"That, dear uncle, is as much as to say," said Alice, while her voice was choked with rising emotion—"that I can feel for sorrows of no other kind, and that you like Margarette's sensibility better than you do mine! I suppose you love her, too, more than you do your own poor, lone Alice! I feel that she is stealing every one's affection from me, though I love with so much more ardor than she does!" and she burst into tears.
All present felt exceedingly uncomfortable, and Margarette, who was really distressed, resolved to give a new turn to the conversation. Alice had seated herself on Mr. Claremont's knee, and thrown both her arms around his neck—so leaving him to soothe her wounded feelings in his own way, Margarette asked Montague some question, as foreign as possible to their recent conversation. The effort succeeded—the tears of Alicewere soon dried, and the remainder of the evening passed very pleasantly.
One evening Montague and Gordon met the Claremont family, with a small select party, at the house of a friend. Gordon, as usual, secured a seat next Margarette, who was also attended by Alice, who had learned that to be near her, was the surest way to be near the idol of her imagination,the Black Prince. Montague likewise stood near them; for he was beginning to find, that there was something extremely attractive, even in Margarette's apparent coldness; or rather, that it was peculiarly interesting to observe marks of deep feeling, under so calm, so placid an exterior. Gordon recollected the conversation concerning Lord Nelson, and the effect produced on Margarette; and resolving in his turn to find a passage to her sensibilities, led the conversation to heroes and great men. He made some very eloquent remarks, as he apprehended, on heroism and greatness, which had previously been arranged with great care.
"Whom do you consider truly great men, Mr. Gordon?" asked Alice.
"Alexander—Louis the Fourteenth—Napoleon—Voltaire and Lord Byron," said Gordon. "Each in his turn, and in his own way, has dazzled the whole world!"
"Dazzled, but not enlightened!" said Montague.
Margarette looked up with one of her brightest smiles, and Montague felt, at the bottom of his heart, that it waswarm, as well as brilliant.
"By Vesta," thought Gordon, "she has rewarded him for those two words, with that smile, which I have made such useless efforts to obtain! andhehas made no effort at all!—I abandon her!"
"Whom do you esteem great men, Mr. Montague?" inquired Margarette.
"O, there have been hosts of them in the world," answered Montague; "but perhaps it would be better to tell you what I call true greatness, than to name those whom I esteem great. True greatness, I apprehend, consists in conquering or in duly restraining the ruling passion; in forgiving an injury, when we have fair opportunity for avenging ourselves; in sacrificing our own feelings and interests for the good of others; in that benevolence that leads to a forgetfulness ofself, in efforts to promote the happiness and welfare of mankind."
"The world will hardly subscribe to your explanation ofgreatness," said Gordon, with something like a sneer, "and few aregreat!"
"Few are—but many might be," said Montague. "Every one who foregoes his own personal good, for the good of others; who forgets his own happiness, in efforts to promote the happiness of those around him, and who will not be turned aside from his purpose by the obstacles, or the unkindness, or the ridicule with which he meets, isgreat."
"Who sees such greatness?" asked Gordon.
"It has sometimes been conspicuous on earth, as in the case of Howard, Peter the Great of Russia, Wilberforce, Clarkson, Mrs. Fry, and multitudes of others," said Montague. "But no matter whether it is seen by the world or not, provided its influence be felt. And there is no one, capable of moral action, who has not almost daily opportunities for exercising true greatness and magnanimity of soul; and should every one improve the opportunity, the wilderness of this world would soon be like Eden, and her deserts like the garden of the Lord!'"
Margarette's countenance again beamed with pleasure and approbation, as she said—"Moral grandeur, would then be your definition of greatness, Mr. Montague?"
"It would."
"And the only true one, according to my apprehension," said Margarette, "and I have often had the pleasure of seeing it exemplified. And this moral greatness leads to sublimity of thought," she added. "It expands the soul, and elevates the conception. As an instance: I once attended a prayer meeting, where was a man who had no more than ordinary capacity, and who knew nothing beyond the cultivation of his little farm, and the path to heaven. He could scarcely read intelligibly. Being called on to lead in the devotions of the evening, he knelt down, and began in this manner—'O, thou, who lightest up heaven!' To me, it was like a shock of electricity! I have thought of it a thousand times since, and doubt whether Byron, with all his genius, in his happiest moment of poetic inspiration, ever had so sublime a conception."
"Would you like to examine the prints on the centre table, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon, rising, and offering her his arm. With a heart buoyant as the thistle's down, Alice accepted the proffered arm, and Montague secured the seat she vacated.
"There is nothing here that you have not seen a hundred times," said Gordon—"but I panted to get into a warmer latitude. The north pole has few charms for me, notwithstanding its brilliant corruscations. By the way, is this cousin of yours ever warmer than the summit of Mont Blanc?"
