Letters from the Theological Seminary, 1822–1824

Princeton, November 22, 1822.

My studies and interruptions and engagements are so numerous as to leave me little time for exercise and recreation, and still less for the less imperative duties of correspondence, &c. Besides, our institution has been in a state of painful suspense and anxiety with respect to the case of Krebs for some days; he is at last taken away, and this left a gloom upon the minds of all of us. On Monday the 18th instant he was first confined to his bed; about Thursday he was seized with a delirium, his fever raged from that time with the utmost violence, and all hopes of his recovery were relinquished. On Friday night the Debating Society was adjourned, and an hour was devoted by the students to prayers for his recovery or his restoration to reason and happy deliverance from this life. During this hour, strange as it may appear, he enjoyed a lucid interval, and though unable to speak, yet by looks and signs he manifested to my father and all who surrounded him his entire resignation to the afflicting hand of God, and his joyful expectation of a happy eternity. Saturday was spent in religious duties in his behalf; on Saturday night his fever abated and left him prostrate as to animal and mental strength; his father and mother arrived on Saturday night, but were not recognized by him until the next day. On Tuesday morning at 1 o’clock A. M., I was called up to see him die, but I declined going into his room. He melted away without a groan or a struggle.

On Tuesday afternoon his corpse was taken in a carriage to

1 William George Krebs, of Philadelphia, a classmate of Mr. Alexander in College as well as Seminary. He was a member of the Lutheran Church. A biographical sketch, written by his fellow student Mr. Joseph S. Christmas, (himself afterwards so celebrated in the ministry,) is in Dr. Green’s Christian Advocate for October, 1823.

Philadelphia, accompanied by seven or eight of his fellow students. Perhaps I am wearying you with what dwells so heavily upon my own mind; it may not interest you. I feel it to be a loud call to me to be also ready for this great change. Within three weeks, three of my college classmates have left this world; all of them far more robust, and having the promise of longer life than myself.

My studies are overwhelming, and as we study subjects rather than books, they are unlimited. 1 feel disposed to read all that I can on each subject, and when I have spent all my time thus, I find that I have only stepped upon the thresholds of these various apartments of science.

I thank you for your intelligence respecting the literary improvements in your city. I shall always rejoice to hear good tidings from the place where my early scenes of pleasure and pain were chiefly laid, and where I received the rudiments of my anomalous education. I always side myself with Philadelphians when New York is brought in competition with it, though I hardly know why. The associations of infancy ought not to bias the reason of more mature age.

PRINCETON, Theol. Sem. Last day of 1822.

I wish you all the good wishes which are suggested by the return of this season of festivity, a happy and profitable New Year to you and all your family. You ask for particulars respecting the Seminary, our studies, &c.; and there is no request that I would grant with greater pleasure, for these several reasons: Imprimis, I love our institution so much, and am so happily situated in every respect, that I shall not be soon weary of my subject. Secondly, it is an inexhaustible subject, and therefore I shall have no difficulty in filling up this immense sheet. Thirdly, it is a subject on which I am at home, and therefore I shall write with more ease and pleasure. You shall be satisfied as to minutiae, and so you have upon the third page of this epistle a brief but minute register of the members of our Seminary, in print too.2

I said I was happy, — never more so in my life. I enjoy good health, good spirits, and I have a most comfortable room, and a most delightful room mate.3 I never had so great a variety of

1 His residence in Philadelphia extended from December, 1807, to July, 1812 — from his fourth to his ninth year. This gave him a short time to enjoy the exact and thorough initiation into Latin Grammar, for which the school of JAMES Ross was so deservedly famous.

a The annual catalogue, on a folio sheet.

3 Jared B. Waterbury, now i). D.

excellent company before: Metaphysicians, Wits, Theologians, &c., &c. I have here dearly prized friends, who endear Princeton to me. Books in the greatest abundance, as I have access to six public libraries, as well as my father’s. Our studies are not burdensome, and far from being irksome. I saw a letter the other day from an alumnus of this institution to a member of it,

in which he says:” My dear C, you are now enjoying your

happiest days, and whether you realize it now or not, you will feel it deeply when you are cast out upon the world.” These sentiments are not peculiar to this individual, I hear them from every one who has ever been here. Indeed, the greatest cares I experience, are such as arise from an oration to be spoken, or a tedious lecture. Will you not say with Virgil, 0 fortunati nimium sua si bona norint. I will now proceed to give you some account of my course of life. I rise at half after six. Public prayers in the Oratory at 7. Breakfast at 8. From 9 to 9|-, I devote to bodily exercise. From 9^- until 12, Study. 12 — 1, Exercise. Dine at one. 2 — 3, 1 usually devote to works of taste, and to composing. 3 — 4|- at Lecture. 4-J Prayers. Until tea, at Exercise. After tea, until 12 (at which time I close my eyes) Societies, study, &c.

