The mind commands the 
 hodij^ and it obeys instantl}' ; the mind commands itself^ 
 and is resisted. The mind commands the hand to be 
 moved, and such readiness is there, that command is 
 scarce distinct from obedience. The mind commands the 
 mind, its own 8df^ to will ; and yet it doth not will. It 
 commands itself, I say, to will, and would not command 
 unless it willed ; and yet what it commands is not done. 
 But it willeth not entirely ; therefore, doth it not com- 
 mand entirely. For, it c(»mmandeth only so far forth as 
 it willeth. The will cominandeth that there be a will } 
 not another's will, but its own will. But it doth not 
 command entlrelij • therefore, what it connnandeth does 
 not take place." * 
 
 The overlooking of this voluntary origin of the bond- 
 age of tlie human will has led to much misrepresentation 
 of tlie theological system of the greatest intellect of the 
 patristic period. Friciids, as well as foes, have cluirged 
 him with fafalism. Kidman's portrait of Augustine, for 
 example, is in many of its features an accui-ate one, and 
 the general coloi-ing is laid on with an admii-ing and even 
 an entlinsiastic eye. But, !Mihiiaii represents Augustln- 
 ianism "as offering u|) free agency up(»n the altar of rc- 
 
 * ConfcssionH, VIII. 9.
 
 36-1: THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 
 
 lipjion, and thereby degrading the most wonderful work 
 of omnipotence — a being endowed with free agency." * 
 This statement wouki be true, had Augustine attributed 
 the bondage of the human will to the creative act of God. 
 But, in his theory, it is the product of a human act of 
 free self-determination. xSc^Z/'enslavement and self-rn'm, 
 are one thing ; enslavement by the creative act, and ruin 
 by compulsory force, are another. The charge of fatal- 
 ism can, logically, be made only against the latter. The 
 Latin father places all mankind in the first parents, and 
 starts them with a created perfection — a holy will and an 
 enlightened understanding. From this hiffh vanta^-e- 
 ground, tliey fall by an act of self-determination as posi- 
 tive, and as free, as that by which any one of Adam's 
 ])osterity exerts an individual volition. Augustine does 
 not explain this, but he always postulates and supposes it. 
 An opponent may charge him with holding a mystery 
 that, in his own opinion, is untenable ; but may not 
 charge him with holding to a created sin, or to a perdi- 
 tion that is necessitated by God. 
 
 Such are some of the more salient points in the auto- 
 biography of Augustine. A moment's reflection upon 
 them will evince that they are of the very highest order, 
 and that such a religious exj^erience as is here portrayed 
 cannot be studied without profit. This book is worthy of 
 being made a manual of devotion. It is not claimed to 
 be entirely free from erroneous aspects of truth. No 
 man wholly escaj)es the faults of his age ; and the Con- 
 fessions of Augustine exhibit some of the deficiencies of the 
 Church of the fifth century. J>ut, in reference to the 
 permanent and everlasting elements of the Christian ex- 
 perience, the great main characteristics of the Christian 
 
 * Milman's Primitive Christianity, B. III. ch. 10.
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AUGUSTINE. 365 
 
 life, here is certainly a bold and accurate, a clear and 
 large utterance. "We are confident that familiarity with 
 this book, for even a single year, would perceptibly affect 
 the person's religious experience. It would infuse into it 
 the rare quality of vividness. There are no stereotyped 
 phrases, no technical terms or f(n-ms. It is the life of God 
 in the soul of a strong man, rushing and rij)pli ng with the 
 freedom of the life of nature. lie who watches can almost 
 see the growth ; he who listens can hear the perpetual 
 motion ; and he who is in sympathy will be swept along. 
 The revising of these Confessions has been a labor of 
 love. As we have scanned the sentences and syllables, we 
 have seemed to hear the beating of that flaming heart, 
 which now for fifteen centuries has burnt and throbbed 
 with a seraph's affection in the Mount of God, AVe have 
 seemed to look into that deep and spiritual eye which 
 gazed without shrinking, yet with bitter penitential tears, 
 into the deptlis of a tormenting conscience and a sinful 
 nature, that it might then gaze without dazzling, and with 
 unutterable rapture, into the eyes and face of the Eternal. 
 Our Protestantii^m concedes, without scru])le, the cogno- 
 men of saint to tliis ethereal spirit. Our Christianity tri- 
 umphs in that marvellous power of grace, which wrought 
 Rucii a wonderful transformation. Having this example 
 and living fact before our view, we believe that Christ 
 the ]j)rd lias all [)0wer, both in heaven and upon earth ; 
 and that there is lodged in his pierced and bleeding 
 hands a spiritual eneigy that is able to renovate the 
 mightiest and the most vitiated forms of humanity. The 
 CJaesars and Napoleons, the Jiyrons and tlie Jlousscaus, all 
 the passionate spirits, all the stormy Titans, arc within 
 rea(th of tliat irresistible influence whi(*h is centred in the 
 liedeinption oi the Son of (Jod, and is accessible to tho 
 pi-ayers and the faith of the Church.
 
