Title Page
 Table of Contents
 Essays and addresses
 Papers from The Dial
 Book reviews from The Dial

Group Title: Uncollected writings; essays, addresses, poems, reviews and letters
Title: Uncollected writings
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00050298/00001
 Material Information
Title: Uncollected writings essays, addresses, poems, reviews and letters
Physical Description: 208p. : front. ;
Language: English
Creator: Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 1803-1882
Publisher: Lamb Pub. Co.
Place of Publication: New York
Publication Date: [c1912]
Genre: individual biography   ( marcgt )
non-fiction   ( marcgt )
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00050298
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Holding Location: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 000602422
notis - ADD1449
lccn - 12027169

Table of Contents
    Title Page
        Page i
        Page ii
        Page iii
        Page iv
        Page v
        Page vi
    Table of Contents
        Page vii
        Page viii
    Essays and addresses
        Page 1
        Page 2
            Page 3
            Page 4
            Page 5
            Page 6
            Page 7
            Page 8
        Amos Bronson Alcott
            Page 9
            Page 10
        Right hand of fellowship
            Page 11
            Page 12
            Page 13
            Page 14
        Address at Japanese banquet
            Page 15
            Page 16
            Page 17
        Address at the James Anthony Froude dinner
            Page 18
            Page 19
        Speech at the Bryant festival at "The Century," November 5, 1864
            Page 20
            Page 21
            Page 22
        Arthur Hugh Clough
            Page 23
            Page 24
            Page 25
        Carlyle's French Revolution
            Page 26
            Page 27
            Page 28
    Papers from The Dial
        Page 29
        Page 30
        The editors to the reader
            Page 31
            Page 32
            Page 33
            Page 34
            Page 35
        Thoughts on art
            Page 36
            Page 37
            Page 38
            Page 39
            Page 40
            Page 41
            Page 42
            Page 43
            Page 44
            Page 45
            Page 46
            Page 47
            Page 48
            Page 49
            Page 50
            Page 51
        The senses and the soul
            Page 52
            Page 53
            Page 54
            Page 55
            Page 56
            Page 57
            Page 58
            Page 59
            Page 60
            Page 61
            Page 62
            Page 63
            Page 64
        Veeshnoo Sarma
            Page 65
            Page 66
            Page 67
            Page 68
            Page 69
            Page 70
        Fourierism and the socialists
            Page 71
            Page 72
            Page 73
            Page 74
            Page 75
            Page 76
            Page 77
            Page 78
            Page 79
            Page 80
            Page 81
            Page 82
            Page 83
        English reformers
            Page 84
            Page 85
            Page 86
            Page 87
            Page 88
            Page 89
            Page 90
            Page 91
            Page 92
            Page 93
            Page 94
            Page 95
            Page 96
            Page 97
            Page 98
            Page 99
            Page 100
            Page 101
            Page 102
            Page 103
            Page 104
            Page 105
            Page 106
            Page 107
            Page 108
            Page 109
            Page 110
            Page 111
            Page 112
        The death of Dr. Channing
            Page 113
            Page 114
            Page 115
            Page 116
            Page 117
            Page 118
            Page 119
            Page 120
            Page 121
            Page 122
        Ethnical scriptures
            Page 123
            Page 124
            Page 125
            Page 126
            Page 127
            Page 128
            Page 129
            Page 130
            Page 131
            Page 132
            Page 133
    Book reviews from The Dial
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        New poetry
            Page 137
            Page 138
            Page 139
            Page 140
            Page 141
            Page 142
            Page 143
            Page 144
            Page 145
            Page 146
            Page 147
            Page 148
            Page 149
            Page 150
            Page 151
            Page 152
        Two years before the mast
            Page 153
        Social destiny of man
            Page 153
        Michael Angelo
            Page 154
            Page 155
            Page 156
        The worship of the soul
            Page 157
            Page 158
            Page 159
        Jones Very's essays and poems
            Page 160
            Page 161
        The ideal man
            Page 162
        The Zincali
            Page 163
            Page 164
        Ancient Spanish ballads
            Page 165
            Page 166
        Tennyson's poems
            Page 167
            Page 168
            Page 169
            Page 170
            Page 171
        Letter to Rev. Wm. E. Channing
            Page 172
            Page 173
        Confessions of St. Augustine
            Page 174
            Page 175
        The Bible in Spain
            Page 176
            Page 177
        Antislavery poems
            Page 177
        Wm. Lloyd Garrison's sonnets and poems
            Page 178
            Page 178
        Wm. E. Channing's poems
            Page 179
        The Spanish student
            Page 180
        The dream of a day
            Page 181
            Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        My thoughts
            Page 185
        The Phoenix
            Page 186
            Page 187
        The Poet
            Page 188
        Word and deed
            Page 188
        To himself
            Page 189
        Page 190
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Letter to Chandler Robbins
            Page 193
        Letter on William Emerson
            Page 194
        Letter to Samuel Gridley Howe
            Page 195
            Page 196
        Two letters to Henry Ware, Jr.
            Page 197
            Page 198
            Page 199
        Letters to the second church and society in Boston, March, 1829
            Page 200
            Page 201
        Letters to the second church and society in Boston, December, 1832
            Page 202
            Page 203
            Page 204
            Page 205
        Letter of protest
            Page 206
        Letter to Walt. Whitman
            Page 207-208
            Page 209
Full Text





Now First Published in Book Form



() -,j



FOR many years the editor, in common with other
collectors of American first editions, has known of the
existence of much Emerson material that has never
been permanently placed in book form or gathered in
any collected edition of Emerson's Works. As early
as 1866 an edition of Emerson appeared in London
labelled Complete Works," but, though much mat-
ter was crowded into the two volumes, it was very
incomplete. In 1869, 1876, 1881 and 1883 collected
editions appeared, bearing the imprints of Fields,
Osgood & Company and their various successors, but
on these editions no claims were made as to complete-
ness. In 1884 Houghton, Mifflin & Co., of Boston,
published a twelve-volume edition of Emerson called
the Riverside Edition, labelling it The Complete
Works." This edition was edited by J. E. Cabot,
but while Mr. Cabot included in the Riverside Edi-
tion much material that had never before been pub-
lished in book form, he failed to include a great mass
of material, essays, addresses, speeches and poems,
which he must have known existed.
In 1903-4 Houghton, Mifflin & Co. issued the
Centenary Edition of Emerson, in twelve volumes,
the work being edited by Edward Waldo Emerson.
This edition contains much matter not included in the
previous Riverside Edition, but, although the pub-
lishers again claimed completeness for their book, they
again neglected to include all known material.
As the matter stands to-day, no such thing as a
really complete edition of Emerson has ever been

';~ ~,-J p


issued, no matter what publishers' title-pages may say
or claim.
This present volume contains nothing but authentic
Emerson material not appearing in any of the col-
lected editions or in any of the so-called Complete
Works." Many of the pieces in this volume are of
great importance and should have been given to the
public long ago. The initial piece, Nature," is an
individual essay, distinct from all others of the same
or similar title, and appeared in The Boston Book "
in 1850. The article on Amos Bronson Alcott was
written for the New American Cyclopedia" in
1858. Emerson's address entitled The Right Hand
of Fellowship," and his addresses at the Japanese
Banquet, the Froude Dinner and the Bryant Festival,
are all important and worthy of preservation. Pre-
vious editors have reprinted Emerson on Carlyle's
" Past and Present," but have overlooked his Review
of Carlyle's French Revolution."
During the years 1840 to 1844 Emerson contrib-
uted liberally to The Dial," a quarterly magazine
published in Boston. More than seventy-five pieces
of Emerson's writings, including essays, poems and
reviews, appeared in this magazine during the four.
years of its existence, and this material has been'
largely drawn upon, but not exhausted by the various
Emerson editors. In this present volume we have
reprinted from The Dial all of the papers omitted
by previous editors, and they are thirty-two in num-
Included in this volume are six poems that have
not been reprinted since their first appearance in the
early annuals where they were first published. A
number of Emerson's letters conclude this volume,
two of them being of special importance. One is the
Letter to the Second Church and Society, March,

1829, accepting the invitation to become pastor of
that church, and the other is the Letter to the Second
Church and Society, dated December, 1832, addressed
to the congregation after he had delivered his famous
sermon entitled The Lord's Supper," on September
9th, 1832, which was followed by his resignation.


INTRODUCTION ................
N ature . . . . .
Amos Bronson Alcott . . .
Right Hand of Fellowship . . .
Address at Japanese Banquet . .
Address at the James Anthony Froude Dinner
Speech at the Bryant Festival .. ....
Arthur Hugh Clough . . .
Carlyle's French Revolution . .
The Editors to the Reader . . .
Thoughts on Art . . . .
The Senses and the Soul . . .
Transcendentalism . . . .
Veeshnoo Sarma . . . .
Fourierism and the 'Socialists . .
Intelligence . . . .
English Reformers .. . .
The Death of Dr. Channing . .
Tantalus . . . . .
Ethnical Scriptures . . .
New Poetry . . . .
Two Years Before the Mast . .
Social Destiny of Man . . ..
Michael Angelo .. .........
The Worship of the Soul . . .
Jones Very's Essays and Poems . .
The Ideal Man ..............
The Zincali . . . .
Ancient Spanish Ballads .. ......
Tecumseh .. ...... .... .. ...
Tennyson's Poems . . ..
Letter to Rev. Wi. E. Channing . .



Confessions of St. Augustine . . .. 174
The Bible in Spain . . .... .. 176
Paracelsus .. ..... ............ 177
Antislavery Poems. . . .. 177
Wm. Lloyd Garrison's Sonnets and Poems . 178
America .... ... ............ 178
Wm. E. Channing's Poems. . . 179
The Spanish Student. . . .. 180
The Dream of a Day . . .. 181
My Thoughts . . . .... 185
The Phoenix ................. 186
Faith . . . . . 187
The Poet . . ... ... 188
Word and Deed. . . . 188
To Himself . . . . .. 189
Letter to Chandler Robbins. . . ... 193
Letter on William Emerson. ........... 194
Letter to Samuel Gridley Howe . ... 195
Two Letters to Henry Ware, Jr. ........ 197
Letter to the Second Church and Society, March,
1829 ........ .. .......... 200
Letter to the Second Church and Society, December,
1832 ... ...... .. ........ 202
Letter of Protest ............. 206
Letter to Walt. Whitman . .... 208



THERE are days which occur in this climate, at
almost any season of the year, wherein the world
reaches its perfection, when the air, the heavenly bod-
ies, and the earth, make a harmony, as if nature
would indulge her offspring; when, in these bleak
upper sides of the planet, nothing is to desire that
we have heard of the happiest latitudes, and we bask
in the shining hours of Florida and Cuba; when
everything that has life gives signs of satisfaction,
and the cattle that lie on the ground seem to have
great and tranquil thoughts. These halcyons may
be looked for with a little more assurance in that pure
October weather, which we distinguish by the name
of the Indian Summer. The day, immeasurably long,
sleeps over the broad hills and warm wide fields. To
have lived through all its sunny hours, seems longevity
enough. The solitary places do not seem quite lonely.
At the gates of the forest, the surprised man of the
world is forced to leave his city estimates of great
and small, wise and foolish. The knapsack of custom
falls off his back with the first step he makes into these
precincts. Here is sanctity which shames our relig-
ions, and reality which discredits our heroes. Here we
find nature to be the circumstance which dwarfs every
other circumstance, and judges like a god all men
that come to her. We have crept out of our close
and crowded houses into the night and morning, and
we see what majestic beauties daily wrap us in their
bosom. How willingly we would escape the barriers
which render them comparatively impotent, escape

the sophistication and second thought, and suffer
nature to entrance us. The tempered light of the
woods is like a perpetual morning, and is stimulating
and heroic. The anciently reported spells of these
places creep on us. The stems of pines, hemlocks, and
oaks, almost gleam like iron on the excited eye. The
incommunicable trees begin to persuade us to live
with them, and quit our life of solemn trifles. Here
no history, or church, or state, is interpolated on the
divine sky and the immortal year. How easily we
might walk onward into the opening landscape, ab-
sorbed by new pictures, and by thoughts fast succeed-
ing each other, until by degrees the recollection of
home was crowded out of the mind, all memory ob-
literated by the tyranny of the present, and we were
led in triumph by nature.
These enchantments are medicinal, they sober and
heal us. These are plain pleasures, kindly and native
to us. We come to our own, and make friends with
matter, which the ambitious chatter of the schools
would persuade us to despise. We never can part
with it; the mind loves its old home; as water to our
thirst, so is the rock, the ground, to our eyes, and
hands, and feet. It is firm water; it is cold flame:
what health, what affinity! Ever an old friend, ever
like a dear friend and brother, when we chat affectedly
with strangers, comes in this honest face, and takes
a grave liberty with us, and shames us out of our
nonsense. Cities give not the human senses room
enough. We go out daily and nightly to feed the
eyes on the horizon, and require so much scope, just
as we need water for our bath. There are all degrees
of natural influence, from these quarantine powers of
nature, up to her dearest and gravest ministrations
to the imagination and the soul. There is the bucket
of cold water from the spring, the wood-fire to which

the chilled traveller rushes for safety, and there is
the sublime moral of autumn and of noon. We
nestle in nature, and draw our living as parasites from
her roots and grains, and we receive glances from the
heavenly bodies, which call us to solitude, and foretell
the remotest future. The blue zenith is the point
in which romance and reality meet. I think, if we
should be rapt away into all that we dream of heaven,
and should converse with Gabriel and Uriel, the upper
sky would be all that would remain of our furniture.
It seems as if the day was not wholly profane, in
which we have given heed to some natural object.
The fall of snowflakes in a still air, preserving to
each crystal its perfect form; the blowing of sleet
over a wide sheet of water, and over plains, the wa-
ving rye-field, the mimic waving of acres of hous-
tonia, whose innumerable florets whiten and ripple
before the eye; the reflections of trees and flowers in
glassy lakes; the musical steaming odorous south
wind, which converts all trees to wind-harps; the
crackling and spurting of hemlock in the flames; or
of pine logs, which yield glory to the walls and faces
in the sitting-room,- these are the music and pic-
tures of the most ancient religion. My house stands
in low land, with limited outlook, and on the skirt of
the village. But I go with my friend to the shore
of our little river, and with one stroke of the paddle,
I leave the village politics and personalities behind,
and pass into a delicate realm of sunset and moon-
light, too bright almost for spotted man to enter
without novitiate and probation. We penetrate bod-
ily this incredible beauty: we dip our hands in this
painted element: our eyes are bathed in these lights
and forms. A holiday, a villeggiatura, a royal revel,
the proudest, most heart-rejoicing festival that valor
and beauty, power and taste, ever decked and en-


joyed, establishes itself on the instant. These sunset
clouds, these delicately emerging stars, with their pri-
vate and ineffable glances, signify it and proffer it.
I am taught the poorness of our invention, the ugli-
ness of towns and palaces. Art and luxury have
early learned that they must work as enhancement
and sequel to this original beauty. I am over in-
structed for my return. Henceforth I shall be hard
to please. I cannot go back to toys. I am grown
expensive and sophisticated. I can no longer live
without elegance: but a countryman shall be my
master of revels. He who knows the most, he who
knows what sweets and virtues are in the ground, the
waters, the plants, the heavens, and how to come at
these enchantments, is the rich and royal man. Only
as far as the masters of the world have called in na-
ture to their aid, can they reach the height of magnif-
icence. This is the meaning of their hanging-gardens,
villas, garden-houses, islands, parks, and preserves, to
back their faulty personality with these strong acces-
sories. I do not wonder that the landed interest
should be invincible in the state with these dangerous
auxiliaries. These bribe and invite; not kings, not
palaces, not men, not women, but these tender and
poetic stars, eloquent of secret promises. We heard
what the rich man said, we knew of his villa, his grove,
his wine, and his company, but the provocation and
point of the invitation came out of these beguiling
stars. In their soft glances, I see what men strove
to realize in some Versailles, or Paphos, or Ctesiphon.
Indeed, it is the magical lights of the horizon, and the
blue sky for the background, which save all our works
of art, which were otherwise baubles. When the rich
tax the poor with servility and obsequiousness, they
should consider the effect of men, reputed to be the
possessors of nature, on imaginative minds. Ah! if


the rich were rich as the poor fancy riches! A boy
hears a military band play on the field at night, and
he has kings and queens, and famous chivalry pal-
pably before him. He hears the echoes of a horn in
a hill country, in the Notch Mountains, for example,
which converts the mountains into an ZEolian harp,
and this supernatural tiralira restores to him the Do-
rian mythology, Apollo, Diana, and all divine hunters
and huntresses. Can a musical note be so lofty, so
haughtily beautiful? To the poor young poet, thus
fabulous is his picture of society; he is loyal; he re-
spects the rich; they are rich for the sake of his im-
agination; how poor his fancy would be, if they were
not rich! That they have some high-fenced grove,
which they call a park; that they live in larger and
better garnished saloons than he has visited, and go
in coaches, keeping only the society of the elegant, to
watering-places, and to distant cities, are the ground-
work from which he has delineated estates of romance,
compared with which their actual possessions are
shanties and paddocks. The muse herself betrays her
son, and enhances the gifts of wealth and well born
beauty, by a radiation out of the air, and clouds, and
forests that skirt the road, a certain haughty favor,
as if from patrician genii to patricians, a kindof ar-
istocracy in nature, a prince of the power of the air.
The moral sensibility which makes Edens and
Tempes so easily, may not be always found, but the
material landscape is never far off. We can find
these enchantments without visiting the Como Lake,
or the Madeira Islands. We exaggerate the praises
of local scenery. In every landscape, the point of
astonishment is the meeting of the sky and the earth,
and that is seen from the first hillock as well as from
the top of the Alleghanies. The stars at night stoop
down over the brownest, homliest common, with all

the spiritual magnificence which they shed on the
Campagna, or on the marble deserts of Egypt. The
uprolled clouds and the colors of morning and eve-
ning, will transfigure maples and alders. The differ-
ence between landscape and landscape is small, but
there is great difference in the beholders. There is
nothing so wonderful in any particular landscape, as
the necessity of being beautiful under which every
landscape lies. Nature cannot be surprised in un-
dress. Beauty breaks in everywhere.