Perhaps you think I exercise my body sufficiently. I find it absolutely necessary to my well-being, or almost to my being at all. You may think, too, that I do not study a great deal; true — and moreover that I need not complain of want of time for correspondence; true, at present I need not complain; I have plenty of time for writing, and general reading. At the beginning of the term, before I had fairly got into the harness, our business appeared too much to grasp; but it is now methodized, and I find that I am quite a gentleman of leisure. To proceed: we recite twice in the week on Hebrew, once on Greek, once on the Confession of Faith, once on Biblical History. Hear Lectures once on Theology, (preparatory to the full and regular theological Lectures,) twice on Biblical history, once on the Criticism of the Original Scriptures, once on Jewish Antiquities. On Monday night, I attend a society for improvement in the criticism of the Bible; President, Mr. Hodge. On Tuesday night, the Theological Society, where every student delivers once in six weeks an original oration. On Thursday night, I am at liberty to attend an evening lecture at the college. On Friday night, Theological Society, where questions in ethics and divinity are discussed. On Saturday night, a weekly prayer meeting. On Sunday we have sermons from our three professors, and Prof. Lindsly,1 in rotation.

1 Philip Lindsly, D. D., the Vice President of the College of New Jersey.

The greatest advantage which I experience from being in the Seminary, and this is increased by my being an inhabitant of the house, is, that we live in a kind of literary atmosphere; all the conversation carried on here is of a literary kind; at table, in our walks, and wherever a cluster of us assembles, some lively discussion takes place which causes our time to fly very rapidly .and pleasantly away. All our opinions are brought into the arena of free discussion, and we must defend them or relinquish them. Opinions founded upon ignorance, or prejudice, habits and manners which are unpleasant, and almost every eccentricity which is fostered during the course of a private education, is here likely to be rubbed off. So pleasant is my whole course of life here, that I feel not the least desire to go out into the great world.

But amid all my comforts, I am miserable unless when I am enabled to found my satisfaction and contentment upon a broader basis than any thing temporal. I find no substantial unmingled pleasure except in a, conscience void of offence; which that I may always possess is my earnest and reigning desire. I know very well how repugnant it is to any one of nice feelings to have religion drummed into his ears, but I feel assured that a word in its favour will not offend you. I should be unworthy of the title of friend, if I did not endeavour in some feeble measure to make my friends partakers of the greatest happiness I can conceive of.

My habits have changed considerably since I entered the Seminary. I have bidden farewell to ennui, spleen, hyp., and all that class of old hangers on: also to the flute, to romantic air-castles, and walks in groves, to the company of ladies — item, to poetry, magazines, novels, &c., &e., too tedious to mention.

THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, January 30, 1823.

Another month is tapering off to non-entity, and with it closes the first half of our winter term. On Monday next commences a recess from study of two weeks’ duration; and, as you know that feelings of leisure and disenthralment are wont to creep over one before the vacation makes such feelings strictly allowable, you will not be surprised to hear that I am doing nothing about this time. Beware of dreaming that I have nothing to do; for since that unwarrantable boast in my last, that I was almost master of my time, I have been punished for my temerity by an influx of duties innumerable. The “pressure of business” upon me has been so mighty for two or three weeks, that my system has been considerably deranged in its bodily as well as mental parts. When I speak of business, I do not mean to convey to you the impression that my studies, &c., have been the only absorbents of my time, for the pursuits of the class dc not necessarily consume many hours of the day; but my mind has been harassed by a multitude of questions in daily agitation, in these metaphysico-theologico-literario walks of science; questions from which I could not in justice to myself turn away my attention, but which have, at the same time, eaten up my vacant hours, and caused a host of unanswered letters to lie in my drawer praying for audience. At the present moment, being 10 o’clock P. M., (more or less,) I feel fit for no severe exertion; my animal spirits have been sucked up by a difficult Hebrew passage, a difficult mathematical query, and a difficult point in morals since tea, so that I am in a very proper state to utter that farrago of floating ideas commonly called when taken in a body, and put on paper, “A Letter.” These ideas have been swimming in cerebro, I know not how long, crying for enlargement, and I am now arraying them before me on this piece of coarse foolscap, (by the way, the only connecting link between them, so incoherent are they and unsocial.)