"Why askmesuch a question?" said Alice.
"Because I thought you would be likely to know," answered Gordon.
"She is much admired and beloved," said Alice, with a sigh. "I wish I had her power over the heart!"
"Admired she may be—but beloved is she?" said Gordon.
"You surprise me, Mr. Gordon," said Alice. "I thought—I feared—I mean I conjectured"—and she stopt short.
"What did you think, fear, or conjecture, Miss Lansdale?" asked Gordon.
"O nothing—nothing of any consequence," said she, with real or assumed embarrassment.
"Now be frank, sweetest Alice," said Gordon, tenderly pressing her arm, which was still locked in his, to his side—"be frank, and tell me kindly what you thought."
"Why I knew that you admired my cousin, and I feared—pshaw—I mean that I thought you loved her," and she sighed again.
"O no, I could never love a block of marble, even if moulded into a Venus," said Gordon. "Believe me, sweet Alice, there must be some signs of sensibility—some little warmth of feeling, to awaken the affections of my heart. I could never love the twin-sister to the snow, and such I take Miss Claremont to be."
"So you are going to take an airing this morning, Commodore!" said Montague, as he saw the old man getting into a wagon in the street.
"Yes, Squire; you see I am taken from my work"—holding out a lame foot—"and so I am going on some business into the country."
"How long have you been lame? and what is the matter with your foot?" asked Montague.
"I sprained it a fortnight ago, sir—and it is almost the same as well now—only Miss Margarette made me promise not to try to use it too soon."
"Miss Margarette?—Margarette Claremont?" said Montague. "Does she advise you about your lameness?"
"Yes, and more than that, Mr. Montague, for, under Providence, she has cured it. There hasn't been a day since I hurt it, in which she has not come and tended it herself, bathing it with her own little hands, in a medicine she brought a-purpose. I couldn't put her off, Mr. Montague! And when she has so patiently and kindly sat, with the old man's foot in her lap, I'll tell you what I thought; I thought—here is the very spirit of Him who said—'If I, then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, ye ought also to wash one another's feet'—and the tears ran down my old cheeks whether I would or no."
There was a slight rising in Montague's throat, but he checked it, and inquired—"How far the Commodore was going."
"I don't know exactly, Squire, as I am going to buy a cow, and want to hunt up a pretty good one."
"A cow!" said Montague—"What in the world can you do with a cow?"
"Why, she isn't for my own use, Mr. Montague, though she is to be kind o' mine—but that's neither here nor there, and I must be going, as I want to get back in good season. Good day, Squire," and the Commodore drove off.
A few days after this, when Montague was one morning at Mr. Claremont's, it came into Alice's mind to inquire after hisprotégés, the Delanty's.
"O, they are all well, and in comparatively comfortable circumstances," said Montague. "They have found a very kind friend, who has furnished them with comfortable clothing, besides lending them a cow. Should they be the survivors, I think they would canonize her," added he, smiling.
"Her!" said Alice. "Is it a lady, then?"
"Yes, the same young lady that I told you assisted in nursing the mother. I wish you could hear them express their gratitude, in their own emphatic dialect, with their strong Irish feelings?"
"It is strange who it can be," said Alice. "Have they not yet found out?"
"It seems she has been very careful to conceal her name," said Montague, "as they have not yet learned it. But yesterday I was there, and they pointed her out to me, as she at that moment chanced to pass by."
"And did you know her, Hubert?" eagerly inquired Alice.
"I did,"—said Montague, "but I did not tell them, as she seems so desirous to 'do good by stealth,' and would doubtless 'blush to find it fame'—and neither will I tellyou, cousin Alice,"—he added, as Margarette cast on him a look of mingled distress and supplication.
"Now that is the most provoking thing I ever knew you do, cousin Hubert!" said Alice. "But I will find out, if I go to Delanty's on purpose!"
"But I tell you they do not know, Alice; and beside, if a motive ofbenevolencewould not draw you to them, when they were in distress, pray do not let so poor a one ascuriosityprocure them a visit, now that they are comparatively happy."
Margarette stayed by most perseveringly this morning. She would have given almost any thing would Alice have left the room, if only for one minute. Great was her satisfaction when her cousin hastily rose, saying—"I entirely forgot to send Mrs. Frost the pattern of my new pelerine. I must do it this moment."
She had scarcely closed the door, ere Margarette said, "I must do away the mistake under which you labor, Mr. Montague. The Delantys are indebted to my uncle, and not to me. I was only the channel through which his bounty flowed."
"Mr. Claremont was then Mrs. Delanty's nurse!" said Montague, smiling.
"O no, not that—but the clothing and the cow were purchased with his money."