 Br. %\M'% MavU, 
 
 By WILLIAM G. T. SHEDD, D.D., • 
 
 Professor of Systematic Theology in Union Tkeol.,pical Seminary. New York. 
 
 A HISTORY OF CHRISTIAN 
 
 DOCIRINE. Two vols., crown 8vo. 
 Fifth edition, doth, Ss-oo- 
 
 HOMILETICS AND PASTORAL 
 THEOLOGY. One vol., crown 8vo. 
 Fifth edition, cloth, $2.50. 
 
 SERMONS TO THE NATURAL 
 
 MAN. One vol., crown 8vo. .Second 
 edition, cloth, I2.50. 
 
 THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS. One vol., 
 Svo. Enlarged and carefully revised 
 edition, cloth, ^2.50. 
 
 A HISTORY OF CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE. 
 
 "Dr. Shedd has furnished an important contribution to the study of church history. 
 To have made a readable book— a book which must interest the general scholar as well 
 as the professed theologian — on a topic so difficult and so remote from the ordinary inter- 
 ests and literary currents of the time, is itself a rare and very great merit, denianding 
 graceful recognition from all the scholars of the \M\:i."— North American Ke^iietv. 
 
 " It is many years since a more valuable contribution has been made, in this country 
 or F.ngland, to theological literature ; one the study of which will yield riper fruits of 
 Christian knowledge. 'J'hese volumes are marked by a thorouchness of knowledge and 
 clearness of statement, as well as by a certain 7Jitai element which pervades them, and 
 which shows the love of the author for his great theme, and that he takes his position, not 
 without but within his subject, and so relates the transformations and developments of 
 religious thought as if he had himself passed through l\\cm:^—Bil>liatheca Sacra. 
 
 "We hold that this is the most important contribution that has been made to our 
 theological literature jduring the present aet^.''—/'res6yterian Standard. 
 
 " In oui judgment, no production of greater moment has been given to the public for 
 a long time." — I'rinceton Kevieir. 
 
 •'A body of theological history which is in form as perfect as it is in substance 
 excellent." — .V.' Y. Hvening Post. 
 
 "It well deserves an honorable and permanent place in the standard literature of 
 theology." — A'eii' ]-l>iglandi'r. 
 
 " A rich addition to our theological literature."— /}w^»-/Vrt« Theoloitcal Rertetv. 
 
 "Dr. .Shedd's HIsiory of Christian Doctrine, on Its first appearance, was unani- 
 mously recognized as filling with remarkable success a blank that had existed in our 
 English literature on this imporl.int subj -ct, and it still holds the foremost place ni 
 works of this class." — Kdinburxh Daily Revieiv. 
 
 HOMILETICS AND PASTORAL THEOLOGY. 
 
 "The work will be found to be an admirable guide and stimulus in whatever per- 
 tains lo ihiH department of thcilogy. The sludciit finds himself in the hands of a m.nster 
 able to quicken and enlarge his scope and spirit. The honiileiic.il precepts arc well 
 il'iislr.itc'l by the author'* own style, which is muscular, while quivernig with nervous 
 life. Nowadays one rarely reads such good English writin-.; — elevated and clear, s.newy 
 anil flexible, traiispircnt (or the thought. E.ich topic is handled in a true progressive 
 method. f)ur young minisicrs may well make a study of this book." — Amrt iian 
 Theol. Rrviem. 
 