My room mate left me this evening. I am now sole proprietor of this my little chamber. View me in imagination, seated in my chum’s immense elbow chair, writing by the light of a shaded lamp, heated by a funereal looking stove just before me. Beginning at the south corner of my domicile, you observe first a row of shelves, containing all my little store of books, and many not my own, modestly covered by a gingham veil. In the same corner you may discern my spacious literary throne with all its appendages of drawers, &c. I need not direct your eyes to my scanty stock of chairs. A red desk standing in solemn guise among the sticks of fuel which lie in a capacious box, ready to feed the aforesaid stove, A high stool. A table. A mirror large enough to reflect my haggard features. An assortment. of trunks, my own and Waterbury’s. Three maps. A wash stand and appurtenances. A solitary picture to decorate my naked walls. A cluster of pantaloons in suspense. An axe and saw wherewithal our wood is cut. And finally, (though not least precious,) near to my room mate’s couch is placed my lowly cot, into which wearied nature bids me presently creep. Pardon the vagaries of a half-crazed student. Good-bye, for this night.

Friday Morning, — 11 A. M.

I can assure you that I am in no humour for joking this morning. My old complaint the blues has come upon me like a strong man armed. Misanthropy is a sin which threatens at times to destroy not my own comfort only, but that of my friends around me. I despise it, and I loathe it, and yet, paradoxical and inconsistent creature, I hug it to my heart. I can not say in truth that I hate any thing just now; but truly I am depressed; devoured by spleen, and fostering a crabbed, morose, churlish, silly, girl-like, sinful despondency.

Excuse my never-ending egotism. It is human nature to dwell upon our own real or imaginary misfortunes. It is still unreasonable when so many more luxuriant prospects present themselves for my contemplation.

I rejoice at the hint that you have given me, that you do not feel that unmanly and dastardly antipathy to the contemplation of the noblest of all objects, — the Great Jblrst Cause, and of the relations subsisting between Him and us. Why is it that the most sublime of all sciences, the science of man considered as an immortal being, and of God as the author of that immortality, and the only being powerful enough to make it blissful, should be shoved aside on all occasions from the mind’s view, and thrust, whenever practicable, into oblivion? Is it because our interest in this subject is small — our personal interest? because these truths arc merely speculative, and have no bearing upon our future and present happiness 1 because the importance of the subject is small 1 because life is so long as to warrant the hope that a better occasion for considering it will occur? because the addition of years is likely to take away our reluctance to consider it candidly? because we are not at all criminal in neglecting it? because our criminality is lessened by delay 1 I think that none of these are the arguments which keep us from ils investigation. A real though hidden hatred of those truths which condemn us, and curtail our pleasures; a feeling that the gate to heaven is a strait, a narrow gate, and that few enter it on account of various encumbrances, these things keep our minds from viewing the truth aright. Till we are willing to sacrifice pride, vanity, love of fame and pleasure, and all love of created things to the pure unalloyed love of God himself, we must remain without the gate; an agony is requisite to enter it. This is a hard doctrine; but the kingdom of God suffereth violence, and so we are informed from the source whence all our knowledge of these things flows. The Scriptures represent man as a rebel, a lover of himself rather than of God; they command him instantly to repent, and all means are provided to enable him to know God’s will. But it is useless to speak of means to attain any end when that end itself is hateful. The man of the world desires to be happy, but he does not desire to be happy in the way of God’s commandment, in the way of self-denial, humility, and godly sorrow and fear. I am not at liberty to say that it is an easy thing to become a Christian. It may be easy to a being, if such there be, who has no sins to forsake, no pride to vanquish; who can, without any reluctance, crucify every evil affection and unruly desire, and live agreeably to the gospel. Some one may say, “Who does this? no man is sin less” granted, but none was ever a Christian who did not desire to do it.

Many are prejudiced against the Gospel without knowing what it teaches. No man ever CANDIDLY and PERSEVEIUNGLY studied the system of truths presented in the Old and New Testaments without finding his belief in them follow. Where there is belief, reaffirm belief, that belief will result in corresponding affections; these affections necessarily lead to a holy life.

THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, 1823, 1st of March.