"I understand it perfectly," said Montague. "I have seen my cousin's neck, encircled by a pearl-necklace; but Miss Claremont preferred relieving the sufferings of a poor Irish family, to adorning her own person."
"But Mr. Montague!" said Margarette.
"But Miss Claremont!" said Montague, laughing.
"Very well," said Margarette, in great perplexity what to say,—"you must think as you will."
"Iwillthink as Imust," said Montague,—"and bid you good morning."
A few weeks after the above conversation took place, Mr. Claremont, on returning from a morning's ride, was thrown from his horse, a few rods from his own door, and was brought in, apparently lifeless. At the appalling spectacle, both his nieces obeyed the impulse of nature, and turned to fly. But Margarette had scarcely begun her retreat, ere she returned. "I must face it," thought she, "however dreadful! kind heaven sustain me!" Without much apparent agitation, she gave directions, and assisted in conveying her uncle to his room; and before medical aid could arrive, employed herself in examining his limbs, to ascertain whether they were broken, and then in chafing his hands and head, to produce, if possible, some signs of life. All beside herself, seemed nearly delirious from fright.
The news of the accident flew like wild-fire, and in twenty minutes Montague was at the house. He found Alice in the parlor, walking the floor, and wringing her hands, in an agony of distress, constantly exclaiming—"my dear uncle!"—"my poor, dear uncle." In answer to Montague's hasty inquiries, she exclaimed—
"O, he is dead!—my dear,dearuncle!—and what will become of his own poor Alice?—doubly—doubly an orphan?"
Montague hastened to Mr. Claremont's room, hopeless of learning any thing of his situation from his cousin. The physician and surgeon were both there, and there was Margarette—pale as a statue, and apparently as firm, supporting her uncle's head on her bosom. There was a deathlike silence in the room, while the medical gentlemen were endeavoring torestore animation; while all feared that their endeavors would prove useless. A groan at length announced that the vital spark was not extinguished, and Mr. Claremont opened his eyes on his niece.
"Dear uncle," said Margarette, "do you know me?"
"Margarette!" murmured Mr. Claremont.
"Away with her, Mr. Montague," said the physician—"she is gone!"
Montague clasped her in his arms, and bore her out of the room, while a servant hastened after with restoratives. "She must be mine!" thought Montague, as he supported her lifeless frame, while the servant resorted to the usual means of restoration,—"she must be mine! Such benevolence without ostentation,—such firmness and deep feeling,—such exalted worth and true humility, are a rare combination! She must be my own!"
Mr. Claremont was scarcely able to leave his room, to which he was confined several weeks, ere Montague asked him, if he would bestow upon him his niece.
"Yes, take her Montague," said Mr. Claremont,—"take her as the choicest treasure one man ever bestowed on another. I know no man but yourself, worthy of her hand and heart."
An almost convulsive pressure of the hand, was the only sign of gratitude Montague could give.
Well, who was at the wedding?—and when did it take place?—It took place in a few months, and a large company was assembled,—for Mr. Claremont hated a private wedding. The Black Prince was one of the guests.
"Are they not a beautiful—a fine-looking couple, Mr. Gordon?" said Alice, after thegreat cakewas cut, and the congratulations were over.
"O, yes"—said Gordon—"as fine pieces of statuary as one could wish to look upon! Montague, indeed, hasfireenough—the more fortunate for him, for a deal it must have taken to thaw the ice of your cousin!"
"They are both a little singular," said Alice, "yet they love each other tenderly. How happy they will be! How sweet lifemust be, when congenial hearts are thus united forever!"
"Yes,—perhaps so—but after all, sweet Alice, it is better to do, as you and I do—love each other, and still be free!—I would not link my fate with that of any woman in the world. I am quite sure, that I should hate even you, sweetest,—angel as you are, could you call me husband. O, there is something killing to all romance, in the very sound of that word!—Do you not agree with me, dearest?"
Alice could not utter a syllable—but cast on him a heart-rending look of mingled disappointment, mortification and astonishment!—"False!—ungrateful! cruel!"—at length she murmured—and hastened to her chamber, at once to indulge and conceal the bitterness of her feelings.
"Alice is mourning herself to death, for that worthless, heartless Gordon," said Margarette to Montague, some time after their marriage.
"She is doing what she has ever done," said Montague—"thinking only of herself, and cherishing feelings that are totally destructive of all that is valuable in character."
"She has keen sensibility," said Margarette.
