in devoting our energies and our time to the discipline of the course, we neglect, as we are exceedingly likely to do, the cultivation of the other faculties of our being, we will not, after all, have obtained the highest nor the truest education. That will only have been reached, when we shall have properly developed, not only the intellect, but the moral and social faculties of our nature, giving to each a harmonious union with the rest, and thus imparting the highest excellence to all. Said a member of the Faculty, whose character and experience give additional weight to his words, "The capacity of the intellect for great achievments is not separable from the capacity of feeling, but a great intellect is more or less acted upon and animated by strong feeling and determined will. The striking predominance of the intellect over the feelings, or the feelings over the intellect, prevents the growth of both. The whole soul must be educated in all its powers or it cannot be successfully educated in any one of them."

To those, then, who place intellect immeasurably above the other endowments of the mind, this is an argument which they cannot well overlook, for the highest development of the intellect necessitates the development of the rest. Even if no other reason were advanced, this alone is one, which hero-worshippers, and those who make mere brains the idol of their homage, cannot well reject, much less refute with a sneer. But to those who believe that there is something in the social qualities themselves, which beautifies and ennobles character, this argument has a special significance; for it confirms the belief, that what God has given us for our rational enjoyment, is not a matter of such trifling worth as to be almost ignored, or at best, to perform the office of a convenient and humble servitor. To my mind, their value is founded upon and vindicated by higher and juster claims. They are so interwoven with our being and contribute so much to the good of others, as well as to our own enjoyment, that we shall not have performed our highest duty in life, if we neglect the obligations which they have rightly and reasonably enjoined.

With some of us at least our connection with College will soon terminate. With others it will be prolonged a few years more-but for all, a short time, at farthest, will bring the close. If we are to believe the testimony of all mankind and that even of our limited experience, beyond this pleasant four years home there lies a selfish, battling, heartless world. We have got to live in it. Every possible tendency, almost, is exerted to make men selfish, grasping, hollow-hearted. We have got to fight against them, if we would live happy and successful lives. I call that a successful life, which finds its reward, not in 9*

VOL. XXVI.

wealth or honor or fame, but in the elevation of a common humanity, and the triumph of a just cause. In ages past such lives have sometimes been written in tears and blood. Men and devils have banded together to crush them. Dungeons and prison-racks and scaffolds have confronted them; but death alone has conquered. No, death even has not conquered, for above the prison's gloom, above the scaffold's heihgt, above, high above, the faggot's gleam, and the jeers and curses of the mob, has risen a voice divinely sweet and clear," a new commandment gave I unto you, that ye love one another," and then, clearer and sweeter still," inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."-That terrible day has past, but its lessons still remain. We are not called upon to be martys, but we are called upon, in a humbler sphere, to fulfill the glorious mission of an earnest and a useful life. When, therefore, in his preparation for that life, I see any one, but especially when I see a student, withdrawing from the influences of social intercourse, and shutting up within himself those elements of his nature, which God never gave him to abuse, I think that man mistakes the true objects of an education, and is growing old before his time. Let us rather-by all means let us rather, in the best years of our life, in our youth, filled as it is with the flush of hope and of future promise, give full play to the faculties of the mind and of the soul, cultivate geniality, friendship, and a love for the good; for if so be, that by-and-by our lives may be tinged with sorrow, and disappointment may cast its shadows over us, there may be one period toward which we can turn with a quiet joy, and which, warming our hearts again with the emotions of youth, will teach us, that life is not all a waste, nor friendship all a dream.

I have attempted to justify the claims which the social faculties have upon us, in the formation of character. I have done so because the natural tendency of the College course is to develop the intellect alone. It is proper and necessary that it should be so. But it by no means follows that our sole duty here is to devote all our time and energies to its pursuit, for, with all our study and mental discipline, there is still another obligation to be discharged, which demands at least a recognition of its worth. Discipline of mind and formation of character ought to go hand in hand. While I value a cultivated intellect, I value also a cultivated heart; and when I vindicate, though. poorly, the just claims of the latter, let me not again be misunderstood, and charged with offering "a deliberate argument in favor of 'poor scholarship,' before an intelligent community, in a classic city of classic New England!"

W. H. F.

On Joseph Addison.

A century and a half has passed away since a procession of mourners, in which the Tory bishop and the Whig earl walked side by side, moved at dead of night along an aisle of Westminster Abbey, "round the shrine of St. Edward and the graves of the Plantagenets," and left the coffin of Addison in the chapel of Henry the Seventh. For a single moment the contests of the Great Hall were forgotten in the sorrow of the Great Abbey, but the sorrow of the Abbey in its turn was speedily forgotten in the new contests of the Hall. The day was yet far in the future when the death of an English author should awaken a wider and sincerer grief than the death of an English sovereign. The people were still too deeply agitated with anxiety for the security of their laws and their liberties, to linger long round the grave of one whom they knew intimately only through the medium of their literature. Posterity has reversed their decision; and with what keener interest do we turn away from palace and parliament, from the crafty and dissolute Lord Treasurer and the admired and hated Captain General, from the infamous but quick-witted Wharton and the upright but dull-witted Harley, from the eloquent Halifax and the courtly Somers, to that simple christian scholar and gentleman, who received the highest offices with modesty and filled them with integrity, but who is remembered by us, not as Secretary of Ireland or Keeper of the Seals, but as the author of the Cato and the oracle of the Spectator. So let us turn to him, not to criticise either his character or his writings, not to enumerate his errors or ferret out his faults, not to inquire if his criticisms were always just or his philosophy always profound, if he never called names or drank too much sherry; but as, near the beginning of the last century, we might have stepped in, for a moment after the play, from Covent Garden to Button's, where he was sitting over his coffee and talking with Steele or Craggs or Swift, have seated ourselves noiselessly and taken up the Postman, lest he should notice our presence and grow embarrassed and silent, and so have listened to that charmed conversation which Steele says "was Terence and Catullus in one, but heightened by an exquisite something which was neither Catullus nor Terence, but Addison alone."