I was about to congratulate you upon the prospect of your speedy emancipation from college restraints, but when I look back on my own academical career, I can see no ground for congratulation upon leaving it. I cannot picture to myself any situation in which a young man has so much happiness within his grasp as at college, whether I take into view the season of life, the nature of his pursuits, the variety and congeniality of his associates, or the fewness of his cares. You haVe not, however, had experience of the peculiar cares and pleasures of a genuine college life, but you can no doubt conceive it. I did not myself enjoy it fully, as I lodged and boarded at home during my three and a half years; but so much of my time was spent within those loved old walls, and so delightfully spent that I can never forget it, or think of it, without a melancholy pleasure. I am constrained to own that many of my most jovial hours at Nassau Hall, were spent in a manner not exactly conformable to strict morals, but nevertheless 1 have there spent what I shall always consider my happiest hours. I often recall a merry circle of careless college blades seated about “the witching time of night” around a Nassau fire, by the way a pre-eminently good one, enveloped in fragrant clouds, enjoying all that flow of youthful hilarity and good humour, which a release from irksome duty engenders. Perhaps I feel too much pleasure in contemplating these old scenes; but in my hours of twilight musing, and castlebuilding, I often read in a bed of glowing coals, the almost faded story of these old times, and picture to myself the future various destinies of my old friends and classmates. But these joys

1 His correspondent was in the University of his own city and home.

though they were sweet when I was in the midst of them, vanish in comparison with others which I experienced within those same walls.

It was there that, I humbly trust, my eyes were first opened to see the true value of eternal things; there I first saw with clearness, the awful nature of the rebellion which I was waging against my best friend and sovereign; and I there first determined to give up all hopes of happiness from the world, and to seek it in religion. I need not tell you that my determinations and resolutions have been broken, and unfulfilled, and that I find every day the truth of that solemn declaration, that the carnal mind is enmity against God, and is not, nor can it be, subject to his law. At the time of which I speak, I enjoyed happiness which I can find no words to express, and which has been lost only because I have so often returned to seek my consolation from mere earthly enjoyment. There cannot certainly be on earth any greater pleasure than to see without doubt, oneself condemned justly by God’s law, and at the same time saved freely by the sovereign mercy of God in Christ. The satisfaction which I then felt in committing all my cares and concerns, my soul and body, into the hands of a Saviour whose infinitely lovely character I then saw, I never expect to receive from any other source. I remember that at that time, I looked back with unspeakable astonishment at the carelessness and indifference with which I had viewed the realities of another world; with what calmness I could contemplate all the particulars of my unfeeling ingratitude to God, and I remember that I then thought, that if at any time I had seriously and soberly considered these things for one hour, I could not have viewed them any longer with apathy. The friendships which I formed under these circumstances, are the closest and most tender I have ever known; and I feel attached to these friends in a way which I never knew any thing about before. Perhaps you may ask, “Does religion make you happy?” Alas! If I possessed religion in its purity, unalloyed, I should be perfectly happy; but I do not; my soul is still attached to the beggarly elements of this world, and I fear to say that I am a Christian. But this I can say: When I feel most deeply the force of divine truth, that is, when I feel myself most deeply a lost sinner, when I see the hellish blackness of sin, and the infinite loveliness of the divine character, then 1 feel most happy. I have known seasons when I could willingly have given up my life, and departed to enjoy the most unspeakable raptures of the heavenly state; when I could so unreservedly devote myself to God as to be willing to live or die, to go to the ends of the earth, or dwell in obscurity just as he pleased, to say ex animo, Thy will be done, and at such times, I have felt more unmixed bliss in one half hour than in a month as I commonly spend it.

No reasonable excuse can be given by any man for not loving supremely the most adorably perfect being in the universe. God calls upon all men now to repent, and has sanctioned his command by most terrific threats, and alluring promises. But I need not tell you these things. You have doubtless heard them urged powerfully and repeatedly, and I am but tres passing upon your patience.

THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, April 10JA, 1823.

I should commence by making an apology for writing on so ungain a piece of foolscap, if I had not a kind of dim remembrance of having sent you my ideas in the same homely vehicle once before. It is large, it suits my unmanageable pen, and above all it is at hand; so that you may consider it as a predilection of mine, and judge of the letter by the contents. And judging of it even in this way, I fear that you will have to exercise much clemency to suffer it to pass. I can assure you that after having spent a day in investigating Hebrew roots, one feels little energy of mind or body; and moreover there is such a stagnation hereabouts at this time, that I can promise you nothing interesting. The trustees of the college met yesterday and on Tuesday, for the purpose of electing a president. Professor Lindsly was chosen President, and the Rev. Jared D. Fyler, of Trenton, Vice President in case Mr. Lindsly should accept his appointment. Mr. Lindsly requests four weeks for deliberation, which the Board have granted. They will meet at the commencement of the ensuing session, to receive Mr. L.’s final answer. It is generally supposed in this place that he will not accept the oflice. You probably know that he has lately received an invitation to the college at Nashville, Tennessee: they have made him very good offers, and many of his friends think that he will go to that institution.2