AMos BRONSON ALCOTT, a philosopher devoted to
the science of education, was born at Wolcott, Conn.,
Nov. 29, 1799. Like many farmers' sons in Connect-
icut, whilst still a boy, he was intrusted by a local
trader with a trunk of merchandise, with which he
sailed for Norfolk, Va., and which he afterward car-
ried about among the plantations; and his early read-
ings were in the planters' houses, who gave hospital-
ity to the young salesman, and, observing his turn for
study, talked with him, and opened their bookcases
to him in a stormy day. On his return to Connecticut
he began to teach, and attracted attention by his suc-
cess with an infant-school.
He removed to Boston in 1828, and showed sin-
gular skill and sympathy in his methods of teaching
young children of five, six and seven years of age,
at the Masonic Temple. (See a printed account,
"Record of a School," E. P. Peabody, 12mo, Bos-
ton, 1834; also, a transcript of the colloquies of these
children with their teacher, in Conversations on the
Gospels," 2 volumes, 12mo, B]oston, 1836.) But the
school was in advance of public opinion, and, on the
publication of this book, was denounced by the news-
papers of the day. After closing his school, Mr.
Alcott removed to Concord, Mass., where he betook
himself to his studies, interesting himself chiefly in
natural theology, and the various questions of reform,
in education, in diet, civil and social institutions.
On the invitation of James P. Greaves, of London,
the friend and fellow-laborer of Pestalozzi in Swit-

zerland, Mr. Alcott went to England in 1842. Mr.
Greaves died before his arrival, but Mr. Alcott was
cordially received by his friends who had given his
name to their school at Alcott House," Ham, near
London, and spent some months in making acquain-
tance with various classes of reformers. On his re-
turn to America, he brought with him two of his Eng-
lish friends, Charles Lane and H. G. Wright; and
Mr. Lane having bought a farm which he called
" Fruitlands," at Harvard, Mass., they all went there
to found a new community. Messrs. Lane and
Wright soon returned to England, and the farm was
sold. Mr. Alcott removed to Boston, and has led the
life of a Peripatetic philosopher, conversing in cities
and in villages, wherever invited, on divinity, on
human nature, on ethics, on dietetics, and a wide
range of practical questions. These conversations,
which were at first casual, gradually assumed a more
formal character, the topics being often printed on
cards, and the company meeting at a fixed time and
Mr. Alcott attaches great importance to diet and
government of the body; still more to race and com-
plexion. He is an idealist, and we should say Pla-
tonist, if it were not doing injustice to give any name
implying secondariness to the highly original habit
of his salient and intuitive mind. He has singular
gifts for awakening contemplation and aspiration in
simple and in cultivated persons. Though not
learned, he is a rare master of the English language;
and, though no technical logician, he has a subtle and
deep science of that which actually passes in thought,
and thought is ever seen by him in its relations to life
and morals. Those persons who are best prepared
by their own habit of thought, set the highest value on
his subtle perception and facile generalization.



THE ancient custom of offering a new pastor the
expression of the sympathy of the churches is no un-
suitable rite in the ceremonies of ordination, and hath
a deep foundation in reason. There is no sympathy
so strong as that which exists between the good, and
this fellow-feeling Christianity has done all to foster.
Whilst men are in the moral darkness which vice
produces, each individual is a sect by himself; each is
a self-seeker, with his hands against every man, and
every man's hands against him. Each, forgetful of
all other rights and feelings, is straining every nerve
to build up his own sordid advantage, and tearing
down his neighbor's happiness, if need be, to build
up his own. His eye is blind, his ear is deaf to the
great harmonies by which God yoked together the
social and the selfish good of his children.
Just in proportion as men grow wiser and better,
their efforts converge to a point. For as truth is one,
in seeking it, they all aim to conform their action to
one standard. When intelligent men talk together,
it is remarkable how much they think alike, how many
propositions are taken for granted, that are disputed,
word by word,. in the conversation of ignorant per-
sons. The more enlightened men are, the greater is
this unanimity, as is attested by the common wonder
when two minds of unquestionable elevation come
to opposite conclusions. As it is with the mind, so is
it with the heart. As two minds agreeing with truth

do mutually agree, so, if their affections are right with
.God, they will be true to one another.
Christianity aims to teach the perfection of human
nature, and eminently therefore does it teach the unity
of the spirit. It is, not only in its special precepts,
but by all its operations, a law of love. It does, by
its revelation of God and of the true purposes and
the true rules of life, operate to bind up, to join to-
gether, and not to distinguish and separate. It pro-
claimed peace. 'But it speaks first to its own disci-
ples, Be of one mind," else with what countenance
should the church say to the world of men, Love one
another. And thousands and thousands of hearts
have heard the commandment, and anon with joy re-
ceived it. All men on whose souls the light of God's
revelation truly shineth, with whatever apparent dif-
ferences, are substantially of one mind, work together,
whether consciously or not, for one and the same
good. Faces that never beheld each other are
lighted by it with the same expression. Hands that
were never clasped toil unceasingly at the same work.
This it is which makes the omnipotence of truth in
the keeping of feeble men,- this fellowship in all
its servants, this swift, consenting acknowledgment
with which they hail it when it appears. God's truth,
- it is that electric spark which flies instantaneously
through the countless hands that compose the chain.
Truth not like each form of error, depending for
its repute on the powers and influence of here and
there a solitary mind that espouses it combines
hosts for its support, and makes, them co-operate
across mountains and oceans, yea, and ages of time.
This is what was meant in that beautiful sentiment of
ancient philosophy, that God had so intimately linked
all wise men to each other that, if one should only
lift his finger in Rome, all the rest were benefited by

it, through Egypt or Asia. This is what was meant
by that one body in Christ, of which all his disciples
are the members. Sir, it is this sentiment which is
recognized in the ancient and simple rite of the
God has bound heart to heart by invisible and eter-
nal bands, by oneness of nature, of duty, and of hope.
To us is One Lord, one faith, one baptism." And,
in acknowledgment of these divine connections exist-
ing between us, the Christian churches, whose organ
I am, do offer you, my brother, this right hand of their
fellowship. They greet you, by me, to the exalted
relations on which now you are entering. They give
you a solemn welcome to great duties, to honorable
sacrifices, to unremitting studies, and to the eternal
hope of all souls. They exhort you to all pious reso-
lutions; and they pledge to you, by this sign, their
sympathy, their aid, and their intercession.
They say to you that, so long as in purity of heart
you do the work of God in this vineyard of his, you
are not alone; but you shall be secure of the love and
the furtherance, not of these churches only, but of all
righteous men. In every hour of perplexity or afflic-
tion, they shall encourage and aid and bless you, by
desire and by word and by action. And when the
day of success comes to you, and you see around you
in this garden of the Lord, the fruit of your virtues
and the light of your example and the truth you teach
shine forth together, in that day a kindred joy shall
touch our hearts, we shall be glad with you, and
give thanks with you, and hope for you.
Sir, it is with sincere pleasure that I speak for the
churches on this occasion and on this spot, hallowed
to all by so many patriotic and to me by so many
affectionate recollections. I feel a peculiar, a per-
sonal right to welcome you hither to the home and

the temple of my fathers. I believe the church whose
pastor you are will forgive me the allusion, if I ex-
press the extreme interest which every man feels in
the scene of the trials and labors of his ancestors.
Five out of seven of your predecessors are my kin-
dred. They are in the dust who bind my attachment
to this place, but not all. I cannot help congratulat-
ing you that one survives, to be to you the true friend
and venerable counsellor he has ever been to me.
I heartily rejoice to see their labors and a portion
of his resting on one who comes with such ability,
and, as I trust, with such devout feeling to the work.
Suffer me then, as for them, to offer you my hand,
and receive with it, my brother, my best wishes and
prayers for your success in your great undertaking
and for your everlasting welfare.

AUG. 2, 1872

ored by serving as the mouth-piece of this company
for a moment. The great deserts of this occasion and
the interest of this company might inspire a greater
coward than myself.
I shall share with this company the respect with
which they regard this embassy. It is full of romance
to us. Hitherward come a people with whom our
history has been but little occupied, a people who have
hidden themselves in their slow and private national
growth. It is six hundred years, as I understand,
since Marco Polo saw on the shores of the Yellow
Sea one great island, and that island was one of the
three islands of Japan Niphon and Yesso and Ki-
ovsoa. Columbus, it seems, took this book of Marco
Polo in his hands, and when he arrived at Cuba he
thought he had arrived at Japan. He had not come
there, but he showed mankind the way from thence
to Japan, and President Fillmore found it. Not, I
think, until 1852 was Commodore Perry sent by Pres-
ident Fillmore to make a treaty with Japan, so slow
was the progress of our acquaintance with the nation
whose representatives we greet to-night.
There is something very interesting in the history
of that nation. I remember that in my college days
our professor in Greek used to tell us always in his
record of history, "All tends to the mysterious
East;" and so slow was the progress that only now
are the threads gathered up of relation between the

farthest East and the farthest West. The nation has
itself every claim on us. The singular selection that
it showed in appealing to America for its guidance
and assistance in western civilization, the brave and
simple manner in which it has sent its pupils, its young
men, to our schools and colleges and to learn our arts,
is a great honor to their wisdom and their noble heart.
There is humanity as well as there is ambition. I am
very glad to be apprised by very competent critics in
art that in certain arts there has been no such success
in other nations as in Japan, that their bronzes, and
not only so but the arts of design when applied to
outline drawings, are more masterly than are to be
found in Europe or America. And I have to say that
I think the American government and American his-
tory owes great thanks to the enlightened policy of
President Fillmore who, in 1852, sent Commodore
Perry to that country and introduced a new thought
into his embassy. Instead of sending to what he sup-
posed a comparatively foreign and unrelated country,
to say the least, to the civil nations instead of send-
ing to them beads and rum barrels, he sent the best
of our civilization. He sent the very best instruments
and inventions that the country could command. He
sent the steamboat. He sent the telescope. He sent
the telegraph. He sent all those instruments and
machines which had lately attracted and strengthened
western civilization. This gift was gratefully and
nobly received, instantly understood and remade in
that country. There is something besides art in
Japan that is interesting namely, a certain strength
in the constitution and the character of the Japanese,
which seems to have been revealed by many of these
emigrant scholars who have honored our country;
namely, a certain force of mind allied to religion
which marks their fidelity to their chiefs. I under-

stand that if a young man in Japan finds that he can-
not raise the young man whom he has undertaken to
guard and attend to an equality to the very best of his
class, and if he cannot raise him above those who are
not his equal in rank, he suffers so much pain that
he cannot return to that country; and he is drawn
into a resolution that is self-sacrifice, and is prepared
for the suicide of himself rather than that his fidelity
to his chieftain should fail. It is a very remarkable
trait. We don't understand it in our loose, mercan-
tile, popular civilization, but it is a prodigious power
to those people that possess it. One thing was said
to me in relation to this very interesting company of
our friends- this: That they are, more than others,
deeply interested in education. They have, indeed,
honored me I am quite undeserving of that honor
-with enquiries in regard to that I wish I could
help them. I wish any of us could. The best advice
I can give to them is to say that next week, in this
city, I understand, is to be held a meeting of the Na-
tional Board of Education, in which, among other
gentlemen and officers, is Mr. Harris of St. Louis in
Missouri, who is the head there of the city education
and is besides the editor of the only journal of specu-
lative philosophy edited in this country; a very
learned and a very able man, and very able as I un-
derstand in this particular subject of education.
I should wish my friends to make his acquaintance,
as I doubt not he would be very glad to make theirs.
I don't know any person that could advise them better
on the subject.
NoTE -This address was given at the banquet given at the Revere
House, Boston, on August 2, 1872.

I CONFESS, Mr. Chairman and gentlemen, that I
have accepted your invitation to this banquet in good
faith and humble belief that my friend, Mr. Froude,
of old times, was coming here, but not to be myself
made in any manner the subject of extravagant eu-
logy, in the poetic or satirical spirit of the President.
To that I have nothing to reply, excepting that I
know nothing of it. It gives me great pleasure, cer-
tainly, to be present at this very highly proper recep-
tion of our guest. I had the great pleasure many,
many years ago it was twenty-four years ago -
of meeting him when he was new from his Exeter
college, and amid very valued friends, Mr. Clough
of Oriel, honored in all parts of this country where
intelligent young scholars are known; Mr. Arnold of
this same college, also of Oriel, whose fame is also
in all our mouths; Mr. Stanley of Exeter; Mr. Pal-
grave, and other able young men with whom I be-
came most happily acquainted on my visit at Oxford.
And I rejoice very much to see Mr. Froude's face
here, with all our added acquaintance with him in his
books. His history is well-known, I know, to all good
readers in this country, and he has established the
importance of his own opinion, of his own judgment,
in these books. I think he has taught us much. He
has shown at least two eminent faculties in his his-
tories the faculty of seeing wholes, and the faculty
of seeing and saying particulars. The one makes his-
tory valuable, and the other makes it readable in-
teresting. Both these qualities his writings have emi-


nently shown. I think we are indebted to him for a
power which is eminent in them, the discretion which
is given us the speeches, the language of the very
persons whom his history records. The language, the
style of the books, draws very much of its excellence
from that habit, that practice, of giving the very lan-
guage of the times. He knows well that the old Eng-
lish people and Irish people of whom his history re-
cords the events, did not write or speak in the style
of The Edinburgh Review or The North American
Review, but that they spoke a stern and dreadful lan-
guage, when words were few and when words meant
much. So that the language is like the cry of the
soldier when the battle begins, or the cry of the fugi-
tive when the battle turns against him. It is a pithy
and wonderful language. If you remember, it is
Shakespeare that says: "When breath is scant, it's
very seldom spent in vain." That is the very lan-
guage of the poet. And that is the language which
his taste and judgment has had the skill to secure,
giving an emphasis and power to his history, which
is not familiar to English and Irish history.
It gives me great pleasure to see Mr. Froude, an
old friend, because he recalls the time of my own visit,
twenty-four years ago. It was at Oxford, when I
knew his contemporaries, his fellow-students at Exe-
ter and Oriel Mr. Arnold, Mr. Stanley, Mr.
Clough alas, he died too early for us all Mr.
Palgrave, and many other young men, then of great
promise, and some of them who have more than ful-
filled that promise. It gives me great pleasure to re-
member that time, and to see that, if something has
fallen, much has survived, and that we have here one
of the best representatives of just that culture and
just that power and moral determination which was
exhibited and felt by all those young men.