 "Wc have read, and with the profoiindest interest, the whole of this remarkable 
 book. To our view it is tie ablest ami the b<sl of all which Dr. Shedd has wrilKn. 
 It is equally remarkable for the r.iiigc of its erudition, .iiid for the keenness and lliiirou.;li- 
 ness of lis analysis — for its leiidency lo stimulate the intellect, and tc enlarge and intensify 
 (he moral purposes." — N. V. lixaminer.
 
 "\Vc have rc.id this bonk with nimost uiuinnlificd npproval. Wc cannot but regard 
 it .Ti, on (he wlioU-, tlic very best imnliictioii ot the- kind with which we arc acquainted. 
 1 he liipics disciisseil arc- of the first importance to every minister of Christ cnRaged in 
 Rrtive service, and their disrussion is conducted by earnestness as well as ability, and in 
 n style which for clear, vigorous, and unexceptionable Knglish, is itself a model." — TV. }'. 
 
 '• The ablest book on the subject which the generation has produced." — Christian 
 In tellis^etifer. 
 
 "Dr. .Sbedd's Homiletics and Pastoral Theology has everywhere been welcomed 
 ■s a sasacions and valuable contribution to the equipment of our rising preachers." 
 Kdiiiburf^h Dtiily Kcvifw, 
 
 SERMONS TO THE NATURAL MAN. 
 
 "These Sermons are an excellent course upon the theoloijy of the law. Dr. Sliedd 
 is one of the best known in thiscotmtry of American theologians, and those who are 
 acquainted with his writings do not require to he told that he carries out '.us ideas with 
 per.spicuity, force, and conclusive completeness." — /•'.dinburgli Daily Reviem. 
 
 '"The reader, whether he assent to tlie deductions of the author or not. must admit 
 that they are enforced with logical conciseness, a rare wealth of learning, and an uncom- 
 mcn ability of argumentation." — .V. }'. JCvt/iiiig Post. 
 
 "We commend this volume to all who love the 'strong meat' of christian truth, 
 and who rejoice in the adaptation of the power of the gospel to the deepest needs of the 
 'natural man.'" — Xaf I Baptist, Phila. 
 
 "The author has given us a collection of clear, logical, earnest discourses, well 
 adapted to the spirit of the times. We specially commend the work to preachers of the 
 gospel." — Methodist Protestant, Baltiniote. 
 
 "I'hese sermons are clear in thought, the style is lucid and simple, and free from 
 the much-worn phrases of the pulpit. I'he arguments of the author are well arranged and 
 put witi great force." — Christian Union. 
 
 THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS. 
 
 "These Essays bear traces on every page, not only of a mind disciplined to close 
 thinking, and at home in the abstractions of philosophy and theology, but versed in the 
 noblest works of literature, and equally able to appreciate the creations of art and imagi- 
 nation. The terseness and vigor of the style are well mated to the character of the 
 thought." — Nrtv Knglander. 
 
 "These Essays are all marked by profound thotjght and perspicuity of sentiment. 
 The author has achieved a high reputation for the union of philosojiliic insight with genu- 
 ine scholarship ; of depth and clearness of thought with force and elegance of style ; 
 and for profound views of sin and grace, cherished not merely on theoretical, but still 
 more on moral and experimental grounds. "—/V/«rc^o« Kevieio. 
 
 "The Essay upon Evolution, is an extraordinary specimen of the metaphysical 
 treatise, and the charm of its rhetoric is not less noticeable Prof. Shedd never puts his 
 creed under a bushel ; but there are few students of any sect or class that will not derive 
 great assistance from his labors." — Uiiiversalist Quarterly. 
 
 " The tendency of this volume is to encninage doctrinal investigation and doctrinal 
 preaching ; to stimulate clergymen to improve their methods of study, and to quicken 
 their love of inquiry into the profoundest truths of religion." — Bibliotheea .Sacra. 
 
 '•These Essaj'S abound in strong thought, firmly and clearly expressed, and in this 
 the reader of a different school of theology will take a pleasure, while he may dissent 
 from the theory i>ropounded." — Methodist Quarterly. 
 
 "A book equally remarkable for profound thought and for dogmatic severity. 
 Perhaps no stronger work has gone forth of late from any American theologian, nor any 
 work which at the same time runs so wholly in the face of the present drift of religious 
 sentiment and scientific study." — Ne^n York Times. 
 