The college has dragged along rather lamely during the past winter. It has had no president, no regular professor of Mathematical and Physical science, and the tutors are young and inexperienced. Mr. Lindsly’s administration has gained universal approbation, as far as I can learn, but what could one man, even of Mr. Lindsly’s talents, do when clogged by so many

1 Dr. Ashbel Green had resigned the presidency in 1822.

2 Dr. Lindsly having declined the appointment, Dr. Carnahan was elected, and filled the office for thirty years.

disadvantages 1 The college has scarcely ever, during the last fifteen years, received a greater addition to its numbers than at the beginning of the last session. I scarcely ever visit the college — indeed there is nothing there to interest me except the Whiff Society, to which I pay an occasional visit. My time passes so happily and so busily up here, that I feel not the least disposition to leave my domicile. When I walk for exercise, I usually plunge into the thick woods to the cast and south-east; I am fond of such roaming, especially at this season, when nature is beginning to resume her verdant drapery. I have indeed lost much of the romance which formerly entered so deeply into my character; but I still like to indulge sometimes in moonlight reveries, and rambles through dark and melancholy groves, or to catch the sweet breath of rising morn upon some gentle hill; but I am soon ejected from any such elevations of fancy by the sober realities of life as it is. The great pressure of studies, and the solemn prospect of the responsible duties which I expect before long to assume, dispel those airy visions which will some times rise before me in the shape of multiform delightful scenes of “fairy-land.” A dark cloud of melancholy sometimes casts a shade over my horizon, but it is only for a moment; my greatest struggles are with a childish levity, and love of joke, and quip, and jollity, which I would gladly leave behind me in the regions of boyhood. My native loquacity leads me to give you a long letter, even full of egotism, in preference to sending you a short abstract of the floating news; all that floats here has been afloat until it is putrid and unfit for transportation. A few days since, we had a visit from David Brown, a Cherokee, who is one of the new converts from Paganism; he has been two years in the foreign mission school at Cornwall, Connecticut, and is now taking a course of theological lectures at Andover. He is genteel in his manners, has an agreeable expression of countenance, his face about the hue of my own, not quite so mahogany as most of his tribe. His attainments in literature are truly astonishing, when his opportunities of acquiring knowledge are taken into consideration. He expects in about a year to return to that part of his tribe which lives upon the Arkansas, where he hopes to preach the gospel. He manifests great zeal in the cause which he has espoused, and his piety is apparently such as to put to shame the majority of white professors. When I look upon such a person, changed so radically in opinions, and temper, and practice, and consider how little could have been effected in this way by mere moral suasion founded on natural principles; I am constrained to say, that the gospel is the wisdom and the power of God. To civilize these wandering tribes in any other way, than by Christianizing them, I am more and more convinced would be impossible j and I rejoice in the hope that every relic of barbarous idolatry and superstition will soon be extirpated by this holy religion.

Do you read Dr. Green’s Advocate? He has devoted a large portion of its pages to the productions of our students. In the last number “the Dissertation on Types,” on “the Style of the New Testament,” and the “Death of Rebecca,” are the effusions of some of my acquaintances. As for me, supposing that I could produce any thing not intolerable, my time is so engrossed by study, that I have no leisure for such attempts. I have bidden a reluctant farewell to poetry, classical reading, and indeed every department of general literature.

PRINCETON, ib July, 1823.