MB. PRESIDENT:- Whilst I am grateful to you
and to The Century" for the privilege of joining
you in this graceful and most deserved homage to our
poet, I am a little disconcerted, in the absence of some
expected friends from the Bay State, at finding my-
self put forward to speak on their part. Let me say
for them that we have a property in his genius and
virtue. Whilst we delight in your love of him, and
in his power and reputation in your imperial State,
we can never forget that he was born on the soil of
Massachusetts. Your great metropolis is always, by
some immense attraction of gravity, drawing to itself
our best men. But we forgive you in this case the
robbery, when we see how nobly you have used him.
Moreover, the joint possession by New York and
Massachusetts of him, and of others in this great cir-
cle of his friends, is one of those ethereal hoops which
bind these states inseparably in these perilous times.
I join with all my heart in your wish to honor this
native, sincere, original, patriotic poet. I say orig-
inal: I heard him charged with being of a certain
school. I heard it with surprise, and asked, what
school? for he reminded me of Goldsmith, or Words-
worth, or Byron, or Moore. I found him always
original, a true painter of the face of this country,
and of the sentiment of his own people. When I
read the verses of popular American and English
poets, I often think that they appear to have gone
into the Art Galleries and to have seen pictures of
mountains, but this man to have seen mountains.

With his stout staff he has climbed Greylock and the
White Hills, and sung what he saw. He renders
Berkshire to me in verse, with the sober coloring, too,
to which nature cleaves, only now and then permit-
ting herself the scarlet and gold of the prism. It is
his proper praise, that he first and he only made
known to mankind our northern landscape--its
summer splendor, its autumn russet, its winter lights
and glooms. And he is original because he is sincere.
Many young men write verse which strikes by talent,
but the writer has not committed himself, the man is
not there, it is written at arm's length, he could as well
have written on any other theme: it was not necessi-
tated and autobiographic, and therefore it does not
imprint itself on the memory, and return for thought
and consolation in our solitary hours. But our
friend's inspiration is from the inmost mind; he has
not a labial but a chest voice, and you shall detect
the tastes and experiences of the poem in his daily
Like other poets more than other poets with
his expanding genius his ambition grew. Fountain-
heads, and pathless groves did not content him. It
is a national sin. There is, you know, an optical dis-
temper endemic in the city of Washington, contracted
by Senators and others who once look at the Presi-
dent's chair; their eyes grow to it; they can never
again take their eyes off it. The virus once in, is not
to be got out of the system. Our friend has not this
malady, but has symptoms of another,
"That last infirmity of noble minds."
Ah, gentlemen! so cold and majestic as he sits here,
I hear this sin burned at his heart well hid, I own;
never was a man more modest, less boastful, less ego-
tistical. But you remember that wicked Phidias, who,

after making his divine Minerva, carved his own im-
age with such deep incision into the shield, that it
could not be effaced without destroying the statue.
But this artist of ours, with deeper cunning, has con-
trived to levy on all American nature, has subsidized
every solitary grove and monument-mountain in
Berkshire or the Katskills, every gleaming water,
the gardens of the Desert," every waterfowl and
woodbird, the evening wind, the stormy March, the
song of the stars; has suborned every one of these
to speak for him, so that there is no feature of day
or night in the country which does not, to the contem-
plative mind, recall the name of Bryant. This high-
handed usurpation of whatever is sweet or sublime,
I charge him with, and, on the top of this, with the
sorcery of making us hug our fetters and rejoice in
our subjugation.
Then, sir, for his patriotism we all know the deep
debt which the country owes to the accomplished
journalist, who, the better to carry the ends which
his heart desired, left the studies and retirements dear
to his muse, adapted his voice to the masses to be
reached, and the great cause to be sustained was
content to drop "the garland and singing-robes of
the poet," and, masking his Tyrtaean elegies in the
plain speech of the street, sounded the key-note of
policy and duty to the American people, in a manner
and with an effect of the highest service to the Re-
Before I sit down, let me apply to him a verse ad-
dressed by Thomas Moore to the poet Crabbe, and
Moore has written few better:
"True bard, and simple as the race
Of heaven-born poets always are,
When stooping from their starry place,
They're children, but gods afar."



HERE is a new English poem which we heartily
recommend to all classes of readers. It is an account
of one of those Oxford reading-parties which, at the
beginning of a long vacation, are made up by a tutor
with five or six undergraduates, who wish to bring up
arrears of study, or to cram for examination and hon-
ors, and who betake themselves with their guide to
some romantic spot in Wales or Scotland, where are
good bathing and shooting, read six hours a day, and
kill the other eighteen in sport, smoking, and sleep.
The poem is as jocund and buoyant as the party,
and so joyful a picture of college life and manners,
with such good strokes of revenge on the old torment-
ors, Pindar, Thucydides, Aristotle, and the logical
Aldrich, that one wonders that this ground has not
been broken up before. Six young men have read
three weeks with their tutor, and after joining in a
country dinner and a dance in a barn, four of them
decide to give up books for three weeks, and make a
tour of the Highlands, leaving the other two partners
with the tutor in the cottage, to their matutive, or
morning bath, six hours' reading, and mutton at
seven. The portraits of the young party are briefly
but masterly sketched. Adam the tutor, Lindsay the
dialectician, Hope, Hobbes, Airlie, Arthur, who,
from his thirty feet diving, is the glory of headers,"
and Hewson. Philip Hewson, the hero of the poem,

the radical poet, in this excursion falls in love with the
golden-haired Katie at the farm of Rannoch, and is
left behind by his returning fellows. The poet fol-
lows his hero into the mountains, wherever the rest-
less Philip wanders, brooding on his passion.
Whilst the tutor anxiously, and his companions
more joyously, are speculating on this dubious ad-
venture of their comrade, a letter arrives at the cot-
tage from Hope, who travelled with Philip, announ-
cing that Philip and Katie have parted, and that
Philip is staying at Castle Balloch, in assiduous at-
tendance on the beautiful "Lady Maria." In an
earnest letter to his friend the tutor, Philip explains
himself; and the free-winged sweep of speculation
to which his new life at the Castle gives occasion, is in
a truly modern spirit, and sufficiently embarrassing,
one can see, to the friendliest of tutors. Great is the
mirth of the Oxford party at this new phase of the
ardent Philip, but it is suddenly checked again by
a new letter from Philip to Adam, entreating him to
come immediately to the bothie or hut of Toper-na-
Fuosich, to bring him counsel and sanction, since he
has already found rest and home in the heart of -
Elspie I
We are now introduced to Elspie, the right Ante-
ros, hitherto pursued in vain under deceiving masks,
and are made with Adam the tutor to acquiesce in
Philip's final choice. The story leads naturally into
a bold hypothetical discussion of the most serious
questions that bubble up at this very hour in London,
Paris, and Boston, and, whilst these are met and hon-
estly and even profoundly treated, the dialogue
charms us by perfect good breeding and exuberant
animal spirits. We shall not say that the rapid and
bold execution has the finish and the intimate music
we demand in modern poetry; but the subject-matter

is so solid, and the figures so real and lifelike, that the
poem is justified, and would be good in spite of much
ruder execution than we here find. Yet the poem
has great literary merits. The author has a true eye
for nature, and expresses himself through the justest
images. The Homeric iteration has a singular charm,
half-comic, half-poetic, in the piece, and there is a
wealth of expression, a power of description and of
portrait-painting, which excels our best romancers.
Even the hexameter, which with all our envy of its
beauty in Latin and in Greek, we think not agreeable
to the genius of English poetry, is here in place to
heighten the humor of college conversation.


WE welcome the appearance in this country of this
extraordinary work. It is by far the largest, the most
elaborate, and the best work which Mr. Carlyle has
yet attempted, and although an accurate and ex-
tended history, not a whit less original and eccentric
than any of his earlier productions. One thing has
for some time been becoming plainer, and is now quite
undeniable, that Mr. Carlyle's genius, whether benig-
nant or baleful, is no transient meteor, and no expir-
ing taper, but a robust flame self-kindled and self-
fed, and more likely to light others into a conflagra-
tion, than to be speedily blown out. The work before
us indicates an extent of resources, a power of labor,
and powers of thought, seldom combined, and never
without permanent effects.
It is a part of Mr. Carlyle's literary creed, "that
all history is poetry, were it rightly told." The work
before us is his own exemplification of his doctrine.
The poetry consists in the historian's point of view.
With the most accurate and lively delineation of the
crowded actions of the revolution, there is the con-
stant co-perception of the universal relations of each
man. With a painter's eye for picturesque groups,
and a boy's passion for exciting details, he combines a
philosopher's habitual wonder as he stands before the
insoluble mysteries of the Advent and Death of man.


From this point of view, he is unable to part, and the
noble and hopeful heart of the narrator breathes a
music of humanity through every part of the tale.
Always equal to his subject, he has first thought it
through; and having seen in the sequence of events
the illustration of high and beautiful laws which exist
eternal in the reason of man, he beholds calmly like
a god the fury of the action, secure in his own percep-
tion of the general harmony resulting from particu-
lar horror or pain. This elevation of the historian's
point of view is not, however, produced at any ex-
pense of attention to details. Here is a chronicle as
minute as Froissart, and a scrupulous weighing of
historical evidence, which begets implicit trust.
Above all, we have men in the story, and not names
merely. The characters are so sharply drawn that
they cannot be confounded or forgotten, though we
may sometimes doubt whether the thrilling imper-
sonation is in very deed the historic man whose name
it bears.
We confess we feel much curiosity in regard to the
immediate success of this bold and original experi-
ment upon the public taste. It seems very certain
that the chasm which existed in English literature,
the want of a just history of the French Revolution,
is now filled in a manner to prevent all competition.
But how far Mr. Carlyle's manifold innovations shall
be reckoned worthy of adoption and of emulation, or
what portion of them shall remain to himself incom-
municable, as the anomalies of a genius too self-indul-
gent, time alone can show.




WE invite the attention of our countrymen to a
new design. Probably not quite unexpected or un-
announced will our Journal appear, though small
pains have been taken to secure its welcome. Those,
who have immediately acted in editing the present
Number, cannot accuse themselves of any unbecom-
ing forwardness in their undertaking, but rather of
a backwardness, when they remember how often in
many private circles the work was projected, how
eagerly desired, and only postponed because no indi-
vidual volunteered to combine and concentrate the
free-will offerings of many cooperators. With some
reluctance the present conductors of this work have
yielded themselves to the wishes of their friends, find-
ing something sacred and not to be withstood in the
importunity which urged the production of a Journal
in a new spirit.
As they have not proposed themselves to the work,
neither can they lay any the least claim to an option
or determination of the 'spirit in which it is conceived,
or to what is peculiar in the design. In that respect,
they have obeyed, though with great joy, the strong
current ,of thought and feeling, which, for a few years

past, has led many sincere persons in New England
to make new demands on literature, and to reprobate
that rigor of our conventions of religion and educa-
tion which is turning us to stone, which renounces
hope, which looks only backward, which asks only
such a future as the past, which suspects improve-
ment, and holds nothing so much in horror as new
views and the dreams of youth.
With these terrors the conductors of the present
Journal have nothing to do, not even so much as
a word of reproach to waste. They know that there
is a portion of the youth and of the adult population
of this country, who have not shared them; who have
in secret or in public paid their vows to truth and free-
dom; who love reality too well to care for names,
and who live by a Faith too earnest and profound
to suffer them to doubt the eternity of its object, or
to shake themselves free from its authority. Under
the fictions and customs which occupied others, these
have explored the Necessary, the Plain, the True, the
Human, and so gained a vantage ground, which
commands the history of the past and the present.
No one can converse much with different classes
of society in New England, without remarking the
progress of a revolution. Those who share in it have
no external organization, no badge, no creed, no
name. They do not vote, or print, or even meet to-
gether. They do not know each other's faces or
names. They are united only in a common love of
truth, and love of its work. They are of all condi-
tions and constitutions. Of these acolytes, if some
are happily born and well bred, many are no doubt ill
dressed, ill placed, ill made with as many scars of
hereditary vice as other men. Without pomp, with-
out trumpet, in lonely and obscure places, in solitude,
in servitude, in compunctions and privations, trudg-

ing beside the team in the dusty road, or drudging a
hireling in other men's cornfields, schoolmasters, who
teach a few children rudiments for a pittance, minis-
ters of small parishes of the obscurer sects, lone
women in dependent condition, matrons and young
maidens, rich and poor, beautiful and hard-favored,
without concert or proclamation of any kind, they
have silently given in'their several adherence to a new
hope, and in all companies do signify a greater trust
in the nature and resources of man, than the laws
or the popular opinions will well allow.
This spirit of the time is felt by every individual
with some difference, to each one casting its light
upon the objects nearest to his temper and habits of
thought;- to one, coming in the shape of special
reforms in the state; to another, in modifications of
the various callings of men, and the customs of busi-
ness; to a third, opening a new scope for literature
and art; to a fourth, in philosophical insight; to a
fifth, in the vast solitudes of prayer. It is in every
form a protest against usage, and a search for prin-
ciples. In all its movements, it is peaceable, and in
the very lowest marked with a triumphant success.
Of course, it rouses the opposition of all which it
judges and condemns, but it is too confident in its
tone to comprehend an objection, and so builds no
outworks for possible defence against contingent
enemies. It has the step of Fate, and goes on exist-
ing like an oak or a river, because it must.
In literature, this influence appears not yet in new
books so much as in the higher tone of criticism. The
antidote to all narrowness is the comparison of the
record with nature, which at once shames the record
and stimulates to new attempts. Whilst we look at
this, we wonder how any book has been thought
worthy to be preserved. There is somewhat in all

life untranslatable into language. He who keeps his
eye on that will write better than others, and think
less of his writing, and of all writing. Every thought
has a certain imprisoning as well as uplifting-quality,
and, in proportion to its energy on the will, refuses
to become an object of intellectual contemplation.
Thus what is great usually slips through our fingers,
and it seems wonderful how a lifelike word ever
comes to be written. If our Journal share the im-
pulses of the time, it cannot now prescribe its own
course. It cannot foretell in orderly propositions
what it shall attempt. All criticism should be poetic;
unpredictable; superseding, as every new thought
does, all foregone thoughts, and making a new light
on the whole world. Its brow is not wrinkled with
circumspection, but serene, cheerful, adoring. It has
all things to say, and no less than all the world for
its final audience.
Our plan embraces much more than criticism; were
it not so, our criticism would be naught. Everything
noble is directed on life, and this is. We do not wish
to say pretty or curious things, or to reiterate a few
propositions in varied forms, but, if we can, to give
expression to that spirit which lifts men to a higher
platform, restores to them the religious sentiment,
brings them worthy aims and pure pleasures, purges
the inward eye, makes life less desultory, and, through
raising man to the level of nature, takes away its
melancholy from the landscape, and reconciles the
practical with the speculative powers.
But perhaps we are telling our little story too
gravely. There are always great arguments at hand
for a true action, even for the writing of a few pages.
There is nothing but seems near it and prompts it, -
the sphere in the ecliptic, the sap in the apple tree, -
every fact, every appearance seem to persuade to it.