 "TheOenevan reformer has probably no abler or more devoted follower, at the 
 present day than the author of these essays. In the circle of his readers he will find 
 many who regard the study of his writings as an admirable exercise, for the vigor of 
 their statements, the closeness of their logic, and the athletic grasp of their conclusions, 
 although their own convictions are not represented in his system of theology." — New 
 York Tribune. 
 
 '• IJr. Sbedd's weighty and forceful rhetoric has been the admiration and despair 
 of most of his readers. To weight and force, we must add one other quality which dis- 
 tinguishes it, namely, ferTor. Every theological student and every minister should 
 possess, and should not only read, but study this volume." — The Presbyterian. 
 
 *,♦ The above books /or sale by all booksell rs, or will be sent, post or expresi 
 charges paid, upon receipt of the price by the publishers, 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 
 
 743 AND 745 Broadway, New York.
 
 THE BIBLE COMMENTARY. 
 
 ACCORDING TO THE AUTHORIZED VERSION, A.D. 1611. 
 With an Explanatory and Critical Commentary, and a Revision 
 
 of the Translation. 
 
 Now Ready. Ccmplete in 6 vols. Royal 8vo. Cloth, $5, 
 
 THE OLD TESTAMENT. 
 
 Edited by F. C. COOK, M.A., Canon of Exeter, Preacher at Lincoln's Inn, 
 and Chaplain in Ordinary to the Queen. 
 
 Vol I. — Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy. 
 
 Vol. II. —Joshua, Judges, Ruth, Samuel, ist Kings. 
 
 V<JL. Ill — 2d Kings, Chronicles, Ezra, Nehkmiah, Esther. 
 
 Vol. IV. — Jon, Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Songof Solomon. 
 
 Vol. V. — Isaiah, Jkrkml\.h, Lamenta itons. 
 
 Voi„ VI. — EzEKiEL, Daniel, The Minor Prophets. 
 
 'I'he want of a plain, Explanatorj- COMMKN'l'ARY ON THE BIHLF, more com- 
 plete and accurate than any accessible to Kiiijlish readers having been long felt by men of 
 education, in i86i the SPEAKKK OKTHE^HOUSK OF COMMONS con-^nlte I some 
 of the the Hishops as to the best way of supplying the deficiency ; and the ARCH- 
 HISHOP OF' YORK undertook to organize a plan for producing such a work, by the 
 co-operation of scho'ars selecteil for th:ir biblical le irning. 
 
 The great object of this Commentary, of which the Old Testament is now completed, 
 is to fiut the general reader in full possession of whatever information may be requisite to 
 enable him to understand the Holy Scriptures, to gi e him, as far as possible, the same 
 advantages as the scholar, and to supply him with satisfactory answers to objections 
 resting upon misrepresentations of the te.xt. 
 
 It was decided to r<print. without alteration, the Authorized Version from the edition 
 of i6ir, with the marginal references and renderings. Special care has been taken to 
 furnish in all cases amended trauslations of passages proved to be incorrect in our version. 
 The Comment is chiefly explanatory, presenting, in a concise and readable form, the 
 results of learned investigations, carried on in this and other countries during the last 
 half century. When fuller discussipns of difficult passages or important subjects are 
 necessary, they are placed at the end of the chapter, or of the volume. 
 
 The conduct of the work — as general Editor — has been entrusted to the Rev. F. C. 
 Cook, M.A., Canon of Kxeler, Preacher at Lincoln's Inn, and Chaplain in Ordinary to 
 the (,)ueen. 
 
 The Archbishop of York, in consultation with the Regius Professors of Divinityr of 
 Oxford and Cambridge, advises with the general Editor upon questions arising during 
 tlie progress of the work. 
 
 //V THE rRF.SS. 
 
 THE NEW TESTAMENT. 
 
 Vol. I. — M ATiiiLW, .Makk, ami Luke. 
 
 Vol. II. — John and Acrs. 
 
 Vol. III. — El'ISTLKS OK St. Paul. 
 
 Vol. IV. — Catholic Ei'Istles and Revelations. 
 
 ♦,• Thr ahmif books for tale by nil bocktelltrt, or 11^11 be sent, post or exprrti 
 iharget fit id, uf^n rfceijtt of thr price by the publishers, 
 
 CHARLES SCRir.NM'.R'S SOMS, 
 
 7-13 and 745 IJkoadway, New Yokk,
 
 Eangp^s dommFnfapg, 
 
 CRITICAL, DOCTRINAL, AND HOMILETICAL. 
 TRANSLATED, ENLARGED, AND EDITED 
 
 PHILIP SCHAFF, D.D., 
 
 PROFESSOR IN TUB UNION THI;OI.ih;ICAL Sli.MINAKY. 
 