Since the close of the vacation I have been striving hard to find a little recess from stated engagements, in which I might answer the communications of my friends. But our studies, now much increased, and the press of business on me as an individual, and a very variable state of health, have not left me one hour in which my mind was sufficiently disengaged to sit down at writing. This letter, if I am not greatly mistaken, will be eminently dull, and in that respect be a good representative of its author, who is superlatively so just now, in consequence of being pent up all last evening in a close, crowded, hot room, in attendance upon our Friday night debate. The discussion was peculiarly interesting, and ably conducted, and engaged my close attention for nearly three hours; which was so much the worse for me, as the excitement produced by it has been now succeeded by its usual consequent, a grievous stupidity and head-ache. In our societies, one of my greatest pleasures is to observe the development of uncommon characters, a satisfaction which our institution affords in a high degree, as it embraces specimens of every variety of American temper and manners which is not inconsistent with religion. We have the Yankee and the Kentuckian, the clown and the cit, the baccalaureate and the back woodsman, the fastidious critic just emerged from a long confinement in the schools, and the rough unshapen child of nature fresh from the plough. Few countries whose inhabitants have branched out so generally from one stock as ours, have their different provinces marked as strongly by characteristic peculiarities as the United States. Politeness is a thing known only nominally among students — I speak of the formulas of the ban ton. By mutual consent, we deal plainly with each other, and waive the observance of fashionable etiquette. This gives us a better opportunity of discovering character. The garb of worldly politeness is so uniform as to hide in great measure individual peculiarities. Were I to seek for the soul of true politeness, I should look towards the South, but it would need the external polish of our own Middle States to make it perfectly suitable to fine taste. Nothing new in this stagnant pool. I am almost deliquesced by the oppressive heat; if I am suffering so much at a window in a current of air, wrhat must the reapers suffer whom I see in the harvest fields around, all this day? I sometimes wish I had the Schuylkill here for the purposes of bathing; in lieu of it, I have to walk a great distance to swim in a little turbid stream, or to be content with the shower-bath. I am glad to see a new edition of Erskine’s evidences; for clear and irresistible argument, and for elegance and originality, commend me to Erskine.

PRINCETON, 29£/t August, 1823.

You have begun to think, if I augur rightly, that your Princeton correspondent is either strangely indolent, or wilfully neglectful, or perhaps both. Neither, I can assure you. if he knows himself. An imprudent application to study during the first weeks of this summer, and a neglect of regular exercise, entirely unnerved me, rendered studying highly perilous, and drove mo from my books to wander hither and thither in quest of health and spirits. This has been my business for a month or two past; and if you know any thing of the feelings of a genuine hypochondriac either by report or experiment, you need not be informed that I felt little like handling a quill, and least of all like writing a tolerable letter.

The amusements of several little excursions have, by the permission of a watchful Providence ever kinder than I deserve, restored me to my usual health, and I am just beginning to resume my regular studies. I was upon the Atlantic, and perhaps laved by its surges at the same time with yourself, and heartily concur in all your praises. I know no recreation comparable to a sea-bath; the excitement produced by the conflict with the surf, the stimulating effects of the salt water, and the healthful invigorating sea-breezes, have a better effect on me than all the nauseous potions of all the quacks in Christendom. My visit to Long Branch was peculiarly agreeable from the concurrence of a number of circumstances. We had fine weather, fine company, good accommodations, a season unusually fresh and verdant, and a spot of country (about Shrewsbury) which for richness and fertility is second to none in this state. I was surprised to find upon the high ridges of the Middletown hills, which are a continuation of the Navesink chain, numerous beds of marl, abounding with shells and other marine remains which indicate the alluvial nature of even those lofty eminences. But in connection with this, I was still more astonished to see the relics of a mammoth, lately dug out of a low piece of marsh ground in Poplar Swamp, a spot which must undoubtedly have been redeemed from the ocean. These bones were discovered within a few feet of the surface, in good preservation, but are now rapidly mouldering upon exposure to the atmosphere. One of the teeth weighs three and a quarter pounds, and the knee-joint according to my hasty measurement is two feet in circumference. It is probable that I shall pass the ensuing winter in Virginia. I feel it to be a duty to sacrifice my plans and inclinations to the acquisition of some hardihood of constitution. I congratulate you upon your enlargement from collegiate restraints, although I cannot hope that you have bettered your condition, if your college course has been as devoid of care and uneasiness as my own. Your feelings upon the occasion are natural, for the day of one’s graduation is, so to speak, the day of initiation into the toils and mysteries of manhood. You speak as though your future pursuits were entirely unde termined. This is well; the danger in this age is of hurrying prematurely into the bustle and responsibility of public life. You appear to think of devoting a year or two to private study. If this is your plan let me exhort you to procure as many restraints and stimuli as you can; either by the superintendence of some literary friend, or by associating some companion in your studies. This I say upon the supposition that your character and feelings are like mine, and like most young men. It is difficult for one who feels himself entirely at leisure to exercise that decided resolution, and persevering self-denial without which it is impossible to make literary attainments. From experience which is now the subject of bitter regret, I know that the temptations to gratify imagination and taste and idle curiosity at the expense of mental discipline are almost irresistible.

