If I fail, as most probably I shall, the consciousness of having consumed a day in useful effort, will be a tolerable reward—perhaps reward enough.
"The inner man moulds the outer," is an old and true saw. Its truth may be seen, reader, by looking around you—indeed, by looking at yourself. If you are a philosopher—a genuine philosopher—your glass will image forth an aspect of serene dignity. If a sophist, one of perplexed cunning. In the first instance, your manner will be lofty yet affable—a key to the better feelings of all:—in the latter grovelling, yet scornful—to every one food for the most unreserved contempt. Yielding that these different appearances are produced by the workings of the inner man, can you hit upon a mode for ennobling these workings, in themselves confused and feeble, so evidently effectual as the introduction of knowledge and its all-arranging hand? Some may say that the manner is of no moment. The effects produced under every one's own observation would, if remembered, serve to stifle this assertion. Why was it that the most eloquent of Grecians struggled for years to remove the defects of a faulty bearing, if no valuable end was to be attained?
It follows then that dignity and suavity are of service: that these—in many cases essential—are the offspring of a confidence in one's own knowledge. And now, I ask, whence may we draw richer supplies of this than from the pages of ancient writers? Are they not rife with all the useful reasoning—the philosophic intelligence—the happiness of application, that cultivated man could devise for the assistance of untutored intellect?
From the logic of the sage we learn, by a spirit of imitation natural to human beings, to quicken our own powers of reasoning. The perspicuity of arrangement and expression, so admirable in our master, becomes gradually a part of our own style. We are led by the strength of example to lop off the redundancies of a corrupt method, and by the acquirement of correct notions of purity, enabled to render our productions chaste and clear. And these improvements in the reasoning powers are effected at the same time that we possess ourselves of the richest treasures of lore!
But this is only one source of advantage among many as valuable. Wit, a power of the mind seldom granted with a liberal hand by nature—receives, in the course of communion with the playful and keen, a training of no little value. Charmed by the attic grace which softens and mellows the satire of our companions, (for let us conjure up at the hearthside the great masters of the past, and through their works hold with them 'pleasant converse,') our efforts will be to increase by farther intercourse, the small store already laid up perhaps unintentionally. Thus may we, if naturally possessed of wit, so polish and sharpen the gift of nature, that no armor may resist its progress: or, if destitute of this strong weapon, form for ourselves one less beautiful indeed, but of scarce less real worth.
Without this chastening influence, native wit degenerates into a harshness excessively grating to the ear of refinement, and productive of no single good effect.
Thus is improved or created a quality allowed by all to be of much utility in the contests between mind and mind. And what is life but a field of conflict, wherein the passions of one—perpetually at strife with those of another—are forever calling to their assistance the weapons of intellect!
I have before spoken of the effect produced on the manner by a confidence in one's acquired resources. Carrying this a step farther, I will remark, that many of the qualities regarded as amiable among men, such as urbanity and modesty, may be gained not only by the act of storing the mind, but from the actual lessons and counsels of the bland teachers from whom these stores are received. Will any one deny the happy consequences of an urbane and modest deportment, in man's intercourse with his fellows? Surely none would so far forget the beauty of virtue as thus to sneer at its manifestations.
We can scarcely find among the various pursuits of men, one in which the pursuer may not be assisted by the experience and lessons of his predecessors on the same path. The painter esteems himself happy when able to collect in his studio the meanest of the antique models. The sculptor contemplates among the relics of the past those master-efforts, so deservedly famous, and is indefatigable in a study essential to the production of purity in his own manner. Extend this to eloquence. Most truly the orators of antiquity have been sturdy pioneers upon a noble path, and to neglect their guidance would retard the pursuer of the same course, and entangle him in many difficulties. Indeed, with the works of these, elocutionists have invariably recommended familiarity. The strength of Demosthenes,—monte decurrens velut amnis—the 'abundant grace' of the polished Tully, are of themselves milk for a giant's nurturing. But they have not come forth alone from the wreck of time. They are attended by worthy companions.
The depths of a strong mind teem with the seeds of fine thought. Ideas lofty and rich are then in embryo, and it is a tedious but an essential task to bring them to maturity. The lessons and practice of those by whom excellence was most nearly approached, cannot do other than afford aid of the strongest nature to the student, who has in immediate view an anxious care of these germs, and looking forward to the season when a gigantic growth has rewarded his culture, longs with a virtuous ambition for its coming, that he may scatter among men the fruits of mature strength. Let all remember this, and seek not only rule of guidance, but successful illustration among the pages of the past.