"But it is all expended on herself," said Montague. "Her sensibility results in good to no one, for she has nosympathy. Her character used to interest me, until I saw it contrasted with one so much more valuable—so much more exalted!—It was you, my dearest wife, who first taught me the strong distinction betwixtsympathyandsensibility,—and how utterly useless the latter is, when unaccompanied by the former. With Alice, it is not love for Gordon, butself-lovethat is the cause of her thus pining. Let some other romantic looking knight appear, and sue for her hand, and her affections would be at once transformed. Should no such one appear, she will by degrees degenerate into a peevish, useless, discontented, burdensome old maid. And the best advice I could give to any young lady of great sensibility, and who would be either useful or happy, is—That she should strive to forget her own sorrows, whetherrealorimaginary, and expend her sympathies on the afflictions and distresses of her fellow-creatures. By so doing, the benevolence of her heart would be constantly expanding, until she would on earth approximate to the character of an angel,—and when the summons came, would drop the garment of mortality, and shine a seraph in eternal day."
S. H.
There is little merit in the following lines besides that rare merit in poetry,their truth. They were written in the place of the writer's nativity, where he had at length settled down, after an absence of thirty years. They were written in a house just purchased, and from which the former owner had not yet removed his family, and were inserted in the Album of his daughter. She was young, beautiful, accomplished, newly married, and wealthy. Though confined to her room by bad health, she was preparing for a voyage to Europe, since happily accomplished.
B. T.
Towards the close of the sixteenth century, Galileo, while seated in the Cathedral of Pisa, had his attention attracted by the swinging of a lamp suspended from the ceiling. Observing that it performed its vibrations apparently in equal times, whether moving over small or great arcs, he was led to the investigation of the laws of its oscillation, and thus called the attention of philosophers to an instrument, which in the multiplicity of its applications has since proved of incalculable benefit to mankind.
It seems strange that a motion so familiar as the vibration of a suspended body had never before attracted the notice of observing minds; and still more strange would it seem, if, after its laws had been discovered, and its important practical applications ascertained, it had never been applied to its useful purposes. Yet has mankind very generally down to the present day, thus neglected an instrument of more extensive application than the pendulum. I allude toPopular Education, an agent certainly the most important of any that can be applied to the melioration of the condition of the human race. That knowledge is power, stands in no need of proof or formal illustration. It may be assumed as axiomatic. But if we reason from the conduct of mankind, we shall be led to the conclusion that the aphorism applies only when society is viewed in its constituent parts, and not when the whole mass is regarded. Still speculatively it is allowed to be of general application. How is this inconsistency to be reconciled? Has the importance of Education become one of those propositions which from being universally admitted, have ceased to interest the curiosity or engage the attention of mankind? Has the policy of former ages of keeping in ignorance the great body of the people, in order that they might be the more readily oppressed by the enlightened few, who held the reins of government, grown into a custom too inveterate for the more enlarged speculations of modern times to remove? These inquiries we will not pursue, but will proceed to offer some observations on the advantages of Popular Education.
Under Popular Education may be included an acquaintance with Reading, Writing, English Grammar, Geography, and the leading principles of Science; such information in fact as would enable the people to avail themselves of the lessons contained in books, and to discharge with ease and propriety the various avocations of common life. The advantages of Popular Education as thus defined are so diversified and so connected with the whole intertexture of society, as to render it impracticable on the present occasion to trace them out fully. Only some of its most striking effects on the condition of the people can be noticed. My purpose however will be effected, if I shall succeed in directing the attention of my young friends, many of whom will shortly engage in the busy scenes of life, to a subject fraught with interest to our common country, to a cause which, in the various stages they may occupy in society, will demand their liberal, zealous and patriotic support.
By the general diffusion of information, superstition will be banished from amongst the people. Superstition has been defined, "the error of those, who in their opinion of the causes on which the fate of men depends, believe or disbelieve without judgment or knowledge." It is a compound of the credulity and fears of men—a monster truly of frightful mien—destructive of the happiness of individuals, by continually presenting to the mind imaginary causes of terror, and associating with the most common occurrences of life, the dread of impending calamity—no less destructive of the welfare of nations, by affording an agent which designing men will ever be ready to employ in effectuating their schemes of oppression. It is indeed the fulcrum on which ambition may gain a leverage for moving the moral world. The feelings to which it gives rise are of a uniform character, and when they pervade a whole people, to address them effectually no great diversity of means are required. Hence the important part it has played in the subversion of kingdoms and revolutions of empires. Examples need not be adduced to illustrate its pernicious influence on individual and national happiness. It stands in bold relief on almost every page of history; three-fourths of the habitable globe are at this day living monuments of its power. The rest is still marked by the traces of its slow retreat.
The only effectual barrier to the desolating influence of superstition is to be found in the diffusion of Popular Education. Teach men that asequituris not necessarily an effect, and they will cease to regard many of the ordinary occurrences of life as portentous because they have once been accidentally conjoined with misfortunes. They will cease to regard those phenomena of the material world which present nature in aspects awful and sublime, as ominous of convulsions in the moral or political world.