I shall not ask forgiveness for suggesting, what has no doubt suggested itself to you, the importance of forming moral as well as intellectual character at this critical point of time. Religion, that bug-bear of the thoughtless -and the voluptuary, and the laughing-stock of “the many” who know it only by name, is after all that can be said, the only safeguard to virtue, and the only source of real tranquillity of mind. Aside from the peace occasioned by the quelling of an angry conscience, and the release from fears of future evil, the positive joys of religion are truly unspeakable. The lofty and sublime contemplations, the solid and rational hopes, the intimacy with Him who ruleth over all, VOL. i. — 2 the remedy for every care which piety professes to afford, and which its votaries say it does afford, surely are sufficient recommendations to one who looks beyond the outskirts of this limited world.

PRINCETON, September 22, 1823.

The present week, of all weeks in the year, is a week of commotion and anxiety to me, as it is one of jovialness and satisfaction to thousands of my fellow Jerseymen. The noise, and bustle, and dust, and novelty which strike the senses on our commencement day, and even for several days before and after it, give my irritable fibres a most villanous agitation. You have witnessed one of our annual literary Saturnalia, if I remember rightly, and if so need not be told how this town appears more like the Amphyctionic council of all our American Bedlams, than of the lovers of science and letters. I am writing this letter, be it known, with the expectation of tearing it to pieces, as I hope to see you here at our holiday, and to be delivered from the necessity of addressing you in the imperfect language of ink and paper. However, as the second cord to my bow, I am delivering my mind of its present scum, which I have in mind to send in case we should not have the pleasure of seeing you here.

Tuesday, September 23.

I was prevented from concluding my letter yesterday, and have discovered from your classmate [T. L.] Janeway, that wre shall not have the pleasure of a visit from you to-morrow. It was unwelcome intelligence. I was hoping to have had the pleasure of meeting you here at this season which presents more novelty and interesting speculation to a stranger than any other. I should have been glad of the opportunity of introducing you to the ancient and honorable fraternity of “American Whigs.” Janeway has received a hereditary predilection for the Clios, and has (I think very properly) followed its dictates. My old college friends, and our family acquaintances, are already pouring in upon me. It is gratifying, as you will find hereafter, to meet after the lapse of two or three years, even those companions in study who were never intimates or confidants. Some of my cobachelors have outstripped me in a variety of ways. Some (proh scelus!) have been guilty of matrimony. Some are on the verge of the same gulf. Some are licensed man-slayers. One or two have already begun to fill some space in the public eye as lawyers, in the south. The pleasure of our meeting has, how ever, received a damp from the recent intelligence of the death of Edward Thomas, captain’s clerk on board the “John Adams.”

Tic was graduated with me, and pursued legal studies for about two years. He was a young man of uncommon acuteness and vigour of intellect, and of promising abilities as an orator; and though singular and eccentric in some of his habits, was generally esteemed by his acquaintances. He is the sixth of the class of 1823 who have departed this life. A call so loud to me to be ready to depart also, has roused my sluggish mind to look around me for a moment; but alas the return to slumber is so much more natural to wicked man, that I am led to think that in most cases, the repetition of such alarms, unless effectual at first, seems only to deaden the feelings to all their influence. Death is not dreadful to me now; what new terrors may be disclosed by the dark and melancholy scenes of a sick chamber, and the more dark forebodings which are the harbingers of this imperial destroyer, I know not. My life and virtues and merits are so utterly destitute of having any value, intrinsic, or as purchasers of immortality, that, were my hopes based on them in any degree, I would be willing to take the shortest road out of this life. But I do daily see an increasing glory in that Saviour who was once to me an object, to say the least, of indifference, which declares him to be my ground of confidence, and my only source of joy. I confess that few, very few of my thoughts are fixed on him; I say few with reference to the degree in which I ought to fix my eye upon him, but joy, real and unequivocal joy, I never have, or expect or desire to have in any other.

Shall I leave this point? Perhaps the only effect on you is a revulsion of feeling such as I have myself experienced from a similar cause. I am far from wishing to obtrude my own notions or emotions upon any friend; and I know from experience, too well the impolicy and absurdity of recommending religion pugnis et calcibus, to cram my hortations down any man’s throat. But I do wish to let our correspondence assume something more than the reserved Antarctic character of two shopkeepers. If there is any thing in religion which renders it unfit for communication, or repugnant to social confidence, or which like Free Masonry is not to be hinted at, or spoken about except in consecrated houses, away with it out of the earth! I would be the first to lift up both hands in execration of so icy and dissociating a principle. But I know it to be something far different. I know that there is not any exercise of those affections (which are ever seeking exercise somewhere) so truly social and endearing as the exercise of them upon the enlivening truths and realities of Jesus Christ’s gospel. I know that there is an exquisite satisfaction in that kindly feeling which Christianity encourages and keeps alive. And I know that had ‘this side of the picture met my eye some years ago, instead of the harsh lines which are sometimes foolishly exhibited, that I should not have so long like a condemned criminal shrunk and retreated with such mental imbecility from all that bore the stamp of religion. Godliness is profitable for all things; having the promise of this as well as the coming life.

