To describe his labors of scholarship would be impossible on this occasion. Although important contributions to the sum of knowledge, they were of a character only slightly appreciated by the world at large. They were chiefly directed to two subjects,—classical studies and general philology, if these two may be regarded separately.
His early life was marked by a particular interest in classical studies. At a time when, in our country, accurate and extensive scholarship was rare, he aspired to possess it. By daily and nightly toil he mastered the great exemplars of antiquity, and found delight in their beauties. His example was persuasive. And he added earnest effort to promote their study in the learned seminaries of our country. With unanswerable force he urged among us a standard of education commensurate, in every substantial respect, with that of Europe. He desired for the American youth on his native soil, under the influence of free institutions, a course of instruction rendering foreign aid superfluous. He had a just pride of country, and longed for its good name through accomplished representatives, well knowing that the American scholar, wherever he wanders in foreign lands, is a living recommendation of the institutions under which he was reared.
He knew that scholarship of all kinds would gild the life of its possessor, enlarge the resources of the bar, enrich the voice of the pulpit, and strengthen the learning of medicine. He knew that it would afford a soothing companionship in hours of relaxation from labor, in periods of sadness, and in the evening of life; that, when once embraced, it was more constant than friendship,—attending its votary, as an invisible spirit, in the toils of the day, the watches of the night, the changes of travel, and the alternations of fortune or health.
In commending classical studies it would be difficult to say that he attached to them undue importance. By his own example he showed that he bore them no exclusive love. He regarded them as an essential part of liberal education, opening the way to other realms of knowledge, while they mature the taste and invigorate the understanding. Here probably all will concur. It may be questioned, whether, in our hurried American life, it is possible, with proper regard for other studies, to introduce into ordinary classical education the exquisite skill which is the pride of English scholarship, reminding us of the minute finish in Chinese art,—or the ponderous and elaborate learning which is the wonder of Germany, reminding us of the unnatural perspective in a Chinese picture. But much will be done, if we establish those habits of accuracy, acquired only through early and careful training, which enable us at least to appreciate the severe beauty of antiquity, while they become an invaluable standard and measure of attainment in other things.
The classics possess a peculiar charm, as models, I might say masters, of composition and form. In the contemplation of these august teachers we are filled with conflicting emotions. They are the early voice of the world, better remembered and more cherished than any intermediate voice,—as the language of childhood still haunts us, when the utterances of later years are effaced from the mind. But they show the rudeness of the world's childhood, before passion yielded to the sway of reason and the affections. They want purity, righteousness, and that highest charm which is found in love to God and man. Not in the frigid philosophy of the Porch and the Academy are we to seek these; not in the marvellous teachings of Socrates, as they come mended by the mellifluous words of Plato; not in the resounding line of Homer, on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander pillowed his head; not in the animated strain of Pindar, where virtue is pictured in the successful strife of an athlete at the Olympian games; not in the torrent of Demosthenes, dark with self-love and the spirit of vengeance; not in the fitful philosophy and boastful eloquence of Tully; not in the genial libertinism of Horace, or the stately atheism of Lucretius. To these we give admiration; but they cannot be our highest teachers. In none of these is the way of life. For eighteen hundred years the spirit of these classics has been in constant contention with the Sermon on the Mount, and with those two sublime commandments on which "hang all the law and the prophets."[161] The strife is still pending, and who shall say when it will end? Heathenism, which possessed itself of such Siren forms, is not yet exorcised. Even now it exerts a powerful sway, imbuing youth, coloring the thought of manhood, and haunting the meditation of age. Widening still in sphere, it embraces nations as well as individuals, until it seems to sit supreme.
Our own productions, though yielding to the ancient in arrangement, method, beauty of form, and freshness of illustration, are superior in truth, delicacy, and elevation of sentiment,—above all, in the recognition of that peculiar revelation, the Brotherhood of Man. Vain are eloquence and poetry, compared with this heaven-descended truth. Put in one scale that simple utterance, and in the other all the lore of antiquity, with its accumulating glosses and commentaries, and the latter will be light in the balance. Greek poetry has been likened to the song of the nightingale, as she sits in the rich, symmetrical crown of the palm-tree, trilling her thick-warbled notes; but these notes will not compare in sweetness with those teachings of charity which belong to our Christian inheritance.
These things cannot be forgotten by the scholar. From the Past he may draw all it can contribute to the great end of life, human progress and happiness,—progress, without which happiness is vain. But he must close his soul to the hardening influence of that spirit, which is more to be dreaded, as it is enshrined in compositions of such commanding authority.
"Sunk in Homer's mine,