CONTENTS OF VOLUME II, NUMBER 4 (continued 4)

The writer informed me that Scipio had sold himself for this sum to a Liverpool trader—that he had requested that the money should be sent to me, and that on the day after the purchase he had shipped the servant, with his own free consent, to the West Indies.

I waited on the banker, received the sacrifice of my slave's short-lived freedom; and as I looked on the tear-stained money, I learned from that generous and affectionate fidelity, a lesson which made me loathe with horror the moral prostitution of the gaming table.

THE PATRIARCH'S INHERITANCE.

The following is an extract from an unfinished MS. and occurs at the close of an interview between the Almighty and Abraham, in the course of which is introduced the promise thus stated in Genesis: "And the Lord said unto Abram, after that Lot was separated from him, Lift up now thine eyes, and look from the place where thou art, northward, and southward, and eastward, and westward: For all the land which thou seest, to thee will I give it, and to thy seed forever," &c.

———This pronounced, The Radiant Form withdraws. And now return Sunshine and shade, and cool, delicious airs, Restoring common joys. The saintly chief, Reviving, stands erect; and still his robes, With lingering glory, make the moon-beams pale. Soon all his senses feel the flowing soul, Quick with new life and thrilling power intense. His eyes, undazzled, drink the pouring sun, And sweep entranced the swelling scene below— Mountains, and hills, and plains, and lakes, and streams. O, blest, enchanting vision! All around, Enrich'd with purest green, and all remote Adorn'd with deepest blue; the bending sky And farthest summits mingling fainter hues, Walling the world with sapphire. All he sees, He hails his own; and burns with lordly flame. His the down-rushing torrents; his the brooks, Flashing from every vale; and his the lakes, Wide sparkling bright, as though a shower of gems On silver falling scattered countless lights. His too the rolling woods, the laughing meads, And rocks of waving grapes—his every wind, Stirring the world with life and breathing far Fragrance and music—his the silent cloud, That fleetly glides along the soft mid-air, Reflecting, moon-like, from its upper plain Of snowy beauty, every ray from heaven; And o'er the under landscape leading on Its shadowy darkness, running up and down The ever-changing mountains. Who may tell The many sources of his gushing joy? Not only Jordan, and its palmy plains; Lot's Citied Garden; and the orient heights Of fruitful Gilead, sweeping to the marge Of Bashan's mellow pastures: not alone The visual charms delight his ardent soul, Around, though fair, and fairer still remote; But wider regions—lost in distant haze, Or shut from sight by intercepting bounds— Fairest of all. Far flies his circling thought From Edom's southern plains to Hermon's brow, Frost-wreath'd, and lowlands steep'd in streaming dew; And on to snow-crown'd Lebanon, with slopes Of fadeless verdure nursed by living founts, And glorious cedars swayed by balmy winds, In whose high boughs the eagle builds her nest, And on whose roots the fearful lion sleeps; And thence to Tabor's central cone, and fields Of Eden, like Esdrelon; and the oaks Of flowery Carmel, waving o'er the sea; And Sharon's rosy bloom; and Eshcol's vale, Purple with vines from Hebron to the coast. O'er all the range his ravished mind expands, Warm with high hopes of wondrous days to come. The promise—like a meteor—how it lights The gloom of future ages! Lonely there The childless stranger stands—sublime in faith: Sure that the ten throned nations reigning round, In stately power, with pomp of idol shrines, Shall yield to his descendants; shall behold His mightier seed—thick as the seashore sands— Countless as stars that crowd the clearest sky,— Pouring their myriads over hill and dale, Casting the champion pride of princes down, Dashing the templed monsters in the dust, Sounding the trump of triumph through the land, Thronging the scene with holier, happier homes, And rearing high, to flame with heavenly fire, Earth's only altars to the Only God!

T. H. S.

Washington, March 17, 1836.

AMERICANISMS.

The Americanisms of our language have been a prolific source of ridicule and reproach for the British critics. When a word in an American publication has fallen upon the eyes of these literary lynxes, which they have thought an innovation, they have fiercely denounced it as Yankee slang—as a proof of our uneducated ignorance; they have even denied that we understand the English language, or can speak or write it intelligibly. In most of the cases it turned out and was demonstrated, that the poor words thus assailed were true and genuine English, used by their best writers and speakers; found in their best dictionaries; but unhappily for the poor things, unknown to these erudite and conceited knights of the pen, either too careless to turn to their books for information, or having none to turn to. In a few instances in which we have taken a little license with the language, we have seen that after overloading us with abuse for the birth of the child, they have taken it to themselves, and put it into the service of writers and orators of the highest rank. Such was the fate of our Americanisms—to advocate, influential, in the sense in which we use it, and several others. They found the brats really not such deformities as they supposed, and were willing to adopt and use them; but this did not abate their contempt of the parents. Englishmen residing in England, seem to claim an exclusive right in the invention of English words. In Bulwer's character of Rienzi, this hero is said to have been avid of personal power. This is the coinage of the ingenious author; at least I find no authority for it even in the latest dictionaries, nor in any other writer of reputation. Now I have no objection to the introduction of a new word into our language by Mr. Bulwer or any body else, provided that it be done with due discretion, and subject to some just regulation and principle. In the first place, it should be necessary, supplying a want, or at least obviously convenient in the expression of some idea with more precision than it can be done by any existing word. In the second place, it should be in full consistence and harmony with the idiom of the language. Lord Kames, on using a word of his own making, gives this note. "This word, hitherto not in use, seems to fulfil all that is required by Demetrius Phalereus in coining a new word—first, that it be perspicuous; and next, that it be in the tone of the language."

I find no fault with Mr. Bulwer for the production of his mint, but I will not acknowledge that he, or any other English author, has a better right than an American to take this license. We understand the language as well as they do; we derive our knowledge from the same sources, and we shall use the liberty with as much caution, propriety and discrimination. If this monopolizing, exclusive people, could have their way, they would not suffer us to spin a pound of cotton, or hammer out a bar of iron; and now, forsooth, we must not presume to turn a noun into a verb, or add a monosyllable to the stock of English words.

H.

TO RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE.¹

¹ Written soon after his death.

Start not, great spirit of the mighty dead! No sneering cynic comes with fiendish tread, To mock the laurels of thy honored brow, And ask,—where lies thy strength or glory now? No snarling critic, jackal-like, to brave The fearful lion, nerveless in his grave, Whose living look had shrunk his trembling form, As craven creatures crouch before the storm: No saintly, sinning bigot vents his spite For crimes exposed, or horrors brought to light; No puppy-patriot, peculator bold, Would bark at thee, for sneering at his gold: No spaniel dog, to gain a master's smile, Would crunch thy bones, thy hallowed grave defile; No smiling sycophant, or grovelling hind, Whose soul succumbs beneath a mastermind: No little gatherer of great men's words, No album-filling fool of flowers and birds, Or autographic-maniac now weeps In sickly sympathy, where Randolph sleeps. Bereaved Virginia's voice majestic calls In mournful wailings from her fun'ral halls, "Whose strength shall terror strike? Whose voice shall charm? Who wound, or win, the wretch who wills me harm? Since thy great soul hath left its feeble frame, My only pride is thy undying name; My sun hath set in parting glory bright, My Randolph's dead, my shores are wrapt in night. Oh choose,—great spirit, from my blood alone, Some worthy one, with genius like thine own; Lest prophets false, my gallant sons deceive,— To him, Elisha-like, thy mantle leave."

HESPERUS.

ADDRESS

Delivered by the Hon. Henry St. George Tucker, before the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society.¹

¹ The anniversary meeting of this Society was held at the Capitol in Richmond, on the second of March, in presence of a numerous auditory of both sexes. There was much disappointment at the absence of Professor Dew, who was expected to deliver the annual Address, but whose attendance was prevented by ill health. The Hon. Henry St. Geo. Tucker was unanimously appointed President in the room of Chief Justice Marshall, and the address which we now have the pleasure of publishing was delivered by the new President upon taking the chair. It was listened to with profound attention and pleasure. So, also, was a speech to be found on page 260 of Mr. Maxwell on presenting a resolution commemorative of the services and virtues of the late Chief Justice.

During the meeting, Mr. Winder, the Clerk of Northampton, presented a collection of MSS. found in some of the dark corners of the clerk's office of that ancient county. These papers, we are informed, are highly valuable, and shed new and interesting light upon an early period of Virginia History. They were the papers, it appears, of a Mr. Godfrey Poole, who early in the eighteenth century, was the clerk of Northampton court—was also a lawyer of considerable practice, and for many years clerk of the committee of Propositions and Grievances, an office, we suppose, of much higher relative grade then than at present. The MSS. are various in their character—consisting for the most part, of addresses by the then governors Spotswood and Dugsdale to the House of Burgesses—answers to those addresses, by the House, and copies of various acts of Assembly and Reports of Committees, not found in any printed record extant. There is also an undoubted copy of the Colonial Charter which received the signet of King Charles, and was stopped in the Hamper office upon that monarch's receiving intelligence of Bacon's rebellion. This charter, we believe, is not to be found in any of the printed collections of State papers or Historical Records in this country, having eluded the researches of Mr. Burke, and of the indefatigable Mr. Hening, the compiler of the Statutes at Large.