Thursday.

This letter, you must begin to think, is long in finding a conclusion. I was turned out of my room, on the day before yesterday, to make space for a stranger; and, as this was done while I was abroad, this letter was shut up among my other effects until this afternoon. The dampness and coldness yesterday prevented such a multitude of persons from assembling as we are accustomed to see. Our village was consequently comparatively quiet. I have seen however several persons bearing sad marks of the frolicking last night. For any particulars relating to the exercises of the day, I refer you to Janeway, who, I believe, was a constant and attentive observer.

I am entirely run out of spirits by the continual excitement of the last two or three days. My Virginia bubble is exploded. I shall expect to spend the next year, Providence permitting, in my old course of seclusion. I am, upon the whole, glad of this disappointment. Although no one can be more fond of travelling than I, yet the pleasing retirement and warm attachments of our seminary have so enchained my affections that it was like tearing apart my heart’s fibres to think of going away.

PRINCETON, October 23, 1823.

The openness and candour with which you have met my proposals of a new set of topics for our correspondence, have gratified me very much. I rejoice to find that the important interests of religion have gained so much of your attention, and would beg you not to suffer this attention to decrease or to remain with out increase. To come more directly to the points of inquiry suggested by you. I entertain no shadow of a doubt that a patient and scriptural method of seeking God’s favour was never yet fruitless. Indeed, while I profess to have faith in the word of God, no truth can be plainer; it rests on the immutable word of Jehovah. The pursuit may be a dark and tedious and discouraging one, and yet compared with the glory of that “a/zapavTwov TTJS So£??s o-reavov,” which is the prize held forth, how do all these labours dwindle to nothing. Among a host of Scripture passages, look at these: Ps. lxxxvi. 5. Joel. ii. 32. Rom. x. 12, 13. The search must* be indeed most sincere. Compare the petitions which you have offered to God for this great favour with what you may conceive to be the cries of one pleading for his life, and then compare the temporal and the eternal life. Deut. iv. 29. Jer. xxix. 13. For encouragement, for truths calculated to awaken as well as to soothe the conscience, for advice and direction infinitely more infallible than that of a fellow worm, fly to the precious volume of God’s word. There, be assured, a prayerful, indefatigable, daily search will open to you supplies suited to all your necessities. I would have you believe not one tittle of what, after diligent examination, you find not there. But then that holy book is to be approached without prejudice or prepossession. Let me use the words of Chalmers, “We must bring a free and unoccupied mind to the exercise. It must not be the pride or the obstinacy of self-formed opinions, or the haughty independence of him who thinks he has reached the manhood of his understanding. We must bring with us the docility of a child if we want to gain the kingdom of heaven. There must be no garbling of that which is entire, no darkening of that which is luminous, no softening down of that which is authoritative or severe. The Bible wrill allow of no compromise.” — “If we could only abandon all our former conceptions, if we felt that our business was to submit to the oracles of God, and that Ave are not called upon to effect a reconciliation betwixt a revealed doctrine of the Bible and an assumed or encogitated principle of our own, — then we are satisfied that we should find the language of the New Testament to have as much clear, and precise, and didactive simplicity, as the language of any sage or philosopher which has come down to us.” (Chalmers’ Evidences, last chapter). Our reverence for the Bible is truly hypocritical when we are content to study it with less assiduity than a thou sand things which we may know and eternally perish. I trust that I shall yet rejoice with you in the words of Is. xxv. 9.

I wish to discourage no one from the acquisition of any language. My remark to Jarieway was meant to have special reference to the TO StSaxrov of French works. I cordially concur with you and with the whole republic of letters, as to the inadequacy of a translation to convey the beauties of literature. I must still confess that after dabbling for six years in French literature, I find my ardour quite cooled as to the exquisite richness of that department of letters: and this has been the result with most of my acquaintances who have studied the language However, go on — no language is to be despised, especially one which opens the door to so vast a range of authors as the French.

1 Supposed to be unfavourable to the study of the French language.

The exercise of mind too, which the