The influence of the enlightened few will never be able to banish superstition from the unenlightened multitude. To eradicate it the torch of knowledge must be lit in every mind. So far from superstitious prejudices being removed by the authority of philosophers, they are contracted by them from the illiterate, through the influence of early education, and are persisted in through a disposition in the human mind to regard with some degree of favor that which has been believed in all ages, however absurd in reason. Addison affords a remarkable instance of the influence of popular belief over a philosophic mind. We learn from the Spectator1that he did not entirely refuse his assent to the existence of ghosts, apparitions and witchcraft. In the time of this eminent writer, a period distinguished in the history of English Literature, there was scarce a village in England in which witchcraft was not accredited; so little authority did the great men of that age, who by their writings have had an acknowledged influence on the moral improvement of the nation, exert in eradicating superstition from the minds of the unenlightened common people.
1Nos. 110 and 117.
Education exerts a negative agency in promoting human happiness by removing superstition, one of its greatest enemies. But by expanding the mind to more enlarged conceptions of the order and beauty of the universe, it makes a real addition to the sum of human enjoyments. Our capacities are at best but extremely limited. It has been permitted to us however, to explore the threshold of the labyrinth of nature. Our discoveries present us at every step with ends wisely and beneficently planned, and means adapted with the most admirable simplicity and economy to the production of those ends. No human investigation has ever advanced so far as to point out aught of error in the arrangement of the system of things around us. Every thing, whose purpose we can understand, bears the impress of wisdom. How elevating to the mind of man to rise from the contemplation of this visible order, to a Being on whom we can rely with the utmost surety as having arranged every thing, not only in our small planet but in the whole immensity of creation, with the same admirable wisdom and economy which our limited faculties enable us to trace in the small part which falls under our immediate inspection! Yet to the vulgar mind is denied this ennobling feeling. The ignorant man
It is true, all people, all nations have acknowledged a Supreme Being. But wherever the human mind has been enthralled by ignorance, he has been acknowledged rather as a being of Terror than as a being of Benevolence. 'Tis Education that endues men's minds with a just sense of the attributes of the Supreme Being, and brings them acquainted with their own high destiny, and is in truth, as it has been defined to be, the "handmaid of Religion."
Among an educated people morality and private virtue must flourish. For in the language of Lord Bacon, "learning disposeth the constitution of the mind not to be fixed in the defects thereof, but still to be susceptible of growth and improvement." The human mind is endowed with a variety of passions, implanted in it for the wisest purposes, but requiring the control of reason not to run into excesses destructive of individual happiness and the peace of society. A cultivated mind not only controls the impetuosity of those passions which hurry onward into crime and misery, but peculiarlyencourages the growth of those benevolent affections whose gratification rests on prospective good. In the constitution of the mind experience shows the striking fact (and it pleads forcibly in favor of the general diffusion of Education among the people) that the growth of the malevolent affections is nurtured by ignorance, and that of the benevolent by knowledge. The former are more truly the instinctive affections and generally operate under immediate stimuli. The latter may be termed the rational affections, for their stimuli are often remote and chiefly felt by the mind, which traces the relations of things and sees the intimate connexion of virtue with individual and general happiness.
The diffusion of Education will heighten and extend the pleasures of social intercourse, pleasures which truly "exalt, embellish, and render life delightful." Regard for a moment the condition of the savage in that intercourse with his fellows, where sensual indulgences and rude exultation in the slaughter of his enemies, constitute the chief of that happiness which their society affords. Think of the aged and infirm parent falling under the parricidal hand, because forsooth his limbs are no longer active in the chase, his arm no longer nerved to deal the deadly blow to an insulting adversary. Think of the sick and afflicted, deserted in their last moments and left to expire without the hand of friendship to close the dying eye. Think of woman, formed to soothe, to polish and refine our ruder natures, doomed to a degrading servitude, and thought worthy only to minister to the passions of their haughty lords. From this rude society turn to that of civilized life. Benevolence spreads her arms to embrace the human race. Sympathy awakens at the notes of woe. Charity forgets not her work of love, but visits the habitation of poverty and wretchedness, and with a generous hand relieves want and soothes the wounds of adversity. Filial piety softens the pillow of declining age. Whilst friendship and affection wait upon the couch of sickness, forgetful of fatigue, contagion and death. In scenes of health and prosperity, peace and joy reign—mutual confidence and endearment characterize domestic life—rational enjoyment marks the social circle, nurturing feelings which strengthen the bonds imposed upon mankind by mutual wants and mutual dependance. Lovely woman holds her just ascendancy—shines alike in every relation of life—a voluntary homage paid to her charms—her smile encouraging to virtuous enterprise and noble achievement—her frown chilling the ardor of even hardy insolence and impious daring. Does this contrast result from difference in mental cultivation? History presents it as the primary cause. Ignorance and barbarism, as applied to nations, may in fact be considered as convertible terms. But if in reference to social intercourse, such effects as those which civilized society presents, are the results of the increase and diffusion of knowledge among the comparatively small portion of mankind who enjoy its immediate advantages, what might we not expect from the general spread of information among the whole body of the people?