It would be difficult to name another celebrated writer who stood, in

his own day and among his own countrymen, precisely where Addison stood. The center of the most brilliant literary circle which could be gathered in the metropolis, in what has been called its Augustan age; the friend of Budgell and Phillipps, of Tickell and Steele, who scarcely knew whether they most admired his genius or loved his character; whose opinion was as eagerly asked by the critics at Wills's and the parsons at Childs's, by the politicians at St. James's and the philosophers at the Grecian, as by the more favored circle which met him nightly at Button's and the Kit-Cat; who won the honest praise of Pope, whilst the snarling poet hated him as a rival, and of Swift, whilst the Tory dean hated him as a Whig; who was commended even by Boileau for Latin verses which he pronounced worthy of Vida and Sannazario, if not of Horace and Virgil, and complimented even by the Cynic of Bolt Court in a sentence which has passed into a proverb; we certainly can point to few writers who have enjoyed among their contemporaries a wider, and to none who have enjoyed a more enviable popularity.

There are two men, however, of world-wide celebrity, the most illustrious Englishman of the generation that was going out and the most illustrious Englishman of the generation that was coming in, over whose names for a moment we may pause.

Dryden had just died. He had been Poet Laureate with a royal pension of a hundred pounds a year. He had sat as "autocrat of letters and oracle of the literary clubs." He had been pronounced by his own generation the first among living English poets. Yet Dryden went down to his grave hated by all sincere Whigs and detested by all honest men. He had degraded those splendid abilities which have placed him above Cowley, above Prior, above Pope, by vile satires upon virtue and wretched lampoons upon religion. For the paltry pittance of his annuity he had quitted the Church of England and entered the Church of Rome. For the equally paltry pittance of his popularity he had spent a long life in pandering to the vile and fawning on the great. From the pit of Drury Lane Theater to the throne of St. James's, there was no grade of London society which he had not insulted with his mendicancy and his adulation.

Ten years before Addison died, Johnson was born. A great man he certainly was. No one will grudge so cheap an epithet to one who fought his way up with his pen, against fortune, from the deep degradation of a daily drudge who slept in a garret and ate in a cellar, into the society of writers like Robertson and Churchill, like Adam Smith and Sir William Jones; to be praised by Richardson and courted by

Chesterfield, and to be acknowledged as the head of that celebrated club which numbered among its members Goldsmith and Gibbon and Burke. But the popularity of Johnson was, after all,-if we may borrow a word from the newspapers-rather the run of a great intellectual monstrosity than the quick, sympathetic admiration of a finely poised and symmetrical mind. Men looked, with sentiments not very different from those with which the Lilliputians are said to have contemplated Gulliver and the original Mexicans to have regarded the cavalry of Cortez, on the author who could write the life of Savage within a fortnight and Rasselas within a week; who dared to publish a Dictionary without a dedication, and who sustained unassisted a series of essays which even threatened to eclipse the Spectator; who rolled across Streatham Park tapping the posts as he passed and muttering like an idiot; who did not hesitate to tell Garrick that "he didn't know what a fool he was making of himself by repeating that story," and Burke that "he didn't see his way through the question." The popularity of Addison was different from the popularity either of Dryden or of Johnson. Unlike that of the former, it was unsoliited; unlike that of the latter, it was uninterrupted; unlike that of both, it was universal. If we except Steele, who was unhappily alienated during his later years from his old school-fellow of the Charter House, and Pope, who hated him because he envied him, and maligned him because he hated him, we do not find that his name was ever mentioned but with esteem and affection, by the wits who had hung upon his lips at the Coffee houses, by the nobles who had applauded his Cato at Drury Lane Theater, by the gownsmen who had turned with delight the pages of his Treatise on Medals and his Latin poems at Oxford, or by the squires who had grown merry or sad over his Spectators, in every borough from Cornwall to Northumberland.

It was perhaps to be expected that a revulsion of feeling would follow this unmixed admiration; that when the well-known face had disappeared from Russell Street and Shire Lane, the popular feeling towards him would vibrate as far in the opposite direction. And we cannot but admit that this, in some degree at least, has been the case; that whilst men of letters still linger over the pages where the England of Queen Anne is so exquisitely painted-still love to repeat the morning walk with Sir Roger in Spring Gardens, with the glass of Burton ale and the slice of hung beef at the end, and to read for the thousandth time the pathetic letter of Ed. Biscuit which tells the sad story of the old knight's death-even the Spectator has lost its hold on the hearts of the people, whilst the Cato has virtually come to be