Our means correspond with the ends we have indi-
cated. As we wish not to multiply books, but to re-
port life, our resources are therefore not so much the
pens of practised writers, as the discourse of the liv-
ing, and the portfolios which friendship has opened
to us. From the beautiful recesses of private
thought; from the experience and hope of spirits
which are withdrawing from all old forms, and seek-
ing in all that is new somewhat to meet their inappeas-
able longings; from the secret confession of genius
afraid to trust itself to aught but sympathy; from the
conversation of fervid and mystical pietists; from
tear-stained diaries of sorrow and passion; from the
manuscripts of young poets; and from the records of
youthful taste commenting on old works of art; we
hope to draw thoughts and feelings, which being alive
can impart life.
And so with diligent hands and good intent we set
down our Dial on the earth. We wish it may re-
semble that instrument in its celebrated happiness,
that of measuring no hours but those of sunshine.
Let it be one cheerful rational voice amidst the din
of mourners and polemics. Or to abide by our
chosen image, let it be such a Dial, not as the dead
face of a clock, hardly even such as the Gnomon in a
garden, but rather such a Dial as is the Garden itself,
in whose leaves and flowers and fruits the suddenly
awakened sleeper is instantly apprised not what part
of dead time, but what state of life and growth is
now arrived and arriving.


EVERY department of life at the present day,-
Trade, Politics, Letters, Science, Religion, seem
to feel, and to labor to express the identity of their
law. They are rays of one sun; they translate each
into a new language the sense of the other. They
are sublime when seen as emanations of a Necessity
contradistinguished from the vulgar Fate, by being
instant and alive, and dissolving man as well as his
works, in its flowing beneficence. This influence is
conspicuously visible in the principles and history of
On one side, in primary communication with abso-
lute truth, through thought and instinct, the human
mind tends by an equal necessity, on the other side,
to the publication and embodiment of its thought, -
modified and dwarfed by the impurity and untruth
which, in all our experience, injures the wonderful
medium through which it passes. The child not only
suffers, but cries; not only hungers, but eats. The
man not only thinks, but speaks and acts. Every
thought that arises in the mind, in its rising, aims to
pass out of the mind into act; just as every plant, in
the moment of germination, struggles up to light.
Thought is the seed of action; but action is as much
its second form as thought is its first. It rises in
thought to the end, that it may be uttered and acted.
The more profound the thought, the more burden-
some. Always in proportion to the depth of its sense


does it knock importunately at the gates of the soul,
to be spoken, to be done. What is in, will out. It
struggles to the birth. Speech is a great pleasure,
and action a great pleasure; they cannot be forborne.
The utterance of thought and emotion in speech
and action may be conscious or unconscious. The
sucking child is an unconscious actor. A man in an
ecstasy of fear or anger is an unconscious actor. A
large part of our habitual actions are unconsciously
done, and most of our necessary words are uncon-
sciously said.
The conscious utterance of thought, by speech or
action, to any end, is Art. From the first imitative
babble of a child to the despotism of eloquence; from
his first pile of toys or chip bridge, to the masonry
of Eddystone lighthouse or the Erie canal; from the
tattooing of the Owhyhees to the Vatican Gallery;
from the simplest expedient of private prudence to
the American Constitution; from its first to its last
works, Art is the spirit's voluntary use and combina-
tion of things to serve its end. The Will distin-
guishes it as spiritual action. Relatively to them-
selves, the bee, the bird, the beaver, have no art, for
what they do, they do instinctively; but relatively to
the Supreme Being, they have. And the same is true
of all unconscious action; relatively to the doer, it is
instinct; relatively to the First Cause, it is Art. In
this sense, recognizing the Spirit which informs Na-
ture, Plato rightly said, Those things which are said
to be done by Nature, are indeed done by Divine
Art." Art, universally, is the spirit creative. It was
defined by Aristotle, The reason of the thing, with-
out the matter," as he defined the art of ship-building
to be, All of the ship but the wood."
If we follow the popular distinction of works ac-
cording to their aim, we should say, the Spirit, in its


creation, aims at use or at beauty, and hence Art
divides itself into the Useful and the Fine Arts.
The useful arts comprehend not only those that lie
next to instinct, as agriculture, building, weaving,
&c., but also navigation, practical chemistry, and the
construction of all the grand and delicate tools and
instruments by which man serves himself; as lan-
guage; the watch; the ship; the decimal cipher; and
also the sciences, so far as they are made serviceable
to political economy.
The moment we begin to reflect on the pleasure we
receive from a ship, a railroad, a dry dock; or from a
picture, a dramatic representation, a statue, a poem,
we find that they have not a quite simple, but a
blended origin. We find that the question, What
is Art? leads us directly to another, Who is the
artist? and the solution of this is the key to the his-
tory of Art.
I hasten to state the principle which prescribes,
through different means, its firm law to the useful
and the beautiful arts. The law is this. The univer-
sal soul is the alone creator of the useful and the beau-
tiful; therefore to make anything useful or beautiful,
the individual must be submitted to the universal
In the first place, let us consider this in reference
to the useful arts. Here the omnipotent agent is Na-
ture; all human acts are satellites to her orb. Nature
is the representative of the universal mind, and the
law becomes this, that Art must be a complement
to nature, strictly subsidiary. It was said, in allusion
to the great structures of the ancient Romans, the
aqueducts and bridges, that their Art was a Na-
ture working to municipal ends." That is a true
account of all just works of useful art. Smeaton
built Eddystone lighthouse on the model of an oak


tree, as being the form in nature best designed to
resist a constant assailing force. Dollond formed his
achromatic telescope on the model of the human eye.
Duhamel built a bridge, by letting in a piece of
stronger timber for the middle of the under surface,
getting his hint from the structure of the shin-bone.
The first and last lesson of the useful arts is, that
nature tyrannizes over our works. They must be
conformed to her law, or they will be ground to pow-
der by her omnipresent activity. Nothing droll, noth-
ing whimsical will endure. Nature is ever interfer-
ing with Art. You cannot build your house or pa-
goda as you will, but as you must. There is a quick
bound set to our caprice. The leaning tower can only
lean so far. The verandah or pagoda roof can curve
upward only to a certain point. The slope of your
roof is determined by the weight of snow. It is only
within narrow limits that the discretion of the archi-
tect may range. Gravity, wind, sun, rain, the size
of men and animals, and such like, have more to say
than he. It is the law of fluids that prescribes the
shape of the boat, keel, rudder, and bows, and,
in the finer fluid above, the form and tackle of the
sails. Man seems to have no option about his tools,
but merely the necessity to learn from Nature what
will fit best, as if he were fitting a screw or a door.
Beneath a necessity thus almighty, what is artificial
in man's life seems insignificant. He seems to take
his task so minutely from intimations of Nature, that
his works become as it were hers, and he is no longer
But if we work within this limit, she yields us all
her strength. All powerful action is performed, by
bringing the forces of nature to bear upon our ob-
jects. We do not grind corn or lift the loom by our
own strength, but we build a mill in such a position


as to set the north wind to play upon our instrument,
or the elastic force of steam, or the ebb and flow of
the sea. So in our handiwork, we do few things by
muscular force, but we place ourselves in such atti-
tudes as to bring the force of gravity, that is, the
weight of the planet, to bear upon the spade or the
axe we wield. What is it that gives force to the blow
of the axe or crowbar? Is it the muscles of the labor-
er's arm, or is it the attraction of the whole globe
below it, on the axe or bar? In short, in all our opera-
tions we seek not to use our own, but to bring a quite
infinite force to bear.
Let us now consider this law as it affects the works
that have beauty for their end, that is, the produc-
tions of the Fine Arts.
Here again the prominent fact is subordination of
man. His art is the least part of his work of art. A
great deduction is to be made before we can know his
proper contribution to it.
Music, eloquence, poetry, painting, sculpture, arch-
itecture. This is a rough enumeration of the Fine
Arts. I omit rhetoric, which only respects the form
of eloquence and poetry. Architecture and eloquence
are mixed arts, whose end is sometimes beauty and
sometimes use.
It will be seen that in each of these arts there is
much which is not spiritual. Each has a material
basis, and in each the creating intellect is crippled
in some degree by the stuff on which it works. The
basis of poetry is language, which is material only on
one side. It is a demi-god. But being applied pri-
marily to the common necessities of man, it is not
new created by the poet for his own ends.
The basis of music is the qualities of the air and
the vibrations of sonorous bodies. The pulsation of
a stretched string or wire, gives the ear the pleasure


of sweet sound, before yet the musician has enhanced
this pleasure by concords and combinations.
Eloquence, as far as it is a fine art, is modified how
much by the material organization of the orator, the
tone of the voice, the physical strength, the play of
the eye and countenance! All this is so much deduc-
tion from the purely spiritual pleasure. All this is
so much deduction from the merit of Art, and is the
attribute of Nature.
In painting, bright colors stimulate the eye, before
yet they are harmonized into a landscape. In sculp-
ture and in architecture, the material, as marble or
granite; and in architecture, the mass, are sources
of great pleasure, quite independent of the artificial
arrangement. The art resides in the model, in the
plan, for it is on that the genius of the artist is ex-
pended, not on the statue, or the temple. Just as
much better as is the polished statue of dazzling mar-
ble than the clay model; or as much more impressive
as is the granite cathedral or pyramid thafi the
ground-plan or profile of them on paper, so much
more beauty owe they to Nature than to Art.
There is a still larger deduction to be made from
the genius of the artist in favor of Nature than I
have yet specified.
A jumble of musical sounds on a viol or a flute, in
which the rhythm of the tune is played without one
of the notes being right, gives pleasure to the unskil-
ful ear. A very coarse imitation of the human form
on canvas, or in wax-work,- a very coarse sketch
in colors of a landscape, in which imitation is all that
is attempted, these things give to unpractised eyes,
to the uncultured, who do not ask a fine spiritual de-
light, almost as much pleasure as a statue of Canova
or a picture of Titian.
And in the statue of Canova, or the picture of


Titian, these give the great part of the pleasure; they
are the basis on which the fine spirit rears a higher
delight, but to which these are indispensable.
Another deduction from the genius of the artist is
what is conventional in his art, of which there is much
in every work of art. Thus how much is there that
is not original in every particular building, in every
statue, in every tune, in every painting, in every poem,
in every harangue. Whatever is national or usual;
as the usage of building all Roman churches in the
form of a cross, the prescribed distribution of parts of
a theatre, the custom of draping a statue in classical
costume. Yet who will deny that the merely conven-
tional part of the performance contributes much to
its effect?
One consideration more exhausts, I believe, all the
deductions from the genius of the artist in any given
This is the adventitious. Thus the pleasure that a
noble temple gives us, is only in part owing to the
temple. It is exalted by the beauty of sunlight, by
the play of the clouds, by the landscape around it,
by its grouping with the houses, and trees, and tow-
ers, in its vicinity. The pleasure of eloquence is in
greatest part owing often to the stimulus of the occa-
sion which produces it; to the magic of sympathy,
which exalts the feeling of each, by radiating on him
the feeling of all.
The effect of music belongs how much to the place,
as the church, or the moonlight walk, or to the com-
pany, or, if on the stage, to what went before in
the play, or to the expectation of what shall come
In poetry, "It is tradition more than invention
helps the poet to a good fable." The adventitious
beauty of poetry may be felt in the greater delight


which a verse gives in happy quotation than in the
It is a curious proof of our conviction that the artist
does not feel himself to be the parent of his work.
and is as much surprised at the effect as we, that we
are so unwilling to impute our best sense of any work.
of art to the author. The very highest praise we can
attribute to any writer, painter, sculptor, builder, is,
that he actually possessed the thought or feeling with
which he has inspired us. We hesitate at doing Spen-
ser so great an honor as to think that he intended by
his allegory the sense we affix to it. We grudge to
Homer the wise human circumspection his commen-
tators ascribe to him. Even Shakspeare, of whom we
can believe everything, we think indebted to Goethe
and to Coleridge for the wisdom they detect in his
Hamlet and Anthony. Especially have we this in-
firmity of faith in contemporary genius. We fear
that Allston and Greenough did not foresee and de-
sign all the effect they produce on us.
Our arts are happy hits. We are like the musician
on the lake, whose melody is sweeter than he knows,
or like a traveller, surprised by a mountain echo,
whose trivial word returns to him in romantic thun-
In view of these facts, I say that the power of
Nature predominates over the human will in all
works of even the fine arts, in all that respects their
material and external circumstances. Nature paints
the best part of the picture; carves the best part of
the statue; builds the best part of the house; and
speaks the best part of the oration. For all the ad-
vantages to which I have adverted are such as the
artist did not consciously produce. He relied on their
aid, he put himself in the way to receive aid from
some of them, but he saw that his planting and his


watering waited for the sunlight of Nature, or was
Let us proceed to the consideration of the great
law stated in the beginning of this essay, as it affects
the purely spiritual part of a work of art.
As in useful art, so far as it is useful, the work must
be strictly subordinated to the laws of Nature, so as
to become a sort of continuation, and in no wise a
contradiction of Nature; so in art that aims at beauty
as an end, must the parts be subordinated to Ideal
Nature, and everything individual abstracted, so that
it shall be the production of the universal soul.
The artist, who is to produce a work which is to be
admired not by his friends or his townspeople, or his
contemporaries, but by all men; and which is to be
more beautiful to the eye in proportion to its culture,
must disindividualize himself, and be a man of no
party, and no manner, and no age, but one through
whom the soul of all men circulates, as the common
air through his lungs. He must work in the spirit
in which we conceive a prophet to speak, or an angel
of the Lord to act, that is, he is not to speak his own
words, or do his own works, or think his own thoughts,
but he is to be an organ through which the universal
mind acts.
In speaking of the useful arts, I pointed to the
fact, that we do not dig, or grind, or hew, by our
muscular strength, but by bringing the weight of
the planet to bear on the spade, axe, or bar. Pre-
cisely analogous to this, in the fine arts, is the man-
ner of our intellectual work. We aim to hinder our
individuality from acting. So much as we can shove
aside our egotism, our prejudice, and will, and bring
the omniscience of reason upon the subject before us,
so perfect is the work. The wonders of Shakspeare
are things which he saw whilst he stood aside, and then


returned to record them. The poet aims at getting
observations without aim; to subject to thought
things seen without (voluntary) thought.
In eloquence, the great triumphs of the art are,
when the orator is lifted above himself; when con-
sciously he makes himself the mere tongue of the oc-
casion and the hour, and says what cannot but be said.
Hence the French phrase l'abandon, to describe the
self-surrender of the orator. Not his will, but the
principle on which he is horsed, the great connection
and crisis of events thunder in the ear of the crowd.
In poetry, where every word is free, every word is
necessary. Good poetry could not have been other-
wise written than it is. The first time you hear it, it
sounds rather as if copied out of some invisible tablet
in the Eternal mind, than as if arbitrarily composed
by the poet. The feeling of all great poets has ac-
corded with this. They found the verse, not made it.
The muse brought it to them.
In sculpture, did ever anybody call the Apollo a
fancy piece? Or say of the Laocoin how it might
be made different? A masterpiece of art has in the
mind a fixed place in the chain of being, as much as a
plant or a crystal.
The whole language of men, especially of artists,
in reference to this subject, points at the belief, that
every work of art, in proportion to its excellence, par-
takes of the precision of fate; no room was there for
choice; no play for fancy; for the moment, or in the
successive moments, when that form was seen, the
iron lids of Reason were unclosed, which ordinarily
are heavy with slumber: that the individual mind
became for the moment the vent of the mind of hu-
There is but one Reason. The mind that made the
world is not one mind, but the, mind. Every man is