Turning from society to the individual in his solitary moments, knowledge is no less the friend of human happiness. It affords materials from which the activity of the mind weaves a pleasing entertainment, when friends are no longer present to cheer with their social converse, and when the appetites revolt by reason of satiety from sensual indulgences. A book may beguile the tedium of a gloomy day, draw the mind abroad, and prevent its dwelling on imaginary ills that more truly destroy happiness than real misfortunes. The mind must have its excitement; and if it is not endued with that degree of knowledge necessary to stimulate inquiry, and afford a relish for books, it is liable to seek for this excitement in the brutalizing indulgences of the sensual appetites or in the uncontrolled movements of the passions. By furnishing the minds of the people with the due degree of elementary instruction, the best security will be afforded of their minds being usefully or innocently employed, instead of being perverted to their own misery and the disturbance of the public tranquillity.
Such are some of the moral effects of Education. Its diffusion among the people tends to improve their individual and social happiness. It is likewise the great instrument of improvement in the arts and sciences. Discoveries and inventions are said to be the product of the age in which they are made, rather than of the individuals who are immediately instrumental in bringing them forward. But are they not dependant more on the spread of knowledge among the people at large, than on any unusual advancement in learning among philosophers themselves? Speculative philosophy has done much in promoting useful inventions and discoveries. But on the other hand, how much that is really useful do we not owe to the active minds of those engaged in the ordinary vocations of life, and who never had the advantages of instruction in the higher branches of science? It would be a curious and interesting inquiry to trace out the numerous improvements in the arts and sciences, for which we are indebted to geniuses rising superior to the disadvantages of fortune and early education. The list of such names as Ferguson, Watt, Scheele, would be found to swell the catalogue of those whose exertions have contributed to enlarge the field of science, and extend the power of man over the physical creation. Genius is confined to no rank—it is to be found in all the grades of society. Spread elementary instruction among the people, extend to them the means of improvement, and superior minds wherever fortune may have placed them, will not long remain in obscurity. Their inherent vigor will break through difficulties, surmount obstacles, and supply the deficiences occasioned by the want of a collegiate education. In order too that profit be derived from the improvements of scientific men, the minds of the people must be sufficiently imbued with information to appreciate their labors, and to throw off prejudices and break through established customs so far as to adopt in practice what speculation teaches will be useful. Many important discoveries made in preceding ages, when the mass of the people were sunk in ignorance, have been lost to us, because there was not that diffusion of information necessary for preserving and handing them down. It may be said that science has nothing to fear from such a state of things for the future, since the press and other means of diffusing information preclude all danger of any of its discoveries being lost. We readily admit the great advantages afforded by the press and the extensive intercourse between different parts of the world in preserving and transmitting knowledge. But how many discoveries which contained the germs of futuresciences have been made and neglected for the want of a proper depository in a cultivated and enlightened community? Scarcely a branch of science can be mentioned, in tracing the history of which, we cannot refer back to some neglected discovery which was its real origin. But neglect has not been the only impediment to the progress of science. The difficulties which the fathers of science had to contend with, in the prejudices of the people, at the revival of letters, are familiar to all. The propagation of the true doctrine of the solar system exposed Galileo to the persecution of the age in which he lived. Yes—not the illiterate only—the learned Cardinals of the seventeenth century (if they deserve the title of learned) compelled him, under pain of the awful terrors of the Inquisition, to abjure his conviction of the most sublime truth in science. And while Philosophy must drop a tear over this weakness in one of her most distinguished promoters, every friend of human happiness must regret that ignorance, or execrate that bigotry which could impose such degradation on one of the greatest geniuses of any age.