It appears also that Mr. Poole contrived to enliven the barren paths of Law and Legislation by an occasional intercourse with the Muses. We find among his papers two Poems—one is brief, of an amatory character, and addressed to Chloe—that much besonnetted name. The other, containing about one hundred and ninety lines is thus entitled

The Expedition oe'r the mountain's: Being Mr. Blackmore's Latin Poem, entitled, Expeditio Ultra-Montana: Rendered into English verse and inscribed To the Honourable the Governour. (A. O. Spotswood.)

The "Expedition &c" is remarkable for three things—its antiquity (Virginian antiquity)—its mediocrity—and for one or two lines in which (singularly enough) direct reference is made to the discovery of a gold region in Virginia. The lines run thus—

Here taught to dig by his auspicious hand, They prov'd the growing Pregnance of the land; For, being search'd, the fertile earth gave signs That her womb teem'd with gold and silver mines. This ground, if faithful, may in time outdo The soils of Mexico, and of fam'd Peru.

Gentlemen,—In accepting, with the profoundest sense of my own unworthiness, the station you have been pleased to confer upon me, my mind very naturally reverts to the distinguished individual who has heretofore presided over your deliberations, and has added to the interest of your proceedings by the lustre of his own reputation, and the mild dignity of his exalted character. Since the days of General Washington, no man has lived more beloved and respected, or died more universally regretted, than the late venerable Chief Justice. Throughout this widely extended republic, our fellow citizens have vied in the distinguished honors which have been paid to his memory. Those honors have not been confined to the state which gave him birth, to the city in which he dwelt, to the supreme tribunal of his native state, which owes so much of its former reputation to the efficient aid he brought to their deliberations in the flower of his age. They have not been confined to any political party, or denied by those who have honestly and widely differed from him in their views of the construction of the great charter of our government. No, gentlemen, his character and life have been the themes of universal eulogy. The meditations of the wise have dwelt upon his virtues, and the lips of the eloquent have poured forth his praises throughout the Union. It is right that it should be so. As Chief Justice of the United States, his fame was the common property of that Union, which he so truly loved, and which he so long and so faithfully has served. For five and thirty years he presided over the first judicial tribunal of the United States; a tribunal which he elevated by his dignity, which he illustrated by his abilities, and instructed by his wisdom; a tribunal which was not only enlightened by the splendor of his meridian greatness, but was illumined by the last rays of his departing genius, and beheld with admiration its broad and spotless disc as it descended to the horizon. Even the hand of time seems to have dealt gently with his noble mind; and, like Mansfield and Pendleton, he too sunk into the grave full indeed of years as well as honors, but with unfading powers: thus affording another illustrious instance of the preservation of the undying intellect amid the ruins of a decaying frame.

Orbis illabetur ævo, vires hominumque tabescent, Mens sola cælestis in œvum intacta manebit.

But, gentlemen, it has been the good fortune of some among us to have known our venerated countryman, not only in the elevated station to which his abilities had exalted him, but also in the not less interesting relations of private life.

Seen him we have, and in the happier hour, Of social ease but ill exchanged for power;

And in that delightful intercourse who has not remarked how beautifully the amiable urbanity and simplicity of his manners, commingled with the unpretending dignity which was inseparable from the elevation of his character and his station? Who has not witnessed the purity of his feelings, the warmth of his benevolence, and the fervor of his zeal, in lending the support and countenance of his great name and influence to every enterprise which was calculated to promote the public good; to every scheme which promised to assist the march of intellect; to every association which had for its object the advancement of his countrymen in wisdom and virtue, and to every plan which philanthropy could plausibly suggest, for the amelioration of the condition of the humblest of our species? His heart and his hand were equally open, and his purse and his services were always freely commanded where they were called for by any object of public utility or private beneficence. It is not then surprising, gentlemen, that such a man should have been found at the head of this Society; that you should have selected him to grace your laudable enterprise, or that he should have lent his ready aid to an institution, which, however humble in its beginnings, gives the promise of important aid to the knowledge and literature of our country. But it is a matter of the most painful regret, that the light of his countenance will shine no more upon us here, and that the influence of his counsels and the inspiration of his wisdom are withdrawn from us forever. Those cannot be replaced; and we may say of him as was said of the great father of his country more than forty years ago,

Successors we may find, but tell us where, Of all thy virtues we shall find the heir.

For myself, gentlemen, I can bring to the discharge of the duties of this station nothing but the most earnest wishes for the success of your institution; an institution, whose laudable design is to save from oblivion whatever is interesting in the natural, civil and literary history of our country; to rescue from unmerited obscurity the many interesting papers which may throw light upon our annals; and to concentrate in its "transactions" the materials now scattered through the land, which at some future day may assist the researches of the historian or the speculations of the philosopher. It is neither my purpose nor my province here to dilate upon the benefits of such an institution. That duty was performed on a former occasion, by one who is now no more, with distinguished ability. Yet I trust I may be excused for a very cursory allusion to this interesting topic. It is not required to whet your purpose or to stimulate your exertions. But it is not amiss that we should occasionally advert to the powerful motives which impel us to sustain this infant institution. Do we look to the reputation of our ancient and beloved commonwealth; to her progress in the arts and in the cultivation of that literature which softens the manners and gives its finest polish to society? How then can we hear unmoved the taunts of others at her supineness? How can we listen without an ingenuous blush, to the reproaches of those who are ever ready to cast into our teeth our inglorious neglect of the noble cause of literature? Throughout the civilized world, the lovers of learning and of science are on the alert. Academies and societies for their promotion are no longer confined to Europe. They have long since found their way across the Atlantic, and have been growing and extending in our sister states for half a century. Some of them have grown to maturity and no longer totter in a state of infantile weakness. Those of Pennsylvania and Massachusetts particularly rest upon a basis stable and enduring, and have attained a noble elevation that does honor to their founders. And what has Virginia done? Absolutely nothing, until the spirited efforts of a few individuals first gave existence to this institution. She has aroused indeed from her slumbers at the voice of internal improvements, and has caught the enthusiasm with which they seem to have inspired the world. Her canals and her rail roads are sustained with all the zeal of patriotic feeling, backed by the less meritorious, but more steady influences of pecuniary profit. In every direction those arts and enterprises which promise to pour their rapid returns of wealth into the lap of the adventurer, are pursued with an eye that never winks, and a step that never tires. Their progress is as rapid as the speed of a locomotive. But literature—neglected literature, still lags at a sightless distance behind. While companies spring up in a day for the excavation of a canal or the construction of a rail road, for the working of a coal mine or the search after gold. Behold what a little band has associated here, to redeem our state from the disgrace of a Bœotian neglect of literature—and to pluck up drowning honor by the locks, without other reward than the participation with our great corrivals in all the dignities of science. But let us not despair because we are but a handful. Our little society is but the germ of better things. This little seedling will, if properly nourished, become like a spreading and majestic oak. Then indeed, will it be an enduring monument to your memory, and posterity will look upon the noble object which has been planted by your hands and watered by your care, with respect and veneration for the authors of so great a benefaction. But remember it will wither when so young, unless sedulously fostered. An annual meeting at the seat of government and a discourse from a learned academician once a year, however interesting, will effect but little without the zealous and personal co-operation of us all. Wherever we go, we may be of use to the institution. The sagacious and observing will every where meet with interesting matter to be communicated and collected into this common reservoir. In the library of almost every man of ordinary diligence in the collection of what is curious and interesting, there are materials which by themselves are of little worth, but united with others here would become valuable and important—like the jewel, which shows to little advantage until it is surrounded by other brilliants, and is set by the hands of a master workman. So too, in our intercourse with society, we daily meet with the men of other days—those living depositaries of the transactions of early times; of transactions which live only in tradition and must be buried in the grave with the venerable patriarch or interesting matron, unless rescued from oblivion by the present generation. These evanescing fragments of our history should be gathered together with the most diligent care, like the flowers of an herbarium or the minerals of a geologist, and prepared for the historical department in this cabinet of literature. In short, gentlemen, go where we will, the most humble among us may still advance the great cause in which we are engaged. And while the learning and ability of some may contribute the rich treasures of their own minds, and the valuable results of their own profound lucubrations, there is not one among us who cannot in some way or other add his mite to the general stock. This is indeed no small consolation to myself; for I would not be a drone in such a hive; and yet my professional pursuits have been too exclusive to permit me to hope that I can ever be of other service than as an humble gleaner in the great field which lies before us.

It now only remains for me, gentlemen, to offer my most respectful acknowledgments for the honor you have conferred upon me, accompanied by the assurance that I shall discharge the duties assigned me with alacrity, and contribute to the success of your laudable views, as far as my humble abilities and my very limited acquirements in these walks of literature will permit.

AUTHORS.