an inlet to the same, and to all of the same. And
every work of art is a more or less pure manifestation
of the same. Therefore we arrive at this conclusion,
which I offer as a confirmation of the whole view:
That the delight, which a work of art affords, seems
to arise from our recognizing in it the mind that
formed Nature again in active operation.
It differs from the works of Nature in this, that
they are organically reproductive. This is not: but
spiritually it is prolific by its powerful action on the
intellects of men.
In confirmation of this view, let me refer to the
fact, that a study of admirable works of art always
sharpens the perceptions of the beauty of Nature;
that a certain analogy reigns throughout the wonders
of both; that the contemplation of a work of great
art draws us into a state of mind which may be called
religious. It conspires with all exalted sentiments.
Proceeding from absolute mind, whose nature is
goodness as much as truth, they are always attuned
to moral nature. If the earth and sea conspire with
virtue more than vice, so do the masterpieces of
art. The galleries of ancient sculpture in Naples
and Rome strike no deeper conviction into the mind
than the contrast of the purity, the severity, expressed
in these fine old heads, with the frivolity and gross-
ness of the mob that exhibits, and the mob that gazes
at them. These are the countenances of the first-born,
the face of man in the morning of the world. No
mark is on these lofty features of sloth, or luxury, or
meanness, and they surprise you with a moral admoni-
tion, as they speak of nothing around you, but re-
mind you of the fragrant thoughts and the purest re-
solutions of your youth.
Herein is the explanation of the analogies which
exist in all the arts. They are the reappearance of


one mind, working in many materials to many tem-
porary ends. Raphael paints wisdom; Handel sings
it, Phidias carves it, Shakspeare writes it, Wren
builds it, Columbus sails it, Luther preaches it,
Washington arms it, Watt mechanizes it. Painting
was called "silent poetry; and poetry "speaking
painting." The laws of each art are convertible into
the laws of every other.
Herein we have an explanation of the necessity that
eigns in all the kingdom of art.
Arising out of eternal reason, one and perfect,
whatever is beautiful rests on the foundation of the
necessary. Nothing is arbitrary, nothing is insulated
in beauty. It depends forever on the necessary and
the useful. The plumage of the bird, the mimic plu-
mage of the insect, has a reason for its rich colors in
the constitution of the animal. Fitness is so insepa-
rable an accompaniment of beauty, that it has been
taken for it. The most perfect form to answer an
end, is so far beautiful. In the mind of the artist,
could we enter there, we should see the sufficient rea-
son for the last flourish and tendril of his work, just
as every tint and spine in the sea-shell preexists in
the secreting organs of the fish. We feel, in seeing
a noble building, which rhymes well, as we do in
hearing a perfect song, that it is spiritually organic,
that is, had a necessity in nature, for being, was one
of the possible forms in the Divine mind, and is now
only discovered and executed by the artist, not arbi-
trarily composed by him.
And so every genuine work of art has as much
reason for being as the earth and the sun. The gay-
est charm of beauty has a root in the constitution of
things. The Iliad of Homer, the songs of David,
the odes of Pindar, the tragedies of IEschylus, the
Doric temples, the Gothic cathedrals, the plays of


Shakspeare, were all made not for sport, but in grave
earnest, in tears, and smiles of suffering and loving
Viewed from this point, the history of Art becomes
intelligible, and, moreover, one of the most agreeable
studies in the world. We see how each work of art
sprang irresistibly from necessity, and, moreover,
took its form from the broad hint of Nature. Beau-
tiful in this wise is the obvious origin of all the known
orders of architecture, namely, that they were th
idealizing of the primitive abodes of each people.
Thus the Doric temple still presents the semblance of
the wooden cabin, in which the Dorians dwelt. The
Chinese pagoda is plainly a Tartar tent. The Indian
and Egyptian temples still betray the mounds and
subterranean houses of their forefathers. The Gothic
church plainly originated in a rude adaptation of for-
est trees, with their boughs on, to a festal or solemn
edifice, as the bands around the cleft pillars still indi-
cate the green withs that tied them. No one can
walk in a pine barren, in one of the paths which the
woodcutters make for their teams, without being
struck with the architectural appearance of the grove,
especially in winter, when the bareness of all other
trees shows the low arch of the Saxons. In the
woods, in a winter afternoon, one will see as readily
the origin of the stained glass window with which the
Gothic cathedrals are adorned, in the colors of the
western sky, seen through the bare and crossing
branches of the forest. Nor, I think, can any lover of
nature enter the old piles of Oxford and the English
cathedrals, without feeling that the forest overpow-
ered the mind of the builder, with its ferns, its spikes
of flowers, its locust, its oak, its pine, its fir, its
spruce. The cathedral is a blossoming in stone, sub-
dued by the insatiable demand of harmony in man.


The mountain of granite blooms into an eternal
flower, with the lightness and delicate finish, as well
as aerial proportions and perspective of vegetable
There was no wilfulness in the savages in this per-
petuating of their first rude abodes. The first form
in which they built a house would be the first form of
their public and religious edifice also. This form be-
comes immediately sacred in the eyes of their children,
and the more so, as more traditions cluster round it,
and is, therefore, imitated with more splendor in each
succeeding generation.
In like manner, it has been remarked by Goethe,
that the granite breaks into parallelopipeds, which,
broken in two, one part would be an obelisk; that in
Upper Egypt the inhabitants would naturally mark
a memorable spot by setting up so conspicuous a
stone. Again, he suggested we may see in any stone
wall, on a fragment of rock, the projecting veins of
harder stone, which have resisted the action of frost
and water, which has decomposed the rest. This ap-
pearance certainly gave the hint of the hieroglyphics
inscribed on their obelisk. The amphitheatre of the
old Romans, any one may see its origin, who looks
at the crowd running together to see any fight, sick-
ness, or odd appearance in the street. The first
comers gather round in a circle; those behind stand
on tiptoe; and further back they climb on fences or
window sills, and so make a cup of which the object
of attention occupies the hollow area. The architect
put benches in this order, and enclosed the cup with
a wall, and behold a coliseum.
It would be easy to show of very many fine things
in the world, in the customs of nations, the etiquette
of courts, the constitution of governments, the origin
in very simple local necessities. Heraldry, for exam-


pie, and the ceremonies of a coronation, are a splen-
did burlesque of the occurrences that might befal a
dragoon and his footboy. The College of Cardinals
were originally the parish priests of Rome. The
leaning towers originated from the civil discords
which induced every lord to build a tower. Then it
became a point of family pride, and for pride a
leaning tower was built.
This strict dependence of art upon material and
ideal nature, this adamantine necessity, which it un-
derlies, has made all its past, and may foreshow its
future history. It never was in the power of any
man, or any community, to call the arts into being.
They come to serve his actual wants, never to please
his fancy. These arts have their origin always in
some enthusiasm, as love, patriotism, or religion.
Who carved marble? The believing man, who wished
to symbolize their gods to the waiting Greeks.
The Gothic cathedrals were built, when the builder
and the priest and the people were overpowered by
their faith. Love and fear laid every stone. The
Madonnas of Raphael and Titian were made to be
worshipped. Tragedy was instituted for the like
purpose, and the miracles of music; all sprang out
of some genuine enthusiasm, and never out of dilet-
tantism and holidays. But now they languish, be-
cause their purpose is merely exhibition. Who cares,
who knows what works of art our government have
ordered to be made for the capitol? They are a mere
flourish to please the eye of persons who have asso-
ciations with books and galleries. But in Greece,
the Demos of Athens divided into political factions
upon the merits of Phidias.
In this country, at this time, other interests than
religion and patriotism are predominant, and the
arts, the daughters of enthusiasm, do not flourish.

The genuine offspring of our ruling passions we be-
hold. Popular institutions, the school, the reading
room, the post office, the exchange, the insurance
company, and an immense harvest of economical in-
ventions, are the fruit of the equality and the bound-
less liberty of lucrative callings. These are super-
ficial wants; and their fruits are these superficial in-
stitutions. But as far as they accelerate the end of
political freedom and national education, they are
preparing the soil of man for fairer flowers and fruits
in another age. For beauty, truth, and goodness are
not obsolete; they spring eternal in the breast of
man; they are as indigenous in Massachusetts as in
Tuscany, or the Isles of Greece. And that Eternal
Spirit, whose triple face they are, moulds from them
forever, for his mortal child, images to remind him of
the Infinite and Fair.


WHAT we know is a point to what we do not
know." The first questions are still to be asked. Let
any man bestow a thought on himself, how he came
hither, and whither he tends, and he will find that all
the literature, all the philosophy that is on record,
have done little to dull the edge of inquiry. The
globe that swims so silently with us through the sea
of space, has never a port, but with its little convoy
of friendly orbs pursues its voyage through the signs
of heaven, to renew its navigation again forever.
The wonderful tidings our glasses and calendars give
us concerning the hospitable lights that hang around
us in the deep, do not appease but inflame our curios-
ity; and in like manner, our culture does not lead to
any goal, but its richest results of thought and action
are only new preparation.
Here on the surface of our swimming earth we
come out of silence into society already formed, into
language, customs, and traditions, ready made, and
the multitude of our associates discountenance us
from expressing any surprise at the somewhat agree-
able novelty of Being, and frown down any intima-
tion on our part of a disposition to assume our own
vows, to preserve our independence, and to institute
any inquiry into the sweet and sublime vision which
surrounds us.
And yet there seems no need that any should fear
we should grow too wise. The path of truth has ob-

stacles enough of its own. We dwell on the surface
of nature. We dwell amidst surfaces; and surface
aps so closely on surface, that we cannot easily pierce
o see the interior organism. Then the subtlety of
things! Under every cause, another cause. Truth
oars too high or dives too deep for the most resolute
'nquirer. See of how much we know nothing. See
he strange position of man. Our science neither
comprehends him as a whole, nor any one of its par-
iculars. See the action and reaction of Will and
Tecessity. See his passions, and their origin in the
eeps of nature and circumstance. See the Fear that
ides even the brave. See the omnipresent Hope,
whose fountains in our consciousness no metaphysi-
cian can find. Consider the phenomenon of Laugh-
ter, and explore the elements of the Comic. What
do we know of the mystery of Music? and what of
Form? why this stroke, this outline should express
beauty, and that other not? See the occult region of
Demonology, with coincidence, foresight, dreams,
and omens. Consider the appearance 'of Death, the
formidable secret of our destiny, looming up as the
barrier of nature.
Our ignorance is great enough, and yet the fact
most surprising is not our ignorance, but the aversa-
tion of men from knowledge. That which, one would
say, would unite all minds and join all hands, the am-
bition to push as far as fate would permit, the planted
garden of man on every hand into the kingdom of
Night, really fires the heart of few and solitary men.
Tell men to study themselves, and for the most part,
they find nothing less interesting. Whilst we walk
environed before and behind with Will, Fate, Hope,
Fear, Love, and Death, these phantoms or angels,
whom we catch at but cannot embrace, it is droll to
see the contentment and incuriosity of man. All

take for granted,- the learned as well as the un-
learned, that a great deal, nay, almost all, is known
and forever settled. But in truth all is now to be
begun, and every new mind ought to take the at-
titude of Columbus, launch out from the gapin
loiterers on the shore, and sail west for a ne
This profound ignorance, this deep sleep of th
higher faculties of man, coexists with a great abun-
dance of what are called the means of learning, great
activity of book-making, and of formal teaching.
Go into one of our public libraries, when a new box
of books and journals has arrived with the usual im-
portation of the periodical literature of England.
The best names of Britain are on the covers. What
a mass of literary production for a single week or
month! We speculate upon it before we read. We
say, what an invention is the press and the journal,
by which a hundred pale students, each a hive of dis-
tilled flowers of learning, of thought, each a poet,
- each an accomplished man whom the selectest in-
fluences have joined to breed and enrich, are made to
unite their manifold streams for the information and
delight of everybody who can read! How lame is
speech, how imperfect the communication of the an-
cient Harper, wandering from castle to hamlet, to
sing to a vagrant audience his melodious thoughts!
These unopened books contain the chosen verses of a
hundred minstrels, born, living, and singing in distant
countries and different languages; for, the intellec-
tual wealth of the world, like its commercial, rolls to
London, and through that great heart is hurled again
to the extremities. And here, too, is the result, not
poetic, of how much thought, how much experience,
and how much suffering of wise and cultivated men!
How can we in America expect books of our own,

whilst this bale of wisdom arrives once or twice in a
month at our ports?
In this mind we open the books, and begin to read.
We find they are books about books; and then per-
haps the book criticized was itself a compilation or
digest of others; so that the page we read is at third
or fourth hand from the event or sentiment which it
describes. Then we find that much the largest pro-
portion of the pages relates exclusively to matter of
fact to the superficial fact, and, as if systemati-
cally, shuns any reference to a thought or law which
the fact indicated. A large part again, both of the
prose and verse, is gleanings from old compositions,
and the oft repeated praise of such is repeated in the
phrase of the present day. We have even the morti-
fication to find one more deduction still from our an-
ticipated prize, namely, that a large portion of osten-
tatious criticism is merely a hired advertisement of
the great booksellers. In the course of our turning
of leaves, we fall at last on an extraordinary passage
- a record of thought and virtue, or a clarion strain
of poetry, or perchance a traveller makes us ac-
quainted with strange modes of life and some relic of
primeval religion, or, rarer yet, a profound sentence
is here printed shines here new but eternal on these
linen pages, we wonder whence it came, or per-
haps trace it instantly home aut Erasmus aut Dia-
bolus to the only head it could come from.
A few thoughts are all we glean from the best in-
spection of the paper pile; all the rest is combination
and confectionary. A little part abides in our mem-
ory, and goes to exalt the sense of duty, and make us
happier. For the rest, our heated expectation is
chilled and disappointed. Some indirect benefit will
no doubt accrue. If we read with braced and active
mind, we learn this negative fact, itself a piece of

human life. We contrast this mountain of dross with
the grains of gold, we oversee the writer, and learn
somewhat of the laws of writing. But a lesson as
good we might be learning elsewhere.
Now what is true of a month's or a year's issue of
new books, seems to me with a little qualification true
of the age. The stock-writers, (for the honesty of
the literary class has given this population a name,)
vastly outnumber the thinking men. One man, two
men,- possibly, three or four, have cast behind
them the long-descended costume of the academy,
and the expectations of fashion, and have said, This
world is too fair, this world comes home too near to
me than that I should walk a stranger in it, and live
at second-hand, fed by other men's doctrines, or tread-
ing only in their steps; I feel a higher right herein,
and will hearken to the Oracle myself. Such have
perceived the extreme poverty of literature, have
seen that there was not and could not be help for the
fervent soul, except through its own energy. But
the great number of those who have voluminously
ministered to the popular tastes were men of talents,
who had some feat which each could do with words,
but who have not added to wisdom or to virtue. Tal-
ent amuses; Wisdom instructs. Talent shows me
what another man can do; Genius acquaints me with
the spacious circuits of the common nature. One is
carpentry; the other is growth. To make a step into
the world of thought is now given to but few men;
to make a second step beyond the first, only one in a
country can do; but to carry the thought on to three
steps, marks a great teacher. Aladdin's palace with
its one unfinished window, which all the gems in the
royal treasury cannot finish in the style of the mean-
est of the profusion of jewelled windows that were
built by the Genie in a night, is but too true an image

of the efforts of talent to add one verse to the copious
text which inspiration writes by one or another scribe
from age to age.
It is not that the literary class or those for whom
they write, are not lovers of truth, and amenable to
principles. All are so. The hunger of men for truth
is immense; but they are not erect on their feet; the
senses are too strong for the soul. Our senses bar-
barize us. When the ideal world recedes before the
senses, we are on a retrograde march. The savage
surrenders to his senses; he is subject to paroxysms
of joy and fear; he is lewd, and a drunkard. The
Esquimaux in the exhilaration of the morning sun,
when he is invigorated by sleep, will sell his bed. He
is the fool of the moment's sensations to the degree
of losing sight of the whole amount of his sensations
in so many years. And there is an Esquimaux in
every man which makes us believe in the permanence
of this moment's state of our game more than our
own experience will warrant. In the fine day we
despise the house. At sea, the passengers always
judge from the weather of the present moment of
the probable length of the voyage. In a fresh
breeze, they are sure of a good run; becalmed, they
are equally sure of a long passage. In trade, the
momentary state of the markets betrays continually
the experienced and long-sighted. In politics, and
in our opinion of the prospects of society, we are in
like manner the slaves of the hour. Meet one or two
malignant declaimers, and we are weary of life, and
distrust the permanence of good institutions. A sin-
gle man in a ragged coat at an election looks revolu-
tionary. But ride in a stage-coach with one or two
benevolent persons in good spirits, and the Republic
seems to us safe.
It is but an extension of the despotism of sense, -

shall I say, only a calculated sensuality,- a little
more comprehensive devotion which subjugates the
eminent and the reputed wise, and hinders an ideal
culture. In the great stakes which the leaders of
society esteem not at all fanciful but solid, in the bes
reputed professions and operations, what is there
which will bear the scrutiny of reason? The most
active lives have so much routine as to preclude prog-
ress almost equally with the most inactive. We defer
to the noted merchants whose influence is felt not only
in their native cities, but in most parts of the globe;
but our respect does them and ourselves great injus-
tice, for their trade is without system, their affairs
unfold themselves after no law of the mind; but are
bubble built on bubble without end; a work of arith-
metic, not of commerce, much less of considerate
humanity. They add voyage to voyage, and buy
stocks that they may buy stocks, and no ulterior pur-
pose is thought of. When you see their dexterity in
particulars, you cannot overestimate the resources of
good sense, and when you find how empty they are
of all remote aims, you cannot underestimate their
The men of letters and the professions we have
charged with the like surrender to routine. It is no
otherwise with the men of office. Statesmen are soli-
tary. At no time do they form a class. Govern-
ments, for the most part, are carried on by political
merchants quite without principle, and according to
the maxims of trade and huckster; so that what is
true of merchants is true of public officers. Why
should we suffer ourselves to be cheated by sounding
names and fair shows? The titles, the property, the
notoriety, the brief consequence of our fellows are
only the decoration of the sacrifice, and add to the
melancholy of the observer.