Inventions and discoveries owe their origin to chance, or some happy idea suddenly striking the mind, or to patient reflection and experiment. Those accidents that lead to them are as liable to occur to one individual as another. But to the uncultivated mind they occur and pass away without exciting one profitable reflection, without drawing the attention to those relations of cause and effect, which being pursued under different circumstances might lead to important discoveries in the arts and sciences. Accidents however occurring to individuals of cultivated minds, have led not only to important solitary discoveries, but to the origin of new sciences, and the formation of new systems of existing sciences. The origin of the science of Galvanism is too familiar to be repeated. It is well known that it was owing to accident. Accident likewise suggested to Haüy his beautiful system of Crystalography. It is said that whilst examining a collection of minerals, he dropped a beautiful specimen of calcareous spar crystalized in prisms, which was broken by the fall. He observed with astonishment that the fragments had the smooth regular forms of the rhomboid crystals of Iceland spar. "I have found it all he exclaimed:" for at this moment he conceived the fundamental idea of his new system. Thus, an accident which to ordinary minds would have been productive only of regret for the destruction of a beautiful specimen in mineralogy, was to the philosophic mind of Haüy the occasion of the most real delight; for it led him to a discovery which he saw was to be of importance to science. The circumstances of the early life of Haüy enforce strongly the importance of diffusing information among the people, sufficient to afford them the means of advancing in improvement, and to enable them to turn the accidents that are continually occurring in life, to the benefit of mankind. He was born in obscurity, the son of a poor weaver, and we are indebted to theprimary schoolsin Germany for the evolution of his genius, and the valuable contributions made by him to science.
The diffusion of information among the people will be favorable, not only to the progress of discovery, but also to excellency in the mechanic arts. It is maintained by many that the practical artist does not require the aid of science. Manual dexterity indeed can be acquired by practice only, but yet a moderate share of scientific information will render skill more available. Every artist in fact, by experience, acquires that portion of science which is necessary for excellence in his art; but it is at the expense of much time and many failures. By the diffusion of Popular Education, this information would become a standing fund upon which artists could draw in pursuing their different occupations, without having to derive it from the slow lessons of experience.
By raising the standard of education among the people, the standard would be raised among the learned also; for what is termed learning is only a relative quality. The whole extent of human knowledge is insignificant in comparison with the infinity of truths which remain undiscovered or unobserved. The heights and depths of science, which in our pride we fondly imagine we have explored, only strike us with astonishment because we compare them with that even surface along which ignorance plods. As the progress of information advances, the greater is that portion of knowledge which becomes the heritage of the people. By the mere intercourse of society, much knowledge is diffused, independently of that which is spread by the regular institutions for learning; and the quantum of this erratic knowledge rises in a greater ratio than the general intelligence of the people. In this country a century back, the assertion that the sun remains stationary, or nearly so, and the earth by its revolutions gives occasion to day and night, and the rotation of the seasons, would probably have been heard with astonishment, and received with incredulity by the mass of the people; because their senses, and the common use and acceptation of language led them to believe the reverse. Yet what novice at the present day, enlightened in comparison with a period of one hundred years back, would require to be informed of a truth so well known? This important truth has, like many other scientific truths, become familiar to every member of society. The information thus diffused, would be increased by raising the standard of education among the people. Much of that knowledge which before constituted a part of the stock peculiar to the learned, would become the common property of the people at large. The former would necessarily conform to a higher standard of acquirements. The plan of instruction in colleges and universities would become more liberal and extensive: for on this condition would depend the distinction of their alumni from the uninitiated.
The education of the people presents itself in an interesting light, when viewed in connexion with our political institutions. The study of history and mankind shows the essential connexion of light and liberty. Wherever solid learning has prevailed, governments have been best administered, and the people have been most happy. And on the other hand the most barbarous, rude and uncultivated nations have been most subject to tumults, seditions and changes. In all governments learning exerts a most favorable influence, by impressing on the minds of rulers the true character of their station, and on the minds of the people a just sense as well of their rights, as of their duties towards the established authority. But in our government the intelligence of the people is the very soul of its existence. There are here no distinctions ofrank—no great interests artificially balanced against each other, to keep the body politicin equilibrio. Our government recognizes but one class—the people; and but one interest—the interest of the people. To the good of the people the exertions of all must be directed; and this end, to be clearly discerned, and steadily pursued, requires the public mind to be enlightened. The constitutional distribution of the powers of government, constitutes the basis of a political system the most admirable which human wisdom has yet devised—a system which, duly administered in its several parts, tends more than any other to maintain the natural equality and liberty of man, and to promote the welfare and happiness of the people. But the just operation of our political system requires that the powers distributed to the several departments be kept within their proper sphere of action. Experience shows that written constitutions are in themselves an insufficient barrier to the encroachments of men in power. Ambition and interest can easily, by construction and implication, from the most limited grants of power, derive authority for the most arbitrary and oppressive acts. This evil has been provided against as far as practicable, in the separation of the powers, and the organization of the different departments of the government. But another check which our system contemplates, and certainly one of the most effectual in its operation, is to be found in the intelligence and vigilance of the people. Sovereignty residing with them, it is their opinion which must in all cases determine finally, what and how much power has been delegated, and to which government, and which department of government it has been committed. Measures affecting deeply the public interests must often be decided by a few voices in the state and national legislatures. Over these decisions the people exert a controlling influence. How important then is it that they be sufficiently enlightened to discern their true interests—to distinguish between sectional and general good—and with that spirit of liberality which free institutions engender, to submit to temporary and local evil, in consideration of permanent and general advantage!