 This is the most comprehensive and exhaustive Commentary on the whole 
 Bible ever publislied in this or any otlier country. It will be completed in 
 24 large royal octavo volumes. Twenty-two volumes have already appeared, 
 and tlie remaining two are now in press. 
 
 The German work, on which the English edition is based, is the product 
 of about twenty distinguished Biblical scholars, of Germany, Holland, and 
 Switzerland, and enjoys a high reputation and popularity wherever German 
 tlieology is studied. 
 
 Tlie .Vinerican edition is not a mere translation (although embracing the 
 whole of the German), but, to a large extent, an orii^inal work ; about one- 
 third of the matter being added, and the whole adapted to the wants of the 
 English and American student. Its popularity and sale has been lately 
 increasing in Great Britain. 
 
 The press has been almost unanimous in its commendation of Langk's 
 CoM.MKNTARY. It is generally regarded as being, on tlie whole, the most 
 useful Commentary, especially for ministers and theological students — in 
 which they are more likely to find what they desire than in any other. It is 
 a complete treasury of Biblical knowledge, brought down to the latest date. 
 It gives the results of careful, scholarly research ; yet in a form sufficiently 
 popular for the use of intelligent laymen The Honiiletical department 
 contains the best thoughts of the great divines and pulpit orators of all ages, 
 on the texts explained, and supi)lics rich suggestions for sermons and Bible 
 lectures. 
 
 The following are some of the chief merits of this Commentary : 
 
 1. // is orthodox and sound, without being sectarian or denominational. 
 It fairly represents the exegetical and doctrinal consensus o{ evangelical 
 divines of the present age, and yet ignores none of the just claims of liberal 
 scientific criticism. 
 
 2. It is comprehensive and complete — giving in beautiful order the 
 authorized English version with emendations, a digest of the Critical .'\i)pa- 
 ratus, Exegetical Explanations, Doctrinal and Ethical Inferences and 
 Reflections, and Homiletical and Practical Hints and Applications. 
 
 3. // is the product of Ji/ty American (/<esidcs twetity liuropcan) Scholars, 
 from the leading denominations and Theological institutions of the country. 
 Professors in the Theological Seminaries of New York, Princeton, Andover, 
 New Haven, Hartford, Cambridge, Rochester, Philadelphia, Cincinnati, 
 Alleghany, Chicago, Madison, and other places, representing the Presbyte- 
 rian, Episcopal, Congregational, Baptist, Methodist, Lutheran, and Reformed 
 Churches, have contributed to this Commentary, and enriched it with the 
 results of their special studies. It may, therefore, claim a national character 
 more than any other work of the kind ever published in this country. 
 
 *** The above book for sale by all booksellers, or iintl be sent, post or express 
 charges p.iid, upon receipt of the price by the piibtishers, 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 
 
 743 A.ND 745 Broadway, New York.
 
 JProf. M, #. M^ifnPB's Morhs. 
 
 Language and the Study of Language. 
 
 TWELVE LECTURES ON THE PRINCIPLES OF LINGUISTIC 
 SCIENCE. By William Dwight Whitney, Professor ol 
 Sanskrit and Comparative Philcjlogy in Yale College. A'ew 
 Edition -with Analysis. One vol., crown 8v>. cloth, . $2.50 
 
 Front ike Nenu York Times. 
 
 "This work of Professor Whitney is one of unusual interest, which will afford to tha 
 general reader a better sur\ey than he can elsewhere find of the present state of lin- 
 ^istic science, and it is also full of original and profound conclusions respecting tha 
 nature and office of human speech. By its perusal, an intelligent reader will of neces- 
 sity be quickened to higlrer intellectual action, while the facts and principles he will 
 learn will be suggestive and fruitful in all future studies respecting the character and 
 histor)- of man." 
 
 ORIENTAL AND LINGUISTIC STUDIES. 
 
 FIRST SERIES. 
 