"The earth goes on the earth glittering with gold,
The earth goes to the earth sooner than it should,
The earth builds on the earth castles and towers,
The earth says to the earth, all this is ours."

All this is covered up by the speedy succession of the
particulars, which tread so close on each other's heel,
as to allow no space for the man to question the whole
thing. There is somewhat terrific in this mask of
routine. Captain Franklin, after six weeks travelling
on the ice to the North Pole, found himself two hun-
dred miles south of the spot he had set out from. The
ice had floated; and we sometimes start to think we
are spelling out the same sentences, saying the same
words, repeating the same acts as in former years.
Our ice may float also.
This preponderance of the senses can we balance
and redress? Can we give permanence to the light-
nings of thought which lick up in a moment these
combustible mountains of sensation and custom, and
reveal the moral order after which the world is to be
rebuilt anew? Grave questions truly, but such as
leave us no option. To know the facts is already a
choosing of sides, ranges us on the party of Light
and Reason, sounds the signal for the strife, and
prophesies an end to the insanity and a restoration of
the balance and rectitude of man.


THE more liberal thought of intelligent persons
acquires a new name in each period or community;
and in ours, by no very good luck, as it sometimes
appears to us, has been designated as Transcenden-
talism. We have every day occasion to remark its
perfect identity, under whatever new phraseology or
application to new facts, with the liberal thought of
all men of a religious and contemplative habit in other
times and countries. We were lately so much struck
with two independent testimonies to this fact, pro-
ceeding from persons, one in sympathy with the
Quakers, and the other with the Calvinistic Church,
that we have begged the privilege to transcribe an
extract from two private letters, in order that we
might bring them together.
The Calvinist writes to his Correspondent after this
All the peculiarities of the theology, denominated
Trinitarian, are directly or indirectly transcendental.
The sinfulness of man involves the supposition of a
nature in man, which transcends all limits of animal
life and of social moralities. The reality of spirit, in
the highest sense of that holy word, as the essence of
God and the inward ground and law of man's being
and doing, is supposed both in the fact of sin, and
the possibility of redemption from sin. The mystery
of the Father revealed only in the Son as the Word
of Life, the Light which illumines every man, out-


wardly in the incarnation and offering for sin, in-
wardly as the Christ in us, energetic and quickening
in the inspirations of the Holy Spirit,- the great
mystery wherein we find redemption, this, like the
rest, is transcendental. So throughout, as might be
shown by the same induction suggested in relation
to another aspect of the matter. Now here is my
point. Trinitarians, whose whole system from begin-
ning to end is transcendental, ideal,- an idea is the
highest truth, war against the very foundations of
whatever is transcendental, ideal; all must be empiric,
sensuous, inductive. A system, which used to create
and sustain the most fervid enthusiasm, as is its na-
ture, for it makes God all in all, leads in crusade
against all even the purest and gentlest enthusiasm.
It fights for the letter of Orthodoxy, for usage, for
custom, for tradition, against the Spirit as it breathes
like healing air through the damps and unwholesome
swamps, or like strong wind throwing down rotten
trees and rotten frameworks of men. It builds up
with one hand the Temple of Truth on the outside;
and with the other works as in frenzy to tear up its
very foundations. So has it seemed to me. The
transcendentalists do not err in excess but in defect,
if I understand the case. They do not hold wild
dreams for realities; the vision is deeper, broader,
more spiritual than they have seen. They do not be-
lieve with too strong faith; their faith is too dim of
sight, too feeble of grasp, too wanting in certainty.
I regret that they should ever seem to undervalue the
Scriptures. For those scriptures have flowed out of
the same spirit which is in every pure heart; and I
would have the one spirit recognize and respond to
itself under all the multiform shapes of word, of deed,
of faith, of love, of thought, of affection, in which
it is enrobed; just as that spirit in us recognizes and


responds to itself now in the gloom of winter, now in
the cheer of summer, now in the bloom of spring, now
in the maturity of autumn; and in all the endless
varieties of each."
The Friend writes thus.
Hold fast, I beseech you, to the resolution to wait
for light from the Lord. Go not to men for a creed,
faint not, but be of good courage. The darkness is
only for a season. We must be willing to tarry the
Lord's time in the wilderness, if we would enter the
Promised Land. The purest saints that I have ever
known were long, very long, in darkness and in doubt.
Even when they had firm faith, they were long with-
out feeling what they believed in. One told me he
was two years in chaotic darkness, without an inch of
firm ground to stand upon, watching for the day-
spring from on high, and after this long probation
it shone upon his path, and he has walked by its light
for years. Do not fear or regret your isolation from
men, your difference from all around you. It is often
necessary to the enlargement of the soul that it should
thus dwell alone for a season, and when the mystical
union of God and man shall be completely developed,
and you feel yourself newly born a child of light, one
of the sons of God, you will also feel new ties to your
fellow men; you will love them all in God, and each
will be to you whatever their state will permit them
to be.
"It is very interesting to me to see, as I do, all
around me here, the essential doctrines of the Quakers
revived, modified, stript of all that puritanism and
sectarianism had heaped upon them, and made the
foundation of an intellectual philosophy, that is illu-
minating the finest minds and reaches the wants of
the least cultivated. The more I reflect upon the
Quakers, the more I admire the early ones, and am


surprised at their being so far in advance of their age,
but they have educated the world till it is now able
to go beyond those teachers.
Spiritual growth, which they considered at vari-
ance with intellectual culture, is now wedded to it,
and man's whole nature is advanced. The intellectual
had so lorded it over the moral, that much onesided
cultivation was requisite to make things even. I re-
member when your intellect was all in all, and the
growth of the moral sense came after. It has now
taken its proper place in your mind, and the intellect
appears for a time prostrate, but in due season both
will go on harmoniously, and you will be a perfect
man. If you suffer more than many before coming
into the light, it is because your character is deeper
and your happy enlargement will be proportioned
to it."
The identity, which the writer of this letter finds
between the speculative opinions of serious persons
at the present moment, and those entertained by the
first Quakers, is indeed so striking as to have drawn
a very general attention of late years to the history of
that sect. Of course, in proportion to the depth
of the experience, will be its independence on time
and circumstances, yet one can hardly read George
Fox's Journal, or Sewel's History of the Quakers,
without many a rising of joyful surprise at the corre-
spondence of facts and expressions to states of
thought and feeling, with which we are very familiar.
The writer justly remarks the equal adaptation of
the philosophy in question "to the finest minds, and
to the least cultivated." And so we add in regard
to these works, that quite apart from the pleasure
of reading modern history in old books, the reader
will find another reward in the abundant illustration
they furnish to the fact, that wherever the religious


enthusiasm makes its appearance, it supplies the place
of poetry and philosophy and of learned discipline,
and inspires by itself the same vastness of thinking;
so that in learning the religious experiences of a
strong but untaught mind, you seem to have sug-
gested in turn all the sects of the philosophers.
We seize the occasion to adorn our pages with the
dying speech of James Naylor, one of the compan-
ions of Fox, who had previously been for eight years
a common soldier in the army. Its least service wil
be to show how far the religious sentiment could exalt
the thinking and purify the language of the most
uneducated men.
There is a spirit which I feel," said James Naylor
a few hours before his death, that delights to do no
evil, nor to revenge any wrong, but delights to endure
all things, in hope to enjoy its own in the end. Its
hope is to outlive all wrath and contention, and to
weary out all exultation and cruelty, or whatever is
of a nature contrary to itself. It sees to the end of
all temptations. As it bears no evil in itself, so it
conceives none in thought to any other. If it be be-
trayed, it bears it; for its ground and spring is the
mercies and forgiveness of God. Its crown is meek-
ness, its life is everlasting love unfeigned, and it takes
its kingdom with entreaty, and keeps it by lowliness
of mind. In God alone it can rejoice, though none
else regard it, or can own its life. It is conceived in
sorrow, and brought forth without any to pity it; nor
doth it murmur at grief and oppression. It never
rejoiceth but through sufferings; for with the world's
joy it is murdered. I found it alone being forsaken.
I have fellowship therein with them who lived in dens
and desolate places of the earth, who through death
obtained this resurrection and eternal holy life."


JULY, 1842

WE commence in the present number the printing
of a series of selections from the oldest ethical and re-
ligous writings of men, exclusive of the Hebrew and
Greek Scriptures. Each nation has its bible more or
less pure; none has yet been willing or able in a wise
and devout spirit to collate its own with those of other
nations, and sinking the civil-historical and the ritual
portions to bring together the grand expressions of
the moral sentiment in different ages and races, the
rules for the guidance of life, the bursts of piety and
of abandonment to the Invisible and Eternal;- a
work inevitable sooner or later, and which we hope is
to be done by religion and not by literature.
The following sentences are taken from Charles
Wilkins's translation of the Heetopades or Amicable
Instructions of Veeshnoo Sarma, according to Sir
William Jones, the most beautiful, if not the most an-
cient collection of apologues in the world, and the
original source of the book, which passes in the modern
languages of Europe and America, under the false
name of Pilpay.


Whatsoever cometh to pass, either good or evil,
is the consequence of a man's own actions, and de-
scendeth from the power of the Supreme Ruler.


Our lives are for the purposes of religion, labor,
love, and salvation. If these are destroyed, what is
not lost? If these are preserved, what is not pre-

A wise man should relinquish both his wealth and
his life for another. All is to be surrendered for a
just man when he is reduced to the brink of destruc-

Why dost thou hesitate over this perishable body
composed of flesh, bones, and excrements? 0 my
friend, [my body,] support my reputation!

If constancy is to be obtained by inconstancy, pu-
rity by impurity, reputation by the body, then what
is there which may not be obtained?

The difference between the body and the qualities
is infinite; the body is a thing to be destroyed in a
moment, whilst the qualities endure to the end of the

Is this one of us, or is he a stranger? is the enumera-
tion of the ungenerous; but to those by whom liber-
ality is practised, the whole world is but as one

Fortune attendeth that lion amongst men who ex-
erteth himself. They are weak men who declare Fate
the sole cause.

It is said, Fate is nothing but the deeds committed
in a former state of existence; wherefore it behoveth
a man vigilantly to exert the powers he is possessed


The stranger, who turneth away from a house with
disappointed hopes, leaveth there his own offences
and departeth, taking with him all the good actions
of the owner.

Hospitality is to be exercised even towards an
enemy when he cometh to thine house. The tree does
not withdraw its shade even from the wood-cutter.

Of all men thy guest is the superior.

The mind of a good man does not alter when he is
in distress; the waters of the ocean are not to be
heated by a torch of straw.

Nor bathing with cool water, nor a necklace of
pearls, nor anointing with sanders, yieldeth such com-
fort to the body oppressed with heat, as the language
of a good man cheerfully uttered doth to the mind.

Good men extend their pity even unto the most
espicable animals. The moon doth not withhold the
ight, even from the cottage of a Chandala.

Those who have forsaken the killing of all; those
who are helpmates to all; those who are a sanctuary
to all; those men are in the way to heaven.

Behold the difference between the one who eateth
flesh, and him to whom it belonged. The first hath a
momentary enjoyment, whilst the latter is deprived
of existence.

Who would commit so great a crime against a poor
animal, who is fed only by the herbs which grow wild
in the woods, and whose belly is burnt up with hunger?


Every book of knowledge, which is known to Oos-
ana or to Vreehaspatee, is by nature planted in the
understanding of women.

The beauty of the Kokeela is his voice; the beauty
of a wife is constancy to her husband; the beauty of
the ill-favored is science; the beauty of the penitent is

What is too great a load for those who have
strength? What is distance to the indefatigable?
What is a foreign country to those who have science?
Who is a stranger to those who have the habit of
speaking kindly?

Time drinketh up the essence of every great and
noble action, which ought to be performed and is de-
layed in the execution.

When Nature is forsaken by her lord, be she ever
so great, she doth not survive.

Suppose thyself a river, and a holy pilgrimage in
the land of Bharata, of which truth is the water, good
actions the banks, and compassion the current; and
then, 0 son of Pandoo, wash thyself therein, fo
the inward soul is not to be purified by common

As frogs to the pool, as birds to a lake full of water,
so doth every species of wealth flow to the hands o
him who exerteth himself.

If we are rich with the riches which we neither
give nor enjoy, we are rich with the riches which are
buried in the caverns of the earth.


He whose mind is at ease is possessed of all riches.
Is it not the same to one whose foot is enclosed in a
shoe, as if the whole surface of the earth were covered
with leather?

Where have they, who are running here and there
in search of riches, such happiness as those placid
spirits enjoy who are gratified at the immortal foun-
tain of happiness?

All hath been read, all iath been heard, and all
hath been followed by him who, having put hope be-
hind him, dependeth not upon expectation.

What is religion? Compassion for all things which
have life. What is happiness? To animals in this
world, health. What is kindness? A principle in the
good. What is philosophy? An entire separation
from the world.

To a hero of sound mind, what is his own, and what
a foreign country? Wherever he halteth, that place
is acquired by the splendor of his arms.

When pleasure is arrived, it is worthy of attention;
when trouble presenteth itself, the same; pains and
pleasures have their revolutions like a wheel.

One, although not possessed of a mine of gold, may
find the offspring of his own nature, that noble ardor
which hath for its object the accomplishment of the
whole assemblage of virtues.

Man should not be over-anxious for a subsistence,
for it is provided by the Creator. The infant no

sooner droppeth from the womb, than the breasts of
the mother begin to stream.

He, by whom geese were made white, parrots are
stained green, and peacocks painted of various hues,
- even he will provide for their support.

He, whose inclination turneth away from an object,
may be said to have obtained it.