But it may be asked, has not experience shown that a very moderate share of intelligence, in the great mass of the people, is sufficient for the harmonious and beneficial operation of our republican system? Have not the people, as they have advanced in intelligence, shown themselves less capable of self-government than their predecessors? To these questions it may be answered, that no precise degree of general intelligence can be marked as the point at which the people become capable of self-government; but the very nature of a republican government supposes them to be enlightened, and common sense dictates that by extending the breadth of that foundation on which the whole fabric rests, the best security is obtained for its permanency. Let us dismiss the narrow notion that degeneracy is the necessary accompaniment of learning and refinement. It is true, the boasted republics of antiquity, at the golden period of their literature, sunk into servitude. But their degeneracy and their overthrow were not the effects of their literature; they were only accidental concomitants. They were either overwhelmed by external force, or sunk at length the victims of their own policy. Rome, by her policy of subjecting all nations to her sway, neglected the sources of prosperity contained within her own bosom. By the spoils of foreign conquest the city became enriched—rapine became honorable—the provinces were plundered—wealth was acquired without labor—luxury and licentiousness prevailed—useful employments were neglected, (for the poor subsisted by thelargessesof the ambitious great)—every thing was venal. The morality of the state became rotten to the core. Ambitious demagogues, with their mercenary followers, overturned the institutions of their country. Rome sunk—yes, evenin spite ofher refinement.
But no just comparison can be instituted between ancient republics and our own, in relation to the causes which produced the overthrow of the former, and those which may endanger the permanency of the latter. The theories of ancient and modern republics are essentially different. The science of government has become better understood than formerly, and a more liberal policy marks the practice of rulers. Statesmen have discovered that the prosperity of nations is dependant on the wise administration of their internal concerns. Wars have become less frequent and less dangerous to the existence of nations. And the modern mode of warfare has given to cultivated infinitely the superiority over rude and uncultivated nations. With these advantages, the fruits of science in our favor, we need not dread the fate of bygone republics; we need not fear that the progress of intelligence and refinement will occasion that degeneracy which has been falsely attributed to them on a superficial view of the history of ancient nations. The passions of men will indeed continue to operate as they ever have done: but the diffusion of information among the people will be the surest means of counteracting their evil tendency, or directing them to proper objects.
Late events in the history of our republic have indeed shaken the faith of some in regard to the permanency of our institutions. At its origin, we were united by external dangers and the common defence of our liberties. At a later period, the adjustment of foreign relations, and the development of our system of government, interested the attention of rulers and people. But now we have been for some time at peace with foreign nations—our national character has been established abroad—and the settlement of most subjects in controversy with other countries, together with the gradual extinction of the national debt, have given place to a more immediate attention to our internal concerns. Legislation on sectional interests has brought the public sentiment of the North and South into conflict. Organized opposition to the exercise of powers claimed by congress, has threatened the very permanency of the Union. But the patriotism which directed the councils of our fathers is not yet fled. The wisdom of our legislators, aided by an enlightened public sentiment, has happily averted the danger. Let us not rest in security however. The diversified interests of our wide-spread country will continue to give rise to legislation which will excite popular discontents, and conflicts of public opinion, in relation to the delegated powers of the federal government. A grievous evil confined to one portion of the Union, threatens at no distant day to test the strength of the bonds which bind us together. The tendency of the feelings beginningto be developed among our northern brethren, cannot be mistaken. Free from slavery themselves, the relations in which it stands to our citizens and our government cannot be rightly estimated by them. Abstract speculation, mistaken philanthropy, fanatic zeal in the cause of freedom, may exclaim—the rights of man must be vindicated—the crusade must be commenced against the violators of humanity—opposition must be borne down by the strong arm of government. But let the day come when a northern majority shall in madness interfere in this delicate subject, and our union as freemen is gone forever. Civil war and bloodshed will deface and destroy the beautiful proportions of the temple of freedom. The Cæsar of America will arise to bind together the disjointed fragments of the edifice with the chain of Despotism.
Means for averting these ills are to be sought. Where shall we look for them except in the general diffusion of intelligence among the people? Spread knowledge among the people, and their minds will be awakened to a due sense of the value of our free institutions. They will be quick to detect ambition, aiming under a false pretence of public utility, at private aggrandizement. They will be ready in discerning the true interests of the nation, however designing men may endeavor to blind their perception. They will cultivate that liberal, compromising spirit, which submits to partial evil for the general good. Yea, they will cherish that patriotism which in the hour of danger will stand by the republic, and seal with the blood of freemen the "esto perpetua" of the Union.