Adam Smith has decided that authors are "manufacturers of certain wares for a very paltry recompense."

MR. MAXWELL'S SPEECH,

Before the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society, at its late annual meeting, held in the Hall of the House of Delegates, on the evening of the 2d March, on moving the following resolution:

Resolved, That the Society most truly laments the loss which it has sustained in the common calamity, the death of its illustrious President, the late John Marshall, Chief Justice of the United States, whose name, associated with our Institution in its origin, will grace its annals, while his life and character shall adorn the history of our State and country to the end of time.

Mr. President,—In the report of the Executive Committee, which has just been read, we are officially informed of what we knew but too well before, the loss which our Society has sustained in the death of our late venerable and illustrious President. Yes, Sir, the man whom Virginia—whom his country—whom all his fellows-citizens in all parts of the United States, admired, and loved, and delighted to honor—the man whom we, Sir, who knew him, fondly and affectionately called "THE CHIEF," (as he was indeed in almost every sense of the word,) our MARSHALL is no more. We shall see him no more in the midst of us—we shall see him no more in this very Hall, where his wisdom and eloquence have so often enlightened and convinced the listening assemblies of the State—we shall see his face, we shall hear his voice no more, forever. But we do not, we cannot forget him; but the remembrance of his transcendant abilities, his spotless integrity, his pure patriotism, his eminent public services, and his most amiable private virtues, is embalmed in all our hearts.

With these sentiments, Sir, which I am persuaded are the sentiments of all our members, I have felt it to be a duty which I owe not only to the memory of the deceased, but to the honor of our Society, to offer the resolution which the announcement suggests. In doing so, however, I shall not deem it either necessary or proper to detain you with many words, when I feel, most unaffectedly, that any which I could use would be entirely inadequate, and almost injurious, to the fame of such a man. I will not, therefore, Sir, enlarge upon the particulars of his life, which are already familiar to you. I will not tell you of the brilliancy of his first entrance upon the stage of action, when the voice of our Commonwealth, rising in arms to defend her constitutional rights against the tyranny of Britain, called him from his native forest, and from the studies in which he had just engaged, to join her army hurrying to the rescue of my own native town from the grasp of her insolent invader: nor of his following campaigns under Washington himself, and his gallant bearing on the memorable plains of Brandywine, Germantown, and Monmouth: nor of his subsequent stand at the bar of this city, (then, as it is now, one of the most distinguished in the country,) where he was primus inter pares, the first amongst his fellows—the brightest star in the constellation which shed its radiance over our state: nor of his appearances in the House of Delegates, and in the Convention for the ratification of the constitution: nor of his conduct at the court of revolutionary France, where (with his worthy associates) he baffled all the arts and stratagems of the wily Proteus of Politics himself, and maintained the honor of his country to the admiration of all her citizens: nor of his reappearance in this place: nor of his translation to the floor of the House of Representatives, where he stood, spoke, and conquered: nor of his short but substantial service as Secretary of State: nor, above all, of his crowning elevation to that chair of judicial supremacy for which he seemed to have been made; and where he sat for so many years, like incarnate Justice—not blind, indeed, like that fabled divinity, but seeing all things with that quick, clear, and penetrating eye, which pierced at once through all the intricacies and involutions of law and fact, to discover the latent truth, or detect the lurking fallacy, as by the glance of intuition. No wonder, Sir, that with such admirable faculties, combined with such perfect pureness of purpose, such entire singleness and simplicity of heart, he shed a lustre around that seat which it never had before, and which I greatly fear it will never have again. No wonder, Sir, that he appeared to the eyes of many in all parts of our land, and even of some who could not exactly agree with him in all his views of our federal compact, as the very Atlas of the Constitution, supporting the starry firmament of our Union upon his single shoulder, which bowed not, bent not beneath its weight; and that when he died, there was something like a feeling of apprehension (for an instant at least) as if the fabric which he had so long sustained must fall along with him to the dust, and become the fit monument of the man.

But I will not dwell, nor even touch any longer, Sir, on these things, which indeed hardly belong to us, or belong to us only in common with all our fellow-citizens. Vix ea nostra voco. I can hardly call them our own. But I must just glance for a single moment, Sir, at the connection of the illustrious deceased with our Society. Sir, when we were about to form our institution, conscious as we were of the mortifying fact, that from the unfortunate passion of our people for politics, so called, (mere party politics) the more calm and rational pursuits of science and letters to which we were about to invite their attention, could hardly hope to find favor in their eyes, we were naturally desirous to call some person to that chair whose character, whose very name, might give the public an assurance of the utility of our labors; and we turned instinctively to him. We saw him, Sir, with all the honors of a long, laborious, and useful life clustered upon him; enjoying the respect and confidence of honorable men of all parties alike; maintaining his official neutrality with a meek and modest dignity that nothing could disturb, or ruffle for a moment; and soothing his old age with Christian philosophy, and polite letters, and the "sweetly-uttered wisdom" of poesy, which he had always loved from his youth—and we tendered him the office. He accepted it, Sir, at once, with that gracious condescension which belonged to him—expressed his cordial concurrence in our views—presented us with his own immortal work, the Life of the Father of his Country—and stamped our enterprise with the seal of his decisive approbation.

After this, Sir, we naturally felt a new interest in him; and you remember Sir, I dare say, how our hearts flowed out to him with a sort of filial reverence and affection, as he came about amongst us, like a father amongst his children, like a patriarch amongst his people—like that patriarch whom the sacred Scriptures have canonized for our admiration—"when the eye saw him, it blessed him: when the ear heard him, it gave witness to him; and after his words men spake not again." For his words, indeed, even in his most familiar conversation, fell upon us with a sort of judicial weight; and from his private opinions, as from his public decisions, there was no appeal. Happy, thrice happy old man! How we wished and prayed for the continuance of his days, and of all the happiness and honor which he had so fairly won, and which he seemed to enjoy still more for our sakes than for his own! We gazed upon him indeed, Sir, as upon the setting sun, whilst, his long circuit of glory almost finished, he sank slowly to his rest; admiring the increased grandeur of his orb, and the graciousness with which he suffered us to view the softened splendors of his face; but with a mournful interest, too, which sprang from the reflection that we should soon lose his light. And we have lost it indeed. He has left us now—and we mourn for his departure. But we are consoled, Sir, by the transporting assurance which we feel, that the splendid luminary which the benificent Creator had kindled up for the blessing and ornament of our native land, and of the world, is not gone out in darkness, but shines still with inextinguishable lustre in the firmament of Heaven.

AN ADDRESS,

ON THE INFLUENCE OF THE FEDERATIVE REPUBLICAN SYSTEM OF GOVERNMENT UPON LITERATURE AND THE DEVELOPMENT OF CHARACTER.

Prepared to be delivered before the Historical and Philosophical Society of Virginia, at their annual meeting in 1836, by THOMAS R. DEW, Professor of History, Metaphysics and Political Law, in the College of William and Mary. Published by request of the Society,¹ March 20, 1836.

¹ "It being understood that Professor Dew has been prevented by delicate health and the inclemency of the season, from attending the present meeting—

"Resolved, That he be requested to furnish the Recording Secretary of this Society with a copy of his intended address, for insertion in the Southern Literary Messenger."

Extract from the minutes. G. A. MYERS, Recording Secretary Of the Virginia Historical and Philosophical Society.

Mr. President and Gentlemen of the Society,

I have consented to appear before you this evening with feelings of the deepest solicitude—a solicitude which has been increased by my knowledge of the ability and eloquence of the gentleman who was first chosen by you to perform this task, and by the fact that this is the first time that circumstances have permitted my attendance on your sessions, though early admitted by the kindness of your body to the honor of membership.

The subject upon which I propose to address you is one which I hope will not be considered as inappropriate to the occasion. I shall endeavor to present to your view some of the most important effects which the Federative Republican System of government is calculated to produce on the progress of literature and on the development of individual and national character.

When we cast a glance at the nations of the earth and contemplate their character, and that of the individuals who compose them, we are amazed at the almost endless variety which such a prospect presents to our view. We perceive the most marked differences, not only between the savage and civilized nations, but between the civilized themselves—not only between different races of different physical organization, but between the same races—not only between nations situated at immense distances from each other, but among those enjoying the same climate, and inhabiting the same region. How marked the difference, for example, between the nations of India and those of Europe—how different the citizen who merely vegetates under the still silent crushing despotisms of the East, from that restless, bustling, energetic being who lives under the limited monarchies and republics of the West! And again, what great differences do we find among the latter themselves! What differences do we observe between the French and the English, the Germans and the Spaniards, the Swiss and the Italians! How often does the whole moral nature of man seem to change, by crossing a range of mountains, passing a frontier stream, or even an imaginary line! "The Languedocians and Gascons," says Hume, "are the gayest people in France; but whenever you pass the Pyrenees you are among Spaniards." "Athens and Thebes were but a short day's journey from each other; though the Athenians were as remarkable for ingenuity, politeness and gaiety, as the Thebans for dulness, rusticity, and a phlegmatic temper."