JULY, 1842
THE increasing zeal and numbers of the disciples of
Fourier, in America and in Europe, entitle them to an
attention which their theory and practical projects
will justify and reward. In London, a good weekly
newspaper (lately changed into a monthly journal)
called The Phalanx," devoted to the social doctrines
of Charles Fourier, and bearing for its motto, Asso-
ciation and Colonization," is edited by Hugh Doherty.
Mr. Etzler's inventions, as described in the Phalanx,
promise to cultivate twenty thousand acres with the
aid of four men only and cheap machinery. 'Thus the
laborers are threatened with starvation, if they do not
organize themselves into corporations, so that ma-
chinery may labor for instead of working against
them. It appears that Mr. Young, an Englishman
of large property, has purchased the Benedictine
Abbey of Citeaux, in the Mont d'Or, in France, with
its ample domains, for the purpose of establishing a
colony there. We also learn that some members of
the sect have bought an estate at Santa Catharina,
fifty miles from Rio Janeiro, in a good situation for
an agricultural experiment, and one hundred laborers
have sailed from Havre to that port, and nineteen
hundred more are to follow. On the anniversary of
the birthday of Fourier, which occurred in April,
public festivals were kept by the Socialists in London,
in Paris, and in New York. In the city of New
York, the disciples of Fourier have bought a column


in the Daily Tribune, Horace Greeley's excellent
newspaper, whose daily and weekly circulation ex-
ceeds twenty thousand copies, and through that organ
are now diffusing their opinions.
We had lately an opportunity of learning some-
thing of these Socialists and their theory from the
indefatigable apostle of the sect in New York, Albert
Brisbane. Mr. Brisbane pushes his doctrine with
all the force of memory, talent, honest faith, and im-
portunacy. As we listened to his exposition, it ap-
peared to us the sublime of mechanical philosophy;
for the system was the perfection of arrangement
and contrivance. The force of arrangement could no
farther go. The merit of the plan was that it was a
system; that it had not the partiality and hint-and-
fragment character of most popular schemes, but was
coherent and comprehensive of facts to a wonderful
degree. It was not daunted by distance, or magni-
tude, or remoteness of any sort, but strode about na-
ture with a giant's step, and skipped no fact, but wove
its large Ptolemaic web of cycle and epicycle, of pha-
lanx and phalanstery, with laudable assiduity. Me-
chanics were pushed so far as fairly to meet spiritual-
ism. One could not but be struck with strange coinci-
dences betwixt Fourier and Swedenborg. Genius
hitherto has been shamefully misapplied, a mere
trifler. It must now set itself to raise the social condi-
tion of man, and to redress the disorders of the planet
he inhabits. The Desert of Sahara, the Campagna di
Roma, the frozen polar circles, which by their pesti-
lential or hot or cold airs poison the temperate re-
gions, accuse man. Society, concert, co-operation, is
the secret of the coming Paradise. By reason of the
isolation of men at the present day, all work is drudg-
ery. By concert, and the allowing each laborer to
choose his own work, it becomes pleasure. "Attrac-


tive Industry would speedily subdue, by adventur-
ous, scientific, and persistent tillage, the pestilential
tracts; would equalize temperature; give health to the
globe, and cause the earth to yield healthy impon-
ierable fluids to the solar system, as now it yields
noxious fluids. The hymna, the jackal, the gnat, the
bug, the flea, were all beneficent parts of the system;
the good Fourier knew what those creatures should
have been, had not the mould slipped, through the bad
tate of the atmosphere, caused, no doubt, by these
same vicious imponderable fluids. All these shall be
redressed by human culture, and the useful goat, and
dog, and innocent poetical moth, or the wood-tick to
consume decomposing wood, shall take their place.
It takes 1680 men to make one Man, complete in all
the faculties; that is, to be sure that you have got a
good joiner, a good cook, a barber, a poet, a judge, an
umbrella-maker, a mayor and aldermen, and so on.
Your community should consist of 2000 persons, to
prevent accidents of omission; and each community
should take up 6000 acres of land. Now fancy the
arth planted with fifties and hundreds of these pha-
anxes side by side, what tillage, what architecture,
hat refectories, what dormitories, what reading
ooms, what concerts, what lectures, what gardens,
hat baths! What is not in one, will be in another,
nd many will be within easy distance. Then know
ou and all, that Constantinople is the natural capital
f the globe. There, in the Golden Horn, will be the
xch-Phalanx established, there will the Omniarch
eside. Aladdin and his magician, or the beautiful
Scheherzarade, can alone in these prosaic times, be-
fore the sight, describe the material splendors col-
ected there. Poverty shall be abolished; deformity,
stupidity, and crime shall be no more. Genius, grace,
art, shall abound, and it is not to be doubted but that,


in the reign of Attractive Industry," all men will
speak in blank verse.
Certainly we listened with great pleasure to such
gay and magnificent pictures. The ability and earn-
estness of the advocate and his friends, the compre-
hensiveness of their theory, its apparent directness
of proceeding to the end they would secure, the indig
nation they felt and uttered at all other speculation
in the presence of so much social misery, commanded
our attention and respect. It contained so much
truth, and promised in the attempts that shall be
made to realize it so much valuable instruction, that
we are engaged to observe every step of its progress.
Yet in spite of the assurances of its friends, that it
was new and widely discriminated from all other plans
for the regeneration of society we could not exempt it
from the criticism which we apply to so many projects
for reform. with which the brain of the age teems.
Our feeling was, that Fourier had skipped no fact but
one, namely, Life. He treats man as a plastic thing,
something that may be put up or down, ripened or re-
tarded, moulded, polished, made into solid, or fluid,
or gas, at the will of the leader; or, perhaps, as a vege-
table, from which, though now a poor crab, a very
good peach can by manure and exposure be in time
produced, but skips the faculty of life, which spawns
and scorns system and system-makers, which eludes
all conditions, which makes or supplants a thousand
phalanxes and New-Harmonies with each pulsation.
There is an order in which in a sound mind the facul-
ties always appear, and which, according to the
strength of the individual, they seek to realize in the
surrounding world. The value of Fourier's system is
that it is a -statement of such an order externized, or
carried outward into its correspondence in facts. The
mistake is, that this particular order and series is to


be imposed by force of preaching and votes on all
men, and carried into rigid execution. But what is
true and good must not only be begun by life, but
must be conducted to its issues by life. Could not the
conceiver of this design have also believed that a simi-
lar model lay in every mind, and that the method of
each associate might be trusted, as well as that of
his particular Committee and General Office, No.
200 Broadway? nay, that it would be better to say, let
us be lovers and servants of that which is just; and
straightaway every man becomes a centre of a holy
and beneficent republic, which he sees to include all
men in its law, like that of Plato, and of Christ. Be-
fore such a man the whole world becomes Fourierized
or Christized or humanized, and in the obedience to his
most private being, he finds himself, according to his
presentiment, though against all sensuous probability,
acting in strict concert with all others who followed
their private light.
Yet in a day of small, sour, and fierce schemes, one
is admonished and cheered by a project of such
friendly aims, and of such bold and generous propor-
tion; there is an intellectual courage and strength in
it, which is superior and commanding: it certifies the
presence of so much truth in the theory, and in so far
is destined to be fact.
But now, whilst we write these sentences, comes to
us a paper from Mr. Brisbane himself. We are glad
of the opportunity of letting him speak for himself.
He has much more to 'say than we have hinted, and
here has treated a general topic. We have not room
for quite all the matter which he has sent us, but per-
suade ourselves that we have retained every material
statement, in spite of the omissions which we find it
necessary to make, to contract his paper to so much
room as we offered him.


Mr. Brisbane, in a prefatory note to his article, an-
nounces himself as an advocate of the Social Laws
discovered by CHARLES FOURIER, and intimates that
he wishes to connect whatever value attaches to any
statement of his, with the work in which he is exclu-
sively engaged, that of Social Reform. He adds the
following broad and generous declaration.
It seems to me that, with the spectacle of the
present misery and degradation of the human race
before us, all scientific researches and speculations, to
be of any real value, should have a bearing upon the
means of their social elevation and happiness. The
mass of scientific speculations, which are every day
offered to the world by men, who are not animated by
a deep interest in the elevation of their race, and who
exercise their talents merely to build up systems, or to
satisfy a spirit of controversy, or personal ambition,
are perfectly valueless. What is more futile than
barren philosophical speculation, that leads to no
great practical results?"


JULY, 1842
Exploring Expedition. The United States Cor-
vette Vincennes, Captain Charles Wilkes, the flag
ship of the Exploring Expedition, arrived at New
York on Friday, June 10th, from a cruise of nearly
four years. The Brigs Porpoise and Oregon may
shortly be expected. The Expedition has executed
every part of the duties confided to it by the Govern-
ment. A long list of ports, harbors, islands, reefs, and
shoals, named in the list, have been visited and ex-
amined or surveyed. The positions assigned on the
charts to several vigias, reefs, shoals, and islands, have
been carefully looked for, run over, and found to have
no existence in or near the places assigned them.
Several of the principal groups and islands in the
Pacific Ocean have been visited, examined, and sur-
veyed; and friendly intercourse, and protective com-
mercial regulations, established with the chiefs and na-
tives. The discoveries in the Antarctic Ocean (Ant-
arctic continent, observations for fixing the South-
ern Magnetic pole, &c.) preceded those of the French
and English expeditions. The Expedition, during its
absence, has also examined and surveyed a large por-
tion of the Oregon Territory, a part of Upper Cali-
fornia, including the Columbia and Sacramento
Rivers, with their various tributaries. Several explor-
ing parties from the Squadron have explored, exam-
ined, and fixed those portions of the Oregon Terri-
tory least known. A map of the Territory, embra-


cing its Rivers, Sounds, Harbors, Coasts, Forts, &c.,
has been prepared, which will furnish the information
relative to our possessions on the Northwest Coast,
and the whole of Oregon. Experiments have been
made with the pendulum, magnetic apparatus, and
various other instruments, on all occasions, the
temperature of the ocean, at various depths, ascer-
tained in the different seas traversed, and full meteor-
ological and other observations kept up during the
cruise. Charts of all the surveys have been made, with
views and sketches of headlands, towns or villages,
&c., with descriptions of all that appertains to the
localities, productions, language, customs, and man-
ners. At some of the islands, this duty has been at-
tended with much labor, exposure, and risk of life,
- the treacherous character of the natives rendering
it absolutely necessary that the officers and men should
be armed, while on duty, and at all times prepared
against their murderous attacks. On several occa-
sions, boats have been absent from the different ves-
sels of the Squadron on surveying duty, (the greater
part of which has been performed in boats,) among
islands, reefs, &c., for a period of ten, twenty, and
thirty days at one time. On one of these occasions,
two of the officers were killed at the Fiji group, while
defending their boat's crew from an attack by the Na-
Association of 6 'ate Geologists. After holding an-
nual meetings in -Tew York and Philadelphia, the
Geologists assemble 3 in April of this year in Boston,
to the number of forty, from the most distant points
of the Union. Members were present from Natchez
and Iowa. Mr. Lyell from London was present.
From we know not what inadvertence, the notice of
so unusual a scientific union failed to reach the ancient
ears of the University, at three miles' distance,


Neither its head nor its members, neither the pro-
fessor of Geology nor the professor of Physics arrived
to welcome these pilgrims of science, from the far
East and the far West, to the capital and University
of New England. The public Address was made by
Mr. Silliman, and reports and debates of the most
animated and various interest, by the Messrs. Rogers
of Pennsylvania and of Virginia, Dr. Morton of
Philadelphia, and others, a full report of which is in
the course of publication. The next annual meeting
is to be holden in Albany, N. Y.
Harvard University. The Chair of Natural His-
tory, vacant since the resignation of Mr. Nuttall, is
filled by the appointment of Asa Gray, M. D., known
to the botanists as the associate of Mr. Torrey of New
York. In the Divinity College, the Chair of Pulpit
Eloquence and Pastoral Care, vacant by the resigna-
tion of Henry Ware, Jr., is to be filled by Dr. Convers
Francis. A generous subscription by several friends
of the College has res-ilted in a fund of more than 20,-
000 dollars for the purchase of books for the College
Library. The College has also received a bequest
which promises at a future day to be a valuable
foundation. Benjamin Bussey, Esq. has provided in
his will for the application of the income of his prop-
erty to the benefit of certain heirs therein named. At
the decease of the survivor of them, and subject to
the payment of any annuities then existing, he gives
all his property to Harvard University for the fol-
lowing purposes. His Estate in Roxbury is to be
held forever as a Seminary for instruction in practi-
cal agriculture, in useful and ornamental gardening,
in botany, and in such other branches of natural
science, as may tend to promote a knowledge of prac-
tical agriculture, and the various arts subservient
thereto, and connected therewith." The government


of the University is also "to cause such courses of
lectures to be delivered there, at such seasons of the
year and under such regulations as they may think
best adapted to promote the ends designed; and also
to furnish gratuitous aid, if they shall think it expe-
dient, to such meritorious persons as may resort there
for instruction." One half of the net income of his
property is to be appropriated to maintain that insti-
tution; and the residue of the income is to be divided
equally between the Divinity School and the Law
School of the University. Mr. Bussey's property is
estimated at not less than three hundred and fifty
thousand dollars.
On the subject of the University we cannot help
wishing that a change will one day be adopted which
will put an end to the foolish bickering between the
government and the students, which almost every year
breaks out into those uncomfortable fracases which
are called Rebellions." Cambridge is so well en-
dowed, and offers such large means of education, that
it can easily assume the position of an University, and
leave to the numerous younger Colleges the charge
of pupils too young to be trusted from home. This
is instantly effected by the Faculty's confining itself
to the office of Instruction, and omitting to assume the
office of Parietal Government. Let the College pro-
vide the best teachers in each department, and for a
stipulated price receive the pupil to its lecture-rooms
and libraries; but in the matter of morals and man-
ners, leave the student to his own conscience, and if he
is a bad subject to the ordinary police. This course
would have the effect of keeping back pupils from
College, a year or two, or, in some cases, of bringing
the parents or guardians of the pupil to reside in Cam-
bridge; but it would instantly destroy the root of end-
less grievances between the student and teacher, put


both parties on the best footing, indispensable, one
would say, to good teaching, and relieve the pro-
fessors of an odious guardianship, always degenera-
ting into espionage, which must naturally indispose
men of genius and honorable mind from accepting
the professor's chair.
From London we have Mr. Wordsworth's new vol-
ume of poems, which is not a bookseller's book, but
a poet's book. We have read them all with great
content, and very willingly forgave the poet for wri-
ting against the abolition of capital punishment, for
the sake of the self-respect and truth to his own char-
acter, which the topic and the treatment evinced. We
should say the same thing of his sonnet levelled at
Mr. Thomas Carlyle. But the name of Wordsworth
reminds us of another matter far less pleasant than
poetry, namely, the profligate course recently adopted
by some of the States of the Union in relation to their
public debt. The following is an extract from a letter
of Mr. Wordsworth to Bishop Doane of New Jersey.
" The proceedings of some of the States in your coun-
try, in money concerns, and the shock which is given
to the credit of the State of Pennsylvania, have caused
much trouble under our roof, by the injury done to
some of my most valuable connexions and friends. I
am not personally and directly a sufferer; but my
brother, if the State of Pennsylvania should fail to
fulfil its engagements, would lose almost all the little
savings of his long and generous life. My daughter,
through the perfidy of the State of Mississippi, has
forfeited a sum, though but small in itself, large for
her means; a great portion of my most valued friends
have to lament their misplaced confidence. Topics
of this kind are not pleasant to dwell upon, but the
more extensively the injury is made known, the more
likely is it, that where any remains of integrity, honor,


or even common humanity exist, efforts will be made
to set and keep things right." We have learned also
with mortification that John Sterling, whose poems
have been lately reprinted in this country, had in-
vested 2000 in the worthless stock of the Morris
Canal Company, and later, that Mr. Carlyle had in-
vested $1000 in stock of the State of Illinois, which
presently proved worthless. In this way the heavens
have taken care that the character of our rotten public
stocks and the doctrine of "Repudiation" shall be
damned to fame.

