despised; and the hard labour of learning to be dispensed with. Soon the ancient strictness of discipline disappeared; the curriculum of studies was shortened in favour of the impatience or the necessities of candidates for literary honours; the pains of application were derided, and a pernicious notion of equality was introduced, which has not only tainted our sentiments, but impaired our vigour, and crippled our literary eminence.

This secret influence of public opinion, though not easily described, has been felt and lamented by many of us who were educated in the present generation. We have many steps to recover; and before we shall travel in the suite of the learned in the old world, we have some long strides to make. Our poets and historians, our critics and orators,* the men of whom posterity are to stand in awe and by whom to be instructed are yet to appear among us. The men of letters, who are to direct our taste, mould our genius, and inspire our emulation; the men, in fact, whose writings are to be the depositories of our national greatness, have not yet shown themselves to the world. But if we are not mistaken in the signs of the times, the genius of our literature begins to show symptoms of vigour, and to meditate a bolder flight; and the generation which is to succeed us will be formed on better models, and leave a brighter track. The spirit of criticism begins to plume itself, and education, as it assumes a more learned form, will take a higher aim. If we are not misled by our hopes, the dream of ignorance is at least disturbed; and there are

That we have had poets, critics, and historians, is not denied. Belknap and Minot have furnished us good specimens, and Dr Holmes valuable materials, for which our future historians will give them credit and thanks. All that is meant here is, that we have not yet produced standards, or models in these departments of literature. We have also now among us men, who want nothing but the discipline of a more thorough education, to be consummate orators, worthy of any age or nation.

signs that the period is approaching, in which it will be said of our own country, "tuus jam regnat Apollo."

You then, my friends, are destined, I hope, to witness the dawn of our Augustan age, and to contribute to its glory. Whatever may be your place in society, I am confident you will not willingly discard the love of virtue and of knowledge; and it is with this confidence, that I shall now venture to speak to you of some of THE DANGERS AND DUTIES OF MEN OF LETTERS The subject is copi-. ous; and what will now be offered is a mere essay. If it should be found suitable to this occasion, and to the actual state of our literature, my purpose. will be answered.

Every where there are dangers and evils, of which some affect the intellectual improvement, and others are unfavourable to the moral worth of literary men. In this country, especially, it too. often happens, that the young man, who is to liveby his talents, and to make the most of the name of a scholar, is tempted to turn his literary credit to the quickest account, by early making himself of consequence to the people, or rather to some of their factions. From the moment that he is found yielding himself up to their service, or hunting after popular favour, his time, his studies, and his powers yet in their bloom, are all lost to learning. Instead of giving his days and nights to the study of the profound masters of political wisdom, instead of patiently receiving the lessons of history and of practical philosophy, he prematurely takes a part in all the dissensions of the day. His leisure is wasted on the profligate productions of demagogues, and his curiosity bent on the minutia of local politics. The consequence is, that his mind is so much dissipated, or his passions disturbed, that

the quiet speculations of the scholar can no longer detain him. He hears at a distance the bustle of the Comitia-He rushes out of the grove of Egeria, and Numa and the Muses call after him in vain. It is, perhaps, one of the incurable evils of our constitution of society, that this ambition of immediate notoriety and rapid success is too early excited, and thus the promises of literary excellence are so frequently superseded.

The history of genius is not wanting in examples of powers thus perverted, and passions too early inflamed. If we may go so far back for examples, we find them in Alcibiades and the Gracchi; men educated with all the advantages which Greece and Rome could bestow, and yet lost to every thing but faction. There are no doubt many other instances, but most of them are not now to be recovered from oblivion; for the records of civil dissension, let it be remembered, are not so lasting as those of learning. Here I should be tempted to adduce even the name of Burke, and support myself by the authority of Goldsmith, who ventured early to lament that

-be narrowed his mind,

And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.

But the awful history of our own times has persuaded me to forbear; for of Burke, at least, posterity will never cease to say, what he gave up to. party, he gave to mankind. The life of Milton, however, is a memorable instance of the temporary degradation of learning. For, notwithstanding the sublime fiction of Gray,* that the loss of his sight was occasioned by the brightness of his celestial visions, it is, alas! nothing but a fiction. Those

* Ode on the Progress of Poesy, 111. 2.

fine orbs were quenched in the service of a vulgar and usurping faction; and had they not been thus early "closed in endless night," the world, perhaps, would have wanted the Paradise lost, and that master spirit of England have been wasted in more praises of Cromwell and more ribaldry against Salmasius. You, then, who are impatient to take a part in public life, remember, that there is hardly to be found a consummate statesman or warriour in a literary age, who was not himself a man of letters. I will not weary you by an enumeration; but you will instantly call to mind Alexander, the accom plished scholar of Aristotle; Caesar, at the head of Rome, the deliciae literatorum; Charlemagne, master of all the science that an ignorant age could afford; Alfred, the philosophical translator of Boethius; and Frederic, who gathered around him the great men of his age, not so much their patron, as their competitor.

On the other hand, there are some finely attempered spirits, who, disgusted at the grossness which belongs to the common contests and occupations of active life, are in danger of entirely relinquishing its real duties in the luxurious leisure of study. In the actual state of the politics of our country, this opposite temptation has been already felt by many studious minds. The young man, early enamoured of literature, sometimes casts a disdainful glance at the world, and then sinks to repose in the lap of his mistress. He finds it easier to read than to think, and still easier to think than to act. His indisposition increases by indulgence. His learning becomes effeminate. He reads to furnish amusement for his imagination, not to provide materials for intellectual greatness. He passes his time among the muses, it is true; but it is the graces, who mingle in the circle, that engross his attention;

and his life, though nominally given to contemplation, is little else than " to sport with Amaryllis in the shade, and play with the tangles of Neaera's hair." He goes to his books, to enjoy a certain mild delirium of the mind, regardless of the claims of society, and of the account, which he must give at last, of his studies and advantages. Whenever he comes out into the world, he thinks it was not made for him; and soon returns in disgust, to seek relief in that employment which has been admirably called the "invisible riot of the mind, that secret prodigality of being, secure from detection, and fearless of reproach.

"*

The history of letters does not at this moment suggest to me a more fortunate parallel between the effects of active and of inactive learning, than in the well known characters of Cicero and Atticus. Let me hold them up to your observation, not because Cicero was faultless, or Atticus always to blame, but because, like you, they were the citizens of a republic. They lived in an age of learning and of dangers, and acted upon opposite principles, when Rome was to be saved, if saved at all, by the virtuous energy of her most accomplished minds. If we look now for Atticus, we find him in the quiet of his library, surrounded with his books; while Cicero was passing through the regular course of public honours and services, where all the treasures of his mind were at the command of his country. If we follow them, we find Atticus pleasantly wandering among the ruins of Athens, purchasing up statues and antiques; while Cicero was at home blasting the projects of Cataline, and at the head of the senate, like the tutelary spirit of his country, as the storm was gathering, secretly watching the doubtful movements of Caesar. If we look to the

* Rambler, No. 89.