There is no subject more worthy the attention of the philosopher and the historian, than a consideration of the causes which thus influence the moral destiny, and determine the character of nations and individuals. Among the generating causes of national differences, none exert so powerful, so irresistible an influence as Religion and Government; and of these two potent engines in the formation of character, it may be affirmed, that if the former be sometimes, under the operation of peculiar circumstances, more powerful and overwhelming, directing for a season the spirit of the age and overcoming every resistance to its progress, the latter is much more constant and universal in its action, and mainly contributes to the formation of that permanent national character which lasts through ages.

Of all the governments which have ever been established, it may perhaps be affirmed, that ours, if the most complicate in structure, is certainly the most beautiful in theory, correcting by the principle of representation, and a proper system of responsibility, the wild extravagances and the capricious levities of the unbalanced democracies of antiquity. Ours is surely the system, which, if administered in the pure spirit of that patriotism and freedom which erected it, holds out to the philanthropists and the friends of liberty throughout the world, the fairest promise of a successful solution of the great problem of free government. Ours is indeed the great experiment of the eighteenth century—to it the eyes of all, friends and foes, are now directed, and upon its result depends perhaps the cause of liberty throughout the civilized world. In the meantime it well behooves us all to hope for the best, and never to despair of the republic. Let me then proceed to inquire into some of the most marked effects which our peculiar system of government is likely to produce, in the progress of time, upon literature and the development of character.

Some have maintained the opinion that the monarchical form of government is better calculated to foster and encourage every species of literature than the republican, and consequently that the institutions of the United States would prove unfavorable to the growth and progress of literature. This opinion seems to be based upon the supposition that a king and aristocracy are necessary for the support and patronage of a literary class. I will briefly explain my views on this point, and then proceed to the consideration of that peculiar influence which our state or federative system of government will, in all probability, exert over the character and literature of our inhabitants. It is this latter view which I wish mainly to present this evening—it is this view which has been neglected or misunderstood in almost all the speculations which I have seen upon the character and influence of our institutions.

In the first place, it has been affirmed that republics are too economical—too niggardly in their expenditures, to afford that salutary and efficient patronage necessary to the growth of literature. To this I would answer, first, that this argument takes for granted that the literature of a nation advances or recedes in proportion to the pecuniary wages which it earns. Now, although I do not say with Dr. Goldsmith, that the man who draws his pen to take a purse, no more deserves to have it, than the man who draws his pistol for the same purpose, yet I may safely assert, that of the motives which operate on the literary man—the love of fame, the desire to be useful, and the love of money—the former, in the great majority of cases, exerts an infinitely more powerful influence than the latter. And if I shall be able to show, as I hope to do in the sequel, that the republican form of government is the one which is best calculated to stimulate these great passions of our nature and throw into action all the energies of man, then must we acknowledge its superiority, even in a literary point of view.

But even supposing that the progress of literature depends directly upon the amount of pecuniary patronage which it can command, it by no means follows that it will flourish most under a monarchical government. For granting that this kind of government may have the ability to patronise, it is by no means certain that it will always possess the will to do so. Augustus and his Mecænas may lavish to day the imperial treasures upon literature, but Tiberius and Sejanus may starve and proscribe it to-morrow. That which depends upon the will of one man must ever be unsteady and uncertain. It is much easier to predict the conduct of a multitude—of a whole nation—than of one individual. The support then which monarchs can be expected to yield to learning, must necessarily be extremely capricious and fluctuating. It is not however by sudden starts and violent impulses, that a sound, solid, wholesome literature can be created. Ages must conspire to the formation of such a literature. Constantine the Great, seated on the throne of the Eastern Empire, with all the resources of the Roman world at his command, could not awaken the slumbering genius of a degenerate race, nor revive the decaying arts of the ancient empire. The literature of his reign, with all the patronage he could bestow upon it, did but too nearly resemble those gorgeous piles, which his pride and vanity caused to be erected in his own imperial city, composed of the ruins of so many of the splendid monuments of antiquity.

Not only, however, is the support a capricious and uncertain one which a monarchy is calculated to yield to literature, but there are only certain departments of learning, and those by no means the most important, which such a government can ever be expected cordially to foster. Monarchs may patronise the fine arts and light literature—they may encourage the mathematical and physical sciences, but they can rarely feel a deep interest in the promotion of correct and orthodox moral, political and theological knowledge, which is, at the same time, much the most important and most difficult department of literature. The great law of self-preservation prompts us to war on every thing which threatens our interest and happiness. Moral and political philosophy has too often aimed its logic at the throne, and questioned the title of the monarch, ever to be a favorite with rulers. Hence, while even the absolute despot may encourage the arts, light literature and the physical and mathematical sciences, he dares not unbind the fetters of the mind in the region of politics, morals and religion. He can but tremble at that bold spirit of inquiry which may be aroused on those subjects—which dares to advance to the throne itself and loosen even the foundations on which it is erected. Napoleon Bonaparte, in the plenitude of his power, could give the utmost encouragement to all those departments of learning, whose principles could not be arrayed against despotism. In these departments he delighted to behold the genius and talent of the country. In the provinces and in the capital he called to the physical and mathematical chairs of his colleges, his universities and his polytechnic schools, some of the most splendid lecturers of the age; but selfishness forbade him to tolerate a free and manly spirit of inquiry in morals and politics, and he whose armies had deluged Europe with blood, whose name was a terror and whose word was a law unto nations, could not feel secure upon his throne while such men as Cousin were illustrating the nineteenth century by the splendor of their professorial eloquence, before the youth of France, or such writers as De Stael were making their animated appeals to the nation, in behalf of liberty of thought, and freedom of action. It is impossible, without full freedom of thought, and a single eye to truth and usefulness, that the scientific investigator, no matter how great his genius may be, can unravel the difficulties of moral and political philosophy. The very patronage of the throne enthrals his intellect, and his fears or his avarice tempt him to desert the cause of truth and humanity.

"Thus trammell'd, thus condemn'd to flattery's trebles, He toils through all, still trembling to be wrong: For fear some noble thoughts like heavenly rebels Should rise up in high treason to his brain, He sings as the Athenean spoke, with pebbles In 's mouth, lest truth should stammer through his strain."

If we look even to those epochs under monarchical governments, which have been designated by the high sounding title of the golden ages of literature, we shall observe a full exemplification of the remarks which I have made on this subject. Let us take the Augustan age itself. Under the patronage of the first of the Roman Emperors we find, it is true, the arts and light literature rising to a pitch which perhaps they had not reached under the republic. After the death of Brutus the world of letters experienced a revolution almost as great as that of the political world. The literature of the Augustan age is distinguished by that tone and spirit which mark the downfall of liberty, and the consequent thraldom of the mind. The bold and manly voice of eloquence was hushed. The high and lofty spirit of the republic was tamed down to a sickly and disgusting servility. The age of poetry came when that of eloquence and philosophy was past; and Virgil and Horace and Propertius, flattered, courted and enriched by an artful prince and an elegant courtier, could consent to sing the sycophantic praises of the monarch who had signed the proscriptions of the triumvirate, and rivetted a despotism on his country.

But the men who most adorned the various departments of learning during the long reign of Augustus, were born in the last days of the republic. They saw what the glory of the commonwealth had been—they beheld with their own eyes the greatness of their country, and they had inhaled in their youth the breath of freedom. No Roman writer, for example, excels the Lyric Bard in true feeling and sympathy for heroic greatness. We ever behold through the medium of his writings—even the gayest—a deep rooted sorrow locked up in his bosom, for the subversion of the liberties of the commonwealth. "On every occasion we can see the inspiring flame of patriotism and freedom breaking through that mist of levity in which his poetry is involved." "He constrained his inclinations," says Schlegel, "and endeavored to write like a royalist, but in spite of himself he is still manifestly a republican and a Roman."²

² Horace fought under Brutus and Cassius, on the side of the Republic, at the battle of Philippi, and he was after the battle saved from the wreck of the republican army, and treated with great respect and kindness by Augustus and his minister Mecænas.

"In the last years of Augustus," says the same writer, "the younger generation who were born, or at least grew up to manhood, after the commencement of the monarchy, were altogether different. We can already perceive the symptoms of declining taste—in Ovid particularly, who is overrun with an unhealthy superfluity of fancy, and a sentimental effeminacy of expression." Even History itself, in which the Romans so far excelled, yielded to the corrupting influence of the Cæsars. Tacitus concluded the long series of splendid and vigorous writers, and he grew up and was educated under the comparatively happy reigns of Vespasian and Titus, and wrote under the mild government of Nerva. Unnatural pomp and extravagance of expression seem, strange as it may appear, to be the necessary results of social and political degradation. And it is curious indeed to behold among the writers under the first Cæsars, the extraordinary compounds which genius can produce, when impelled on the one hand by the all-powerful and stimulating love of liberty, and vivid glimpses of the real dignity of human nature, while checked and subdued on the other by the fear of arbitrary power. Take Lucan for an example. "In him we find the most outrageously republican feelings making their chosen abode in the breast of a wealthy and luxurious courtier of Nero. It excites surprise and even disgust, to observe how he stoops to flatter that disgusting tyrant, in expressions the meanness of which amounts to a crime, and then in the next page, exalts Cato above the Gods themselves, and speaks of all the enemies of the first Cæsar with an admiration that approaches to idolatry."

Let us now look for an exemplification of the same great truths, to the reign of Louis the fourteenth, a reign which has been celebrated as the zenith of warlike and literary splendor—and here I borrow the language of Macintosh. "Talent seemed robbed of the conscious elevation, of the erect and manly port, which is its noblest associate and its surest indication. The mild purity of Fenelon, the lofty spirit of Bossuet, the masculine mind of Boileau, the sublime fervor of Corneille, were confounded by the contagion of ignominious and indiscriminate servility." Purity, propriety and beauty of style, were indeed carried during this reign to a high pitch of perfection. The literature of this period was "the highest attainment of the imagination." An aristocratic society, such as that which adorned the court of Louis XIV, is particularly favorable to the delicacy and polish of style, the fascinations of wit and gaiety, and to all the decorations of an elegant imagination. No one has ever surpassed Racine, Fenelon, and Bossuet, in purity of style and elegance of language.

The literature of this age, however, as well asserted by Madame de Stael, was not a "philosophic power." "Sometimes indeed, authors were seen, like Achilles, to take up warlike weapons in the midst of frivolous employments, but, in general, books at that time did not treat upon subjects of real importance. Literary men retired to a distance from the active interests of life. An analysis of the principles of government, an examination into religious opinions, a just appreciation of men in power, every thing in short that could lead to any applicable result, was strictly forbidden them." Hence, however perfect the compositions of this age in mere style and ornament, we find them sadly deficient in profundity of reflection and utility of purpose. The human mind during this period had not yet reached its proper elevation, because it was enthralled by arbitrary power. The succeeding, was one of more grandeur of thought, and consequently of a more bold, daring, and profound philosophy. In vain would we look over the annals of the age of Louis XIV, to find a parallel to Voltaire, Montesquieu, Rousseau and Raynal. And what, let me ask, had so soon produced this mighty difference in the philosophy of France? It surely could not be the patronage of that base, profligate, licentious libertine, who during the period of his unfortunate regency, loosened the very foundation of human virtue, polluted the morals of his country, and weakened or destroyed those dearest of ties which bind together in harmony, in happiness and in love, the whole social fabric. It could not surely be the patronage of a monarch who had been reared and educated in such a school as this. No! it was the new spirit which animated the age—the spirit of liberty—the spirit of free inquiry—the spirit of utility. It was this spirit which quickened and aroused the stagnant genius of the nation, and filled the soul with the "aliquid immensum infinitumque," which had in the days of antiquity inspired the eloquence of a Tully and the sublime vehemence of Demosthenes. It was this new spirit, and not the puny patronage of a monarch, that called forth those intellectual giants of their age, Voltaire, Montesquieu and Rousseau, who have traced out three different periods in the progress of reflection—and if I may borrow the language of De Stael, like the Gods of Olympus, have gone over the ground in three steps. It was this new spirit in fine, which in spite of the influence of the monarch and his nobility, sapped the foundation of the throne and hastened on the awful crisis of revolution in that devoted country.

Thus do we see that it is only the lighter kinds of literature, and the physical and mathematical sciences, which the patronage of a monarch can be expected to foster. In those nobler and more useful branches of knowledge—moral, mental, religious, and political,—the patronage of the throne clips the wings of philosophy and arrests the growth of science and the progress of truth.³

³ In the great Austrian University established at Vienna, the Professor of Statistics is strictly forbidden to present to the view of his class any other Statistics than those of Austria, lest this country should suffer by comparison with others. How limited must be the range of intellect on political subjects under such fatal restrictions as this, imposed by the narrow jealousy of arbitrary power!

So far from this particular species of literature flourishing most under the bounty and patronage of a monarch, we find, in almost every monarchy, the party arrayed against the government, at the same time the most talented and the most philosophical party. The remark is susceptible of still greater generalization. I may, perhaps, with truth assert that in every age and in every nation, the men who have arrayed themselves against the usurpations of government, whether monarchical or republican—the men who have arrayed themselves on the side of liberty, who have led on the forlorn hope against the aggressions of despotism, have been the men who against the patronage of power and wealth, have reared up those systems of philosophy that time cannot destroy—they are the men who have performed those noble achievements which most illustrate their country, and weave for it the chaplet of its glory—these are the men whose eloquence has shaken senates and animated nations. These are the men, who, whatever may be their destiny whilst they live, will ever be remembered and honored by a grateful posterity. Where now are those writings which contend for jure divino rights and patriarchal power?—past and gone! The Filmers are forgotten, the Hobbes are despised—while the writings of Locke will live forever, and the memory of Sidney and Russell and Hampden will be cherished through all ages. What were the Grenvilles and the Norths in more recent times, when compared with Chatham, Burke, Fox and Sheridan, in England, or with the Washingtons, Franklins, Henrys, Jeffersons and Adamses of our own revolutionary crisis. And thus would a review of the history of the world bear me out in the assertion, that in almost every age and country since the annals of history have become authentic, the opposition literature, in moral, political and religious philosophy has been purer, deeper, more vivifying and useful, than that sickly literature which has grown up under the shadow of the throne, though encouraged and stimulated by the smiles of power, and sustained and fostered by the lavish expenditure of exhaustless treasures.

The only additional remark which I shall make upon the general question of the relative influences exerted upon the progress of literature and the development of character, by the monarchical and republican forms of government is, that in the former the aspirants to office and honors look upwards to the throne and the nobility, in the latter they look downwards to the people. This simple difference between the two governments is calculated to produce the most extensive and material consequences. In the first place, the kind of talent requisite for success under the two governments, is very different. Even Mr. Hume himself acknowledges, that, to be successful with the people, it is generally necessary for a man to make himself useful by his industry, capacity, or knowledge; to be prosperous under a monarchy, it is requisite to render himself agreeable by his wit, complaisance, or civility. "A strong genius succeeds best in republics: a refined taste in monarchies. And consequently the sciences are the more natural growth of the one, and the polite arts of the other." We are told, that in France under the old monarchy, men did not expect to reach the elevated offices of government either by hard labor, close study, or real efficiency of character. A bon mot, some peculiar gracefulness, was frequently the occasion of the most rapid promotions; and these frequent examples, we are told, inspired a sort of careless philosophy, a confidence in fortune, and a contempt for studious exertions, which could only end in a sacrifice of utility to mere pleasure and elegance.

The fate of individuals under those circumstances is determined, not by their intrinsic worth or real talents, but by their capacity to please the monarch and his court. Poor Racine, we are told by St. Çimon, was banished forever from the royal sunshine in which he had so long basked, because in a moment of that absence of mind for which he was remarkable, he made an unlucky observation upon the writings of Scarron in presence of the king and Madame de Maintenon, which could never be forgotten or forgiven. We all know that the Raleighs, Leicesters, Essexes, &c. under the energetic reign of Elizabeth, were much more indebted to their personal accomplishments and devoted and adulatory gallantries, for their rapid promotions, than to any real services which they had rendered, or extraordinary talents which they had displayed. And in the time of Queen Anne, it has been said that the scale was turned in favor of passive obedience and nonresistance, by the Duchess of Marlborough's gloves; and the ill humor of the Duchess caused the recall of Marlborough, which alone could have saved the kingdom of France from almost certain conquest at that eventful crisis.

Another consequence which almost necessarily follows from the difference just pointed out between the monarchical and republican forms of government, is, that the stimulus furnished by the former, both to thought and action, is much less universal in its operation than that furnished by the latter. In the republican form of government, the sovereignty of the people is the mainspring—the moving power of the whole political engine. This sovereignty pervades the whole nation, like the very atmosphere we breath—it reaches to the farthest, and binds the most distant together. In a well administered and well balanced republic, it matters not where our lot may be cast, whether in the north or the south, at the centre or on the confines, the action of the political machine is still made to reach us—to stimulate our energies and waken up our ambition. The people under this system become more enlightened and more energetic, because the exercise of sovereignty leads to reflection, and creates a demand for knowledge. Aspirants to office must study to become useful, intelligent and efficient, for by these attributes they will be the better enabled to win that popularity which may ensure the suffrages of those around them, so necessary to their attainment of political elevation—and thus does the republican system operate on all, and call into action the latent talent and energy of the country, no matter where they may exist.

In the monarchy, on the contrary, the moving spring of the whole machinery lies at the centre—the virtual sovereignty of the nation reposes in the capital. The want of political rights and powers sinks the dignity of the people, stagnates the public mind, and torpifies all the energies of man. In such a body politic you may have action and life, and even greatness at the centre, whilst you have the torpor and lethargy of death itself at the extremities. The man who is born at a distance from the capital has no chance for elevation there. If he aspires to political distinction he must make a pilgrimage to the seat of government. He must travel up to court, where alone he can bask in the beams of the royal sunshine. How partial is the operation of such a system as this! How many noble intellects may pass undiscovered and undeveloped under its sway! How many noble achievements may be lost, for the want of a proper opportunity to display them! And all this may happen while the monarch and his court are disposed to foster literature, to encourage talent, and to stimulate into action all the energies of the nation.⁴

⁴ Hence we see at once the error committed by the great author of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, in the assertion, that the absolute monarchy would be the most desirable form of government in the world, if such men as Nerva, Trajan, and the Antonines could always be upon the throne.

But how debasing does this form of government become, when the monarch, either from policy or inclination, shuns the talent and virtue of the country, addresses himself to the lowest, the most vulgar and most selfish passions of man, and draws around him into the high places of the government men taken from the lowest and most despised functions of life. "Kings," says Burke, "are naturally lovers of low company; they are so elevated above all the rest of mankind that they must look upon all their subjects as on a level." They are apt, unless they be wise men, to hate the talent and virtue of the country, and attach themselves to those vile instruments who will consent to flatter their caprices, pander to their low and grovelling pleasures, and offer up to them the disgusting incense of sycophantic fawning adulation. Every man of talent and virtue is an obstacle in the path of such a monarch as this—he holds up to his view a most hateful mirror. When such monarchs as these are on the throne, the government exercises the most withering influence on the intellect and virtue of the country. Science is dishonored and persecuted because she is virtuous, because she will consent to flatter neither the monarch on his throne nor his sycophantic courtier—she will consent to mingle in no degrading strife, nor does she bring up any reserve to the dishonest minister, either to swell his triumph or to break his fall. When men of rank thus sacrifice all ideas of dignity to an ambition without a useful and noble object, and work with low instruments and for low ends, the whole composition becomes low and base. Whilst Tiberius surrenders himself into the keeping of so vile a being as Sejanus—whilst Nero is fiddling and dancing, and Commodus in the arena with the gladiators—all that is noble and great in the empire must retire into the shade and seek for safety in solitude and obscurity.

When Louis XI dismissed from the court those faithful nobles and distinguished citizens, who had stood by his father and saved the monarch and his throne in the hour of adversity, and filled their places with men taken from the lowest and meanest condition of life, with no other merit than that possessed by the eunuch guard of the Medio-Persian monarch, of adhering to the king, because despised by all the world besides, he conquered, for the time at least, the virtue, the chivalry, the real greatness of France. Well, then, may we say, in the emphatic language of England's most philosophic statesman, "Woe to the country which would madly and impiously reject the service of the talents and virtues, civil, military or religious, that are given to grace and to serve it; and would condemn to obscurity every thing formed to diffuse lustre and glory around a state. Woe to that country too, that considers a low education, a mean contracted view of things, a sordid, mercenary occupation, as a preferable title to command."

But it may be asked, may not some of the effects which I have just described as flowing from monarchy, be produced under the republican form of government? To this I answer that almost all of them may be expected to be the result of one homogeneous republic, stretching over a great extent of territory, including a numerous population and a great diversity of interest; but, as such a government as this has been wisely provided against in our country at least, by a system of confederated republics, I will now proceed to the main object of my discourse this evening—to point out the peculiar influence which our federative system of government is calculated to produce upon literature and character.

And in the first place, supposing our system to continue as perfect in practice as it undoubtedly is in theory, a mere statistical exposé of its future condition in regard to numbers and wealth at no very distant period, is of itself sufficient to present to our view prospects of the most cheering and animating character. We have a territory extending over three millions of square miles, composed of soils of every variety and every degree of fertility, stretching almost from the tropics to the poles in one direction, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific in the other. We have spread sparsely over a portion of this immense territorial expanse, a population of fifteen millions, principally descended from that nation in Europe, which is at the same time the most wealthy, the most powerful, the most enterprising, the most free, the most civilized, and perhaps the most moral, purely religious and intellectual nation, among all the great powers of Europe. This population, which has, so far, shown itself worthy of the immortal stock of ancestors from which it is descended, is rapidly advancing in numbers and in wealth. Our censuses have hitherto shown a duplication of our population, in periods of less time than twenty-five years. We will assume, however, this period in our calculation, and we shall find this elastic spring of population, (if we can only bind down the movements of the governments of our system within their prescribed orbits,) of itself, like the magic wand of the enchanter, or the marvellous lamp of Aladdin, capable of achieving all which may confer glory and power and distinction on nations. In a period of seventy-five years, which is but a short time in a nation's history, we shall have a population of one hundred and twenty millions of souls, and yet not so dense as the population of many of the states of Europe. We shall then have an empire, formed by mere internal development, as populous as that of Rome and much more wealthy, speaking all the same language, and living under the same or similar institutions.

Let us then for a moment contemplate the inspiring influence which the mere grandeur of such a theatre is calculated to produce on literature and character. Whether the author write for wealth or for fame, or for usefulness, he will have the most unbounded field open to his exertions. The law which secures the property in his productions throughout such an immense empire, will ensure the most unlimited pecuniary patronage to all that is valuable and great, a patronage beyond what kings and princes can furnish. And the most powerful stimulus will be applied to every noble and generous principle of his nature, by the simple reflection that complete success in his literary efforts will introduce him to the knowledge of millions, all of whom may be edified by his instruction, or made more happy by the enjoyment of that literary repast which he may spread before them.

Do we not read of the mighty influence produced upon mind and body in ancient Greece, by the assemblages at the Olympic games? It was the hope of winning the prizes before these assemblages which called forth energy and awakened genius. It was under the thrilling applauses of these bodies that Herodotus recited his prose, and Pindar his poetry. And what, let me ask, was the great idea which animated every Roman writer? It was the idea of Rome herself—of Rome so wonderful in her ancient manners and laws—so great even in her errors and crimes. It was this idea which was breathed from the lips of her orators and embalmed in her literature—it is this idea which stamps the character of independent dignity and grandeur on the page of her philosophy, her history and her poetry.

But what were the multitudes that could be assembled together in Elis, or the heterogeneous half civilized polyglot people of the Roman Empire, bound together by the strong arm of power and overawed by the presence of the legions, in comparison with the millions that will ere long spring up within the limits of our wide spread territory,—speaking the same language,—formed under similar institutions,—and impelled by the same inspiring spirit of independence?

Another advantage which it is proper to present, as growing out of that condition of our people, which a mere statistical exposé will exhibit, is the security furnished by the magnitude and resources of our country, and by the immense distance of all bodies politic of great power and ambition, from our borders, against foreign invasion, or foreign interference in domestic concerns. I shall not here dwell upon the consequent exemption of our country from those mighty engines of despotism, overgrown navies and armies, and the deleterious influence which these essentially anti-literary establishments exercise over the genius and energy of man. I shall merely briefly advert to some of the effects which this security of individuals and states against foreign aggression is calculated to produce on individual enterprise and state exertion.

Since the governments of the world have become more regular and stable, and the great expense of war has made even victory and conquest ruinous to nations, rulers are beginning to look to the development of the internal resources of their countries, more than to foreign conquest and national spoliations. The great system of internal improvement in all its branches, is without doubt one of the most powerfully efficient means which can be devised to hurry forward the accumulation of wealth, and speed on the progress of civilization. The canal and the rail road, the steam boat and the steam car, the water power and steam power, constitute in fact the great and characteristic powers of the nineteenth century—they are the mighty civilizers of the age in which we live. They bind together in harmony and concord the discordant interests of nations, and like the vascular system of the human frame, they produce a wholesome circulation, and a vivifying and stimulating action throughout the whole body politic.

These great improvements in our own country, with but few exceptions, and those well defined, ought to be executed solely by states and individuals. But neither states nor individuals would execute those necessary works, without security from interruption and invasion, and consequent security in the enjoyment of the profits which they might yield. What wealthy individual in our own state, for example, would erect a costly bridge across one of our rivers, or embark his capital in the construction of a canal or rail road, if foe or friend might blow up his bridge during the next year, or a war might interrupt trade, and perhaps a treaty of peace might cede the canal or rail way to a different state?

Of all the nations in Europe, England is the one which has been most exempt from foreign invasion, and we find in that country that individual enterprise has achieved more in the cause of internal improvement than in any other nation in Europe; and the prosperity and real greatness of England are no doubt due in a great measure to the energy and enterprise of her citizens. In the continental nations we find this constant liability to invasion every where paralyzing the enterprise of both individuals and states. One of the most skilful engineers of France tells us that in passing through some of the frontier provinces of that country, he every where beheld the most mournful evidences of the want of both national and individual enterprise, in miserable roads, in decayed or fallen bridges, in the absence of canals and turnpikes, of manufactures, commerce, and even of agriculture itself, in many almost deserted regions. Paris, the second city in Europe in point of numbers and wealth, and the capital of the nation hitherto most powerful on the continent, has not yet in this age of ardor and enterprise, constructed either a canal or rail road to the ocean, or even to any intermediate point. If our federative system contained within its borders a city thus wealthy and populous, and so well situated, can there be a doubt that it would long ere this have sent its rail roads and canals not only to the ocean, but in all probability to the Rhine and the Danube, to the Rhone, the Garonne, and the Mediterranean.

This spirit of improvement, under the hitherto benign protection of our government, is already abroad in the land. New York and Pennsylvania have already executed works which rival in splendor and grandeur the boasted monuments of Egypt, Rome or China, and far excel them in usefulness and profit. The states of the south and west too are moving on in the same noble career. And our own Virginia, the Old Dominion, has at last awakened from her inglorious repose, and is pushing forward with vigor her great central improvement, destined soon to pass the Blue Ridge and Alleghany ranges of mountains, and thus to realize the fable of antiquity, which represented the sea-gods as driving their herds to pasture on the mountains.

"Omne cum Proteus pecus egit altos Visere montes."

One certain effect of our great systems of improvement must be the rearing up of large towns throughout our country. I know full well that great cities are cursed with great vices. The worst specimens of the human character, squalid poverty, gorgeous, thoughtless luxury, misery and anxiety, are all to be found in them. But we find, at the same time, the noblest and most virtuous specimens of our race on the same busy, bustling theatre. Mind is here brought into collision with mind—intellect whets up intellect—the energy of one stimulates the energy of another—and thus we find all the great improvements originate here. It is the cities which constitute the great moving power of society; the country population is much more tardy in its action, and thus becomes the regulator to the machinery. It is the cities which have hurried forward the great revolutions of modern times, "whether for weal or woe." It is the cities which have made the great improvements and inventions in mechanics and the arts. It is the great cities which have pushed every department of literature to the highest pitch of perfection. It is the great cities alone which can build up and sustain hospitals, asylums, dispensaries—which can gather together large and splendid libraries, form literary and philosophical associations, assemble together bands of literati, who stimulate and encourage each other. In fine, it is the large cities alone which can rear up and sustain a mere literary class. When there shall arise in this country, as there surely will, some eight or ten cities of the first magnitude, we shall then find the opprobrium which now attaches to us, of having no national literature, wiped away; and there are no doubt some branches of science which we are destined to carry to a pitch of perfection which can be reached no where else. Where, for example, can the great moral, political, and economical sciences be studied so successfully as here? And this leads me at once to the consideration of the operation of the state or federative system of government, which I regard as the most beautiful feature in our political system, and that which is calculated to produce the most beneficial influence both on the progress of science, and on the development of character.

It has been observed, under all great governments acting over wide spread empires, that both the arts and literature quickly come to a stand, and most generally begin to decline afterwards. In fact, Mr. Hume makes the bold assertion in his Essays, "that when the arts and sciences come to perfection in any state, from that moment they naturally or rather necessarily decline, and seldom or never revive in that nation where they formerly flourished." His remark is certainly much more applicable to large monarchical governments than to such a system as ours. In large countries, with great national governments, there will be quickly formed in literature as perfect a despotism as exists in politics. Some few great geniuses will arise, explore certain departments of literature, earn an imperishable reputation, die, and bequeath to posterity in their writings a model ever after to be imitated, and for that very reason never to be excelled. And thus it is that certain standard authors establish their dominion in the world of letters, and impose a binding law on their successors, who, it has been well said, do nothing more than transpose the incidents, new-name the characters, and paraphrase the sentiments of their great prototypes. It is known that under the Roman emperors, even as late as the time of Justinian, Virgil was called the poet, by way of distinction, throughout the western empire, while Homer received the same appellation in the eastern empire. These two poets were of undisputed authority to all their successors in epic poetry.

We are told that in the vast empire of China, speaking but one language, governed by one law, and consequently moulded into one dull homogeneous character, this literary despotism is still more marked. When the authority of a great teacher, like that of Confucius, is once established, the doctrine of passive obedience to such authority is just as certainly enforced upon succeeding literati as the same doctrine towards the monarch is enforced on the subject. Now all this has a tendency to cramp genius, and paralyze literary effort.

The developing genius of the modern world was arrested in the career of invention at least, and the imagination was tamed down by the servile imitation of the ancients immediately after the revival of letters. And perhaps one of the greatest benefits conferred on learning by the reformation, consisted of the new impulse that was suddenly communicated to the human mind—an impulse that at once broke asunder the bonds which the literature of the ancient world had rivetted—set free the mind after directing it into a new career of inquiry and investigation, unshackled even by the Latin language, which had so long robbed the vernacular tongues of Europe of the honors justly due to them from the literati of the age.⁵

⁵ I would not by any means be understood as advancing the opinion that the language and literature of the ancients have been always an impediment to the progress of modern literature. On the contrary, at the revival of letters, the moderns were an almost immeasurable distance in the rear of the ancients. Ancient literature then became a power, by which the moderns were at once elevated to the literary level of antiquity; but when once we had reached that point, all farther exclusive devotion to the learning and the language of antiquity became hurtful to the mind by the trammels which it imposed. The study of the classics will forever be useful and interesting to him who aspires to be a scholar. But it becomes injurious when we make it our exclusive study, and substitute the undefined and loose system of morality—the high sounding and empty philosophy of the ancients, for the purer morals and deeper learning of the moderns.

But not only do great writers in large nations establish their authority over their successors, and thus set bounds to the progress of literature, but they repress the genius of the country by discouraging those first intellectual efforts of young aspirants for fame, which appear insignificant by comparison with established models. Now in literature, as well as in the accumulation of wealth, the proverb is strictly true, that it is the first step which is the most difficult, "c'est le premier pas qui coute." The timid and the modest, (and real genius is always modest,) are frequently deterred from appearing in a particular department of literature, because of the great distance at which their first efforts must fall in the rear of the standard authors who have preceded them. They are overawed and alarmed at the first step which it is necessary to take, and frequently recoil from the task, sinking back into the quiet obscurity of listlessness and mental inactivity—whereas, if a proper encouragement could have been furnished to their incipient labors, it would have cheered and animated them in their literary career, and finally conducted them to proud and exalted rank in the world of letters.

The splendor, profundity, and irresistible fascination of Shakspeare's plays, have perhaps deterred many a genius in England from writing plays. So Corneille and Racine have no doubt produced similar effects in France. Even the great names which I have mentioned, would have been overawed, if in the commencement of their career, they had been obliged to contend with their own more splendid productions. "If Moliere and Corneille," said Hume, "were to bring upon the stage at present their early productions which were formerly so well received, it would discourage the young poets to see the indifference and disdain of the public. The ignorance of the age alone could have given admission to the 'Prince of Tyre;' but it is to that we owe 'The Moor.' Had 'Every Man in his Humor' been rejected, we had never seen 'Volpone.'"

Now there is no system of government which has ever been devised by man, better calculated to remove the withering and blighting influence of great names in literature, and at the same time to insure the full possession of all the great benefits which their labors can confer, than the federal system of republics—a system which, at the same time that it binds the states together in peace and harmony, leaves each one in the possession of a government of its own, with its sovereignty and liberty unimpaired. In such a condition as this, there is a wholesome circulation of literature from one state to another, without establishing, however, any thing like a dictatorship in the republic of letters. A salutary rivalry is generated; and a true and genuine patriotism, I must be allowed to assert, will always lead us to foster and stimulate genius, wherever we may perceive symptoms of its development, throughout the limits of that commonwealth to which we are attached. The soldier in the field may love the marshal, and feel an attachment to the grand army which has been so often led to conquest and glory; but I must confess that I admire more that warm, generous, and sympathetic attachment, which his heart feels for that small division and its officer with which he has been connected—for that little platoon in which his own name has been enrolled, and where his own little share of glory has been won.

The history of antiquity, and the history of the modern world, alike show that small independent contiguous states, speaking the same language, living under similar governments, actuated by similar impulses, and bound together by the ties of cordial sympathy and mutual welfare, are the most favorable for the promotion of literature and science—in fine, for the development of every thing that is great, noble, and useful. On such a theatre, the candidate for literary honor is not overawed by the fame of those who have won trophies in adjoining states. He looks to the commonwealth to which he is attached, for support and applause; and when his name begins to be known abroad, and his fame to spread, his horizon expands with the increasing elevation of his station, until it comprehends the whole system of homogeneous republics. In such a system as this, the literature of each state will be aided and stimulated by that of all the rest—it will draw from all the pure fountains in every quarter of the world, without being manacled and stifled by the absolute authority of any. In such a system as this, there is no jure divino right in science—there is no national prejudice fostered in a national literature; respect, and even veneration, will be paid in such a system to all true learning, wherever it may be found; but there will be no worship, no abject submission to literary dictators. And if such a people may fail to form a regular homogeneous national literature, they will perhaps for that very reason be enabled to carry each art and science, in the end, to a higher pitch of perfection than it could reach if trammelled by the binding laws imposed by an organized national literature.

Among the nations of the earth which have made any progress in civilization, we find from the operation of causes which it would be foreign from my object to explain, that Asia most abounds in great and populous empires. And it is precisely in this quarter of the globe that we find a most irresistible despotism in both government and literature. Europe is divided into smaller states, and in them we find more popular governments, and more profound literature. Of all the portions of Europe, Greece was anciently the most divided; but as long as those little states could preserve their freedom, they were by far the most successful cultivators, in the ancient world, of every art and every science. The literature of the little republics of Italy, during the middle ages, illustrates the same great principles; and the rapid progress of the little states of Germany, since the general pacification of Europe in 1815, in literary and philosophical research of every kind, proves likewise the truth of the remarks made above.

Germany was accused by Madame de Stael of having no national literature: but the German state system of government, though by no means equal to ours, bids fair to carry German literature beyond that of any other nation in Europe. Although the literati of these small states are not trammelled either by their own or foreign literature, yet there is no body of learned men in the world who profit more by all that is really good and great in the learning of their neighbors. Without any narrow prejudices, they go with eagerness in search of truth and beauty wherever they are to be found. Every literature in the world has been cultivated by the Germans. We are told that "Shakspeare and Homer occupy the loftiest station in the poetical Olympus, but there is space in it for all true singers out of every age and clime. Ferdusi, and the primeval mythologists of Hindostan, live in brotherly union with the troubadours and ancient story-tellers of the west. The wayward, mystic gloom of Calderon—the lurid fire of Dante—the auroral light of Tasso—the clear, icy glitter of Racine, all are acknowledged and reverenced."

Of all modern literature, the German has the best, as well as the most translations. In 1827, there were three entire versions of Shakspeare, all admitted to be good, besides many that were partial, or considered inferior. How soon, let me ask, would the literature of Germany wane away, if all her little independent states were moulded into one consolidated empire, with a great central government in the capital?

But the most beneficial influence produced upon literature and character under the federative system of government, springs from the operation of the state governments themselves. We have seen that the monarchical government, in a large state, fails to stimulate learning and elicit great activity of character, because its influence does not pervade the whole body politic—while the centre may be properly acted on, the confines are in a state of inextricable languor. A great consolidated republican government, if such an one could exist, would be little better than a monarchy. The aspirants for the high offices in such a nation, would all look up to the government as the centre for promotion, and not to the people. The talent and ambition of the country would have to make the same weary pilgrimage here as in the monarchies—to travel up to court—to fawn upon and flatter the men whom fortune had thrown into the high places of the government. The stimulus which such a government could afford, must necessarily be of the most partial and capricious character. A system of state governments preserves the sovereignty unimpaired in every portion of the country; it carries the beneficial stimulus, which government itself is capable of applying to literature and character, to every division of the people. Under such governments as these, if properly regulated, and not overawed or corrupted by central power—it matters very little where a man's destiny may place him, whether he may be born on the borders of the Lakes, on the banks of the Mississippi, or even in future times on the distant shores of the Pacific—the sovereignty is with him—the action of the state and federal governments reaches him in his distant home as effectually as if he had been born in the federal metropolis, or on the banks of the Potomac, or the waters of the Chesapeake.

Under such a system as this, there is no one part more favored than the rest; but all are subjected to similar governments, and operated on by similar stimulants. In all other countries the term province is a term of reproach. Niebuhr tells us that in France the best book published in Marseilles or Bordeaux is hardly mentioned. C'est publie dans la province is enough to consign the book at once to oblivion—so complete is the literary dictatorship of Paris over all France. In such a system as ours, we have no provinces; if the governments shall only move in their prescribed orbits, all will be principals, all will be heads—each member of the confederacy will stand on the same summit level with every other. While this condition of things exists, the institutions of one state will not be disparaged or overshadowed by those of another—not even by those of the central department. A great and flourishing university for example, established in one state, will but encourage the establishment of another in an adjoining state. The literary efforts of one will not damp or impede those of another, but will stimulate it to enter on the same career.

Where, in all Europe for example, can be found so large a number of good universities for the same amount of population as in the states of Germany. The number, it is said, has reached thirty-six—nineteen Protestant, and seventeen Catholic; and nearly all of them, particularly the Protestant, are in a flourishing condition. Even as early as 1826 there were twenty-two universities in Germany, not one of which numbered less than two hundred students. And Villers tells us that there is more real knowledge in one single university, as that of Gottingen, Halle, or Jena, than in all the eight universities of San Jago de Compostella, Alcala, Orihuela, &c. of the consolidated monarchy of Spain.⁶

⁶ The literature of Spain has never revived since the consolidation of her government under Charles and Philip. It flourished most, strange as it may appear, when the Spanish peninsula was divided among several independent governments, and when the spirit of independence and individuality was excited to the highest pitch by that spirit of honor, love of adventure, and of individual notoriety, infused into the nations of Europe by the Institution of Chivalry. "The literature of Spain," says Sismondi, (Literature of South Europe) "has, strictly speaking, only one period, that of Chivalry. Its sole riches consist in its ancient honor and frankness of character. The poem of the Cid first presented itself to us among the Spanish works, as the Cid himself among the heroes of Spain; and after him, we find nothing in any degree equalling either the noble simplicity of his real character, or the charm of the brilliant fictions of which he is the subject. Nothing that has since appeared can justly demand our unqualified admiration. In the midst of the most brilliant efforts of Spanish genius, our taste has been continually wounded by extravagance and affectation, or our reason has been offended by an eccentricity often bordering on folly." Spain then furnishes a most convincing illustration of the melancholy influence of great consolidated governments on mind and literature. The poem of the Cid, so highly eulogized by Sismondi, is supposed to have been written about the middle of the twelfth century.

If we look to that period of greatest glory in the history of modern Italy, when her little states with all their bustle and faction were still free—still unawed by the great powers of Europe, we shall behold in her universities a beautiful exemplification of the truth of the same principles. Almost every independent state had its university or its college; and no matter how limited its territory, or small its population, the spirit of the state system—the spirit of liberty itself, breathed into these institutions the breath of life, and made them the nurseries of genius and independence, of science and literature.

How soon was the whole character of Holland changed by the benign operation of the federative system, after she had thrown off the odious yoke of the Spanish monarchy! Soon did the spirit of freedom give rise to five universities in this small but interesting country. "When the city of Leyden, in common with all the lower countries, had fought through the bloodiest and perhaps the noblest struggle for liberty on record, the great and good William of Orange offered her immunities from taxes, that she might recover from her bitter sufferings, and be rewarded for the important services which she had rendered to the sacred cause. Leyden however declined the offer, and asked for nothing but the privilege of erecting a university within her walls, as the best reward for more than human endurance and perseverance." This simple fact, says the writer from whom I have obtained this anecdote, is a precious gem to the student of history; for if the protection of the arts and sciences reflects great honor upon a monarch, though it be for vanity's sake, the fostering care with which communities or republics watch over the cultivation of knowledge, and the other ennobling pursuits of man, sheds a still greater lustre upon themselves.

In our own country, it is true that we have not yet passed into the gristle and bone of literary manhood. But we have already established more colleges and universities than exist perhaps in any other country on the face of the globe. We have already about seventy-six in operation, and some of them even now, whether we consider the munificence of their endowments, or the learning which they can boast of, would do credit to any age or country. If the time shall ever come when our state governments shall be broken down, and the power shall be concentrated in one great national system, then will the era of state universities be past, and a few bloated, corrupt, jure divino establishments will be reared in their stead, more interested in the support of absolute power, and the suppression of truth, than in the cause of liberty and freedom of investigation.⁷

⁷ Perhaps in our country we have multiplied colleges to too great an extent, and consequently have lessened their usefulness by too great a division of the funds destined for their support. The spirit of sectarianism co-operating with the system of state governments, has produced this result. The college and university ought, to some extent, to partake of the nature of a monopoly. There should be some concentration of funds, or you will fail to obtain adequate talents for your professorships. In our country particularly, professors should be paid high, or they cannot be induced to relinquish the more brilliant prospects which the learned professions hold out to them. But the evil of too great a number of colleges and universities, is one which will correct itself in the course of time, by the ultimate failure of those not properly endowed.

But it is said by some that the state system tinges all literature with a political hue—that under this system politics becomes the great, the engrossing study of the mind—that the lighter kinds of literature and the fine arts will be neglected—that the mathematical and physical sciences will be uncultivated—in fine, that the literature of such a people will be purely utilitarian. This objection is perhaps, founded principally upon too exclusive a view of the past literary history of our own country. Up to this time there has, if I may use the phraseology of political economy, been a greater demand for political knowledge in this country than for any other species of literature. The new political condition into which we entered at the revolution—the formation of our state and federal governments—the jarring and grating almost necessarily incident to new political machinery just started into action—severely tested too as ours has been, and is still, by the inharmonious and too often selfish action of heterogeneous interests on each other—the formation of new states, and the rapid development of new interests and unforeseen powers, together with the great sparseness of our population, have all contributed to turn the public mind of this country principally to the field of politics and morals—and surely we have arrived at an eminency on these subjects not surpassed in any other country.