Alfred Tennyson, moved by being informed of his
American popularity, has given himself to the labor
of revising and reprinting a selection of his old poems,
and adding as many new ones, which he has sent to
Mr. Wheeler of Harvard University, who is repub-
lishing them here.

Henry Taylor, too, the author of Van Artevelde,
announces a new dramatic poem in press in London.
John Sterling is still engaged on a tragedy, Straf-
ford," which should have been finished before this
time, but for the ill health of the poet, which has
driven him to the south of Italy. Thomas Carlyle is
understood to be engaged on the Life of Oliver

Berlin. From Berlin, The City of Criticism," we
learned, in the past months, that the king of Prussia
was gathering around him a constellation of men of
science. The city was already the residence of Hum-
boldt, of Bettine von Arnim, of Raumer, of Ranke, of
Ritter, and of Ehrenberg. G. F. Waagen is director
of the Royal Gallery; and now Cornelius, the great
fresco painter; Ruckert, the poet; Tholuck, the theo-


logian;, and, greatest of all, Schelling, from Munich,
are there. The king is discontented with the Hegel
influence, which has predominated at Berlin, and, we
regret to say, set himself to suppress the Hallische
Jahrbucher; which, though published at Halle, de-
pended for its support mainly on Berlin. With this
view, also, he summons the great Schelling, now
nearly seventy years old, to lecture on the Philosophy
of Revelation. We have private accounts of this lec-
tures, which began in the last November. The lecture
room was crowded to suffocation; the pale professor,
whose face resembles that of Socrates, was greeted
with thunders of acclamation, but he remained pale
and unmoved as if in his own study, and apparently
quite unconscious that he was making a new epoch in
German history. His first lecture has been published
at Berlin. Such are the social and esthetic attractions
of this city, that it is said to acquire a new population
of six thousand souls every year, by the residence of
travellers, who are arrested by its music, its theatre,
and the arts.


WHILST Mr. Sparks visits England to explore
the manuscripts of the Colonial Office, and Dr.
Waagen on a mission of Art, Mr. Alcott, whose
genius and efforts in the great art of Education have
been more appreciated in England than in America,
has now been spending some months in that country,
with the aim to confer with the most eminent Edu-
cators and philanthropists, in the hope to exchange
intelligence, and import into this country whatever
hints have been struck out there, on the subject of
literature and the First Philosophy. The design
was worthy, and its first results have already reached
us. Mr. Alcott was received with great cordiality
of joy and respect by his friends in London, and
presently found himself domesticated at an institu-
tion, managed on his own methods and called after
his name, the School of Mr. Wright at Alcott House,
Ham, Surrey. He was introduced to many men of
literary and philanthropic distinction, and his arrival
was made the occasion of meetings for public con-
versation on the great ethical questions of the
Mr. Alcott's mission, beside making us acquainted
with the character and labors of some excellent per-
sons, has loaded our table with a pile of English books,
pamphlets, periodicals, flying prospectuses, and ad-
vertisements, proceeding from a class very little
known in this country, and on many accounts impor-


tant, the party, namely, who represent Social Reform.
Here are Educational Circulars, and Communist
Apostles; Alists; Plans for Syncretic Associations,
and Pestalozzian Societies, Self-supporting Institu-
tions, Experimental Normal Schools, Hydropathic
and Philosophical Associations, Health Unions and
Phalansterian Gazettes, Paradises within the reach
of all men, Appeals of Man to Woman, and Neces-
sities of Internal Marriage illustrated by Phrenolog-
ical Diagrams. These papers have many sins to
answer for. There is an abundance of superficialness,
of pedantry, of inflation, and of want of thought. It
seems as if these sanguine schemers rushed to the
press with every notion that danced before their brain,
and clothed it in the most clumsily compounded and
terminated words, for want of time to find the right
one. But although these men sometimes use a swollen
and vicious diction, yet they write to ends which raise
them out of the jurisdiction of ordinary criticism.
They speak to the conscience, and have that superi-
ority over the crowd of their contemporaries, which
belongs to men who entertain a good hope. More-
over, these pamphlets may well engage the attention
of the politician, as straws of no mean significance
to show the tendencies of the time.
Mr. Alcott's visit has brought us nearer to a class
of Englishmen, with whom we had already some
slight but friendly correspondence, who possess points
of so much attraction for us, that we shall proceed
to give a short account both of what we already knew,
and what we have lately learned, concerning them.
.The central figure in the group is a very remarkable
person, who for many years, though living in great
retirement, has made himself felt by many of the
best and ablest men in England and in Europe, we
mean James Pierrepont Greaves, who died at Alcott-


House in the month of March of this year. Mr.
Greaves was formerly a wealthy merchant in the city
of London, but was deprived of his property by
French spoliations in Napoleon's time. Quitting busi-
ness, he travelled and resided for some time in Ger-
many. His leisure was given to books of the deepest
character; and in Switzerland he found a brother in
Pestalozzi. With him he remained ten years, living
abstemiously, almost on biscuit and water; and
though they never learned each the other's language,
their daily intercourse appears to have been of the
deepest and happiest kind. Mr. Greaves there made
himself useful in a variety of ways. Pestalozzi de-
clared that Mr. Greaves understood his aim and
methods better than any other observer. And he
there became acquainted with some eminent persons.
Mr. Greaves on his return to England introduced as
much as he could of the method and life, whose beau-
tiful and successful operations he had witnessed; and
although almost all that he did was misunderstood, or
dragged downwards, he has been a chief instrument
in the regeneration in the British schools. For a sin-
gle and unknown individual his influence has been
extensive. He set on foot Infant Schools, and was
for many years Secretary to the Infant School Soci-
ety, which office brought him in contact with many
parties, and he has connected himself with almost
every effort for human emancipation. In this work
he was engaged up to the time of his death. His long
and active career developed his own faculties and
powers in a wonderful manner. At his house, No. 49
Burton Street, London, he was surrounded by men
of open and accomplished minds, and his doors were
thrown open weekly for meetings for the discussion
of universal subjects. In the last years he has resided
at Cheltenham, and visited Stockport for the sake of


acquainting himself with the Socialists and their
His active and happy career continued nearly to
the seventieth year, with heart and head unimpaired
and undaunted, his eyes and other faculties sound,
except his lower limbs, which suffered from his seden-
tary occupation of writing. For nearly thirty-six
years he abstained from all fermented drinks, and all
animal food. In the last years he dieted almost wholly
on fruit. The private correspondent, from whose ac-
count, written two years ago, we have derived our
sketch, proceeds in these words. Through evil re-
ports, revilings, seductions, and temptations many
and severe, the Spirit has not let him go, but has
strongly and securely held him, in a manner not often
witnessed. New consciousness opens to him every
day. His literary abilities would not be by critics en-
titled to praise, nor does he speak with what is called
eloquence; but as he is so much the 'lived word,' I
have described, there is found a potency in all he
writes and all he says, which belongs not to beings
less devoted to the Spirit. Supplies of money have
come to him as fast, or nearly as fast as required, and
at all events his serenity was never disturbed on this
account, unless when it has happened that, having
more than his expenses required, he has volunteered
extraneous expenditures. He has been, I consider, a
great apostle of the Newness to many, even when
neither he nor they knew very clearly what was going
forward. Thus inwardly married, he has remained
outwardly a bachelor."
Mr. Greaves is described to us by another corre-
spondent as being the soul of his circle, a prophet of
whom the world heard nothing, but who has quickened
much of the thought now current in the most intellec-
tual circles of the kingdom. He was acquainted with


every man of deep character in England, and many
both in Germany and Switzerland; and Strauss, the
author of the 'Life of Christ,' was a pupil of Mr.
Greaves, when he held conversations in one of the
Colleges of Germany, after leaving Pestalozzi. A
most remarkable man; nobody remained the same
after leaving him. He was the prophet of the deepest
affirmative truths, and no man ever sounded his
depths. The best of the thought in the London
Monthly Magazine was the transcript of his Idea.
He read and wrote much, chiefly in the manner of
Coleridge, with pen in hand, in the form of notes on
the text of his author. But, like Boehmen and Swe-
denborg, neither his thoughts nor his writings were
for the popular mind. His favorites were the chosen
illuminated minds of all time, and with them he was
familiar. His library is the most select and rare which
I have seen, including most of the books which we
have sought with so ill success on our side of the
water." 1
His favorite dogma was the superiority of Being to
1 The following notice of Mr. Greaves occurs in Mr. Morgan's
" Hampden in the Nineteenth Century." The gentleman whom
he met at the school was Mr. J. P. Greaves, at that time Honor-
ary Secretary to the Infant School Society, and a most active and
disinterested promoter of the system. He had resided for
three(?) years with Pestalozzi, who set greater value upon right
feelings and rectitude of conduct, than upon the acquisition of
languages. A collection of highly interesting letters, addressed
to this gentleman by Pestalozzi on the subject of education, has
been published. Among the numerous advocates for various im-
provements, there was not one who exceeded him in personal
sacrifices to what he esteemed a duty. At the same time he had
some peculiar opinions, resembling the German mystical and
metaphysical speculations, hard to be understood, and to which
few in general are willing to listen, and still fewer to subscribe;
but his sincerity, and the kindness of his disposition always se-
cured for him a patient hearing." Vol. II. p. 22.


all knowing and doing. Association on a high basis
was his ideal for the present conjuncture. "I hear
every one crying out for association," said he; I join
in the cry; but then I say, associate first with the
Spirit,- educate for this spirit-association; and far
more will follow than we have as yet any idea of.
Nothing good can be done without association; but
then we must associate with goodness; and this good-
ness is the spirit-nature, without which all our socie-
tarian efforts will be turned to corruption. Educa-
tion has hitherto been all outward; it must now be
inward. The educator must keep in view that which
elevates man, and not the visible exterior world."
We have the promise of some extracts from the wri-
tings of this great man, which we hope shortly to
offer to the readers of this Journal. His friend, Mr.
Lane, is engaged in arranging and editing his manu-
script remains.
Mr. Heraud, a poet and journalist, chiefly known
in this country as the editor for two years of the
(London) Monthly Magazine, a disciple, in earlier
years, of Coleridge, and by nature and taste contem-
plative and inclined to a mystical philosophy, was a
friend and associate of Mr. Greaves; and for the last
years has been more conspicuous than any other writer
in that connexion of opinion. The Monthly Mag-
azine, during his editorship, really was conducted in a
bolder and more creative spirit than any other British
Journal; and though papers on the highest transcen-
dental themes were found in odd vicinity with the
lowest class of flash and so-called comic tales, yet a
necessity, we suppose, of British taste made these
strange bed-fellows acquainted, and Mr. Heraud had
done what he could. His papers called "Foreign
Aids to Self Intelligence," were of signal merit, espe-
cially the papers on Boehmen and Swedenborg. The


last is; we think, the very first adequate attempt to
do justice to this mystic, by an analysis of his total
works; and, though avowedly imperfect, is, as far
as it goes, a faithful piece of criticism. We hope that
Mr. Heraud, who announces a work in three volumes,
called Foreign Aids to Self Intelligence, designed
for an Historical Introduction to the Study of Onto-
logical Science, preparatory to a Critique of Pure
Being," as now in preparation for the press, and of
which, we understand, the Essays in the Monthly
Magazine were a part, will be enabled to fulfil his
design. Mr. Heraud is described by his friends as the
most amiable of men, and a fluent and popular lec-
turer on the affirmative philosophy. He has recently
intimated a wish to cross the Atlantic, and read in
Bioston a course of six lectures, on the subject of
Christism as distinct from Christianity.
One of the best contributors to Mr. Heraud's Mag-
azine was Mr. J. Westland Marston. The papers
marked with his initials are the most eloquent in the
book. We have greatly regretted their discontinu-
ance, and have hailed him again in his new appearance
as a dramatic author. Mr. Marston is a writer of sin-
gular purity of taste, with a heart very open to the
moral impulses, and in his settled conviction, like all
persons of a high poetic nature, the friend of a uni-
versal reform, beginning in education. His thought
on that subject is, that it is only by teachers becom-
ing men of genius, that a nobler position can be se-
cured to them." At the same time he seems to share
that disgust, which men of fine taste so quickly enter-
tain in regard to the language and methods of that
class with which their theory throws them into corre-
spondence, and to be continually attracted through his
taste to the manners and persons of the aristocracy,
whose selfishness and frivolity displease and repel him


again. Mr. Marston has lately written a Tragedy,
called "The Patrician's Daughter," which we have
read with great pleasure, barring always the fatal pre-
scription, which in England seems to mislead every
fine poet to attempt the drama. It must be the read-
ing of tragedies that fills them with this superstition
for the buskin and the pall, and not a sympathy with
existing nature and the spirit of the age. The Patri-
cian's Daughter is modern in its plot and characters;
perfectly simple in its style; the dialogue is full of
spirit, and the story extremely well told. We confess,
as we drew out this bright pamphlet from amid the
heap of crude declamation on Marriage and Educa-
tion, on Dietetics and Hydropathy, on Chartism and
Socialism, grim tracts on flesh-eating and dram-drink-
ing, we felt the glad refreshment of its sense and
melody, and thanked the fine office which speaks to
the imagination, and paints with electric pencil a new
form, -new forms on the lurid cloud. Although
the vengeance of Mordaunt strikes us as overstrained,
yet his character, and the growth of his fortunes is
very natural, and is familiar to English experience,
in the Thurlows, Burkes, Foxes, and Cannings. The
Lady Mabel is finely drawn. Pity that the catastro-
phe should be wrought by the deliberate lie of Lady
Lydia; for beside that lovers, as they of all men speak
the most direct speech, easily pierce the cobwebs of
fraud, it is a weak way of making a play, to hinge
the crisis on a lie, instead of letting it grow, as in life,
out of the faults and conditions of the parties, as, for
example, in Goethe's Tasso. On all accounts but one,
namely, the lapse of five years between two acts, the
play seems to be eminently fit for representation. Mr.
Marston is also the author of two tracts on Poetry
and Poetic Culture.
Another member of this circle is Francis Barham,


the dramatic poet, author of "The Death of
Socrates," a tragedy, and other pieces; also a contrib-
utor to the Monthly Magazine. To this gentleman
we are under special obligations, as he has sent us,
with other pamphlets, a manuscript paper On Amer-
ican Literature," written with such flowing good will,
and with an aim so high, that we must submit some
portion of it to our readers.
Intensely sympathizing, as I have ever done, with
the great community of truth-seekers, I glory in the
rapid progress of that Alistic,' or divine literature,
which they develop and cultivate. To me this Alistic
literature is so catholic and universal that it has spread
its energies and influences through every age and na-

1 In explanation of this term, we quote a few sentences from a
printed prospectus issued by Mr. Barham. The Alist; a
Monthly Magazine of Divinity and Universal Literature. I have
adopted the title of 'the Alist, or Divine,' for this periodical,
because the extension of Divinity and divine truth is its main
object. It appears to me, that by a firm adherence to the To
cwov, or divine principle of things, a Magazine may assume a
specific character, far more elevated, catholic, and attractive,
than the majority of periodicals attain. This Magazine is there-
fore specially written for those persons who may, without im-
propriety, be termed Alists, or Divines; those who endeavor to
develop Divinity as the grand primary essence of all existence,
- the element which forms the all in all, the element in which
we live, and move, and have our being. Such Alists, (deriving
their name from Alah -the Hebrew title of God,) are Divines
in the highest sense of the word; for they cultivate Alism, or
the Divinity of Divinities, as exhibited in all Scripture and na-
ture, and they extend religious and philanthropical influences
through all churches, states, and systems of education. This
doctrine of Alism, or the life of God in the soul of man, affords
the only prothetic point of union, sufficiently intense and authori-
tative to unite men in absolute catholicity. In proportion as they
cultivate one and the same God in their minds, will their minds
necessarily unite and harmonize; but without this is done, per-
manent harmony is impossible."

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