 THE VEDA, THE AVESTA, THE SCIENCE OF LANGUAGE. 
 By Prof. W. D. Whitney, of Yale College. One vol., crown 
 8vo, cloth, $2.50 
 
 ff~^ TFrom the Atlantic Monthly. 
 " We would warmly recommend this book to teachers and students, and to al' who 
 take any interest in the coiulition of one of the most fascinating of sciences. Wc -rust 
 that the author will fulfil his half promise of giving us another volume; there i> no 
 (upertluity of such books in the American market, nor in any market, for the iTAtter 
 e)f that." 
 
 ORIENTAL AND LINGUISTIC STUDIES. 
 
 SECOND SERIES. 
 
 THE EAST AND WEST; RELIGION AND MYTHOLOGY; 
 ORTHOGRAPHY AND PHONOLOGY; HINDU ASTRON- 
 OMY. By Prof. W. D. Whitney, of Yale College. One vol., 
 crown 8vo, cloth, ........ $2.50 
 
 From tilt Providence Journal. 
 
 "Wc ferl assured this volume will receive a glad welcome from 5cho1an, and w« 
 hope the author may be moved to folluw it up with a third. He will cv^-r find ac 
 tudicncc rc.'uly to listen to whatcvci he m.iy thmk worthy of bcinif said, especially 01 
 •latiers pcrtaming to language." 
 
 Any or at! «/ the above tent, /oii er ex/>rin charges paiti, on receipt cf the 
 trier, by the I'ucliikeri, 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, NEW YORK.
 
 •• Tht great merits of this work have long since made it an American 
 Classic, as well as given it an international refutation." — TlIE Natiou, 
 
 The Earth as Iodified by Human Action 
 
 BY GEORGE P. MARSH, 
 
 Author of "Lectures on the English Language," Ac. 
 
 A NEW AND REVISED EDITION. 
 Oae volume, crown 8vo, cloth. Price reduced from $4.50 to $3. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE ritJSSS. 
 
 The London Spectator — "The book, though it is, as we have said, scientific in 
 
 method, is intended loss for the professed physicist than for persons of general intelli- 
 gence and culture, and to such we sincerely recommend it. The style is clear and 
 often graphic, and the work is full of interesting and suggestive information." 
 
 The Nation — " It is in our opinion one of the most useful and suggestive works evef 
 publishe<l, and to tliose who h^ve never reflected on the various ways in which man- 
 kind, consciously or unconsciously, disturb the equilibrium of nature with effects bene- 
 ficial, indifferent, or disastrous, as the case may be, Mr. Marsh's observations and 
 laboriously-collected facts will come with the force of a revelation. The least obser- 
 \ant and reflecting will find entertainment in reading him, and all may profit by 
 his teachings." 
 
 The Evangelist — "At whatever part of the book the reader commences, he will find 
 himself reluctant to lay it down. 'I'o an intelligent reader it presents a most fascin- 
 ating subject of study, and will be read over and over again with new pleasure. It 
 will quicken his own observation of nature, and will thus prove of great practical 
 utility." 
 
 The Congregationalist — "To the multitude of readers to whom it is a stranger we 
 may say th.at it is worthy of their eager acquaintance. They will find it a storehouse 
 of most interesting facts, skillfully arran:4ed by a ptiilosophic mind into a story 
 whose fascination is fully equaled by its imporuint bearing upon the general welfare." 
 
 The Churchman — "To those who are interested in Physical Geography, and more 
 especially in the relation between that study of Social Science and Political Economy, 
 this work will be of great value. It must be, moreover, to all, a source of. literary 
 entertainment and a means of useful instruction." 
 
 The N.Y. Daily "World — "Mr. Marsh addresses himself in this work to practical 
 and thinking men, not to physicists. It would be a happy thing if this work could 
 find a place in every farmer's library. It contains a mine of facts which in an inci- 
 dental way would be of invaluable use to him." 
 
 The Watchman and Reflector — "The Author gives to his treatment of a largo 
 and generous scholarship a broad and accurate knowledge of facts, a clear, simple, 
 eloquent style, and a spirit earnest for the conservation of those elements in the world 
 around us that are essential for the best physical being of tlie human race." 
 
 *»• TAe above book for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, excess charges ^id, 
 vp<nt receij>i 0/ the irice, by 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 
 
 743 AND 745 Broadway, New York.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 
 
 JAN 1 2J970 _ .. 
 
 vP 3 m 
 
 * 
 
 Form L9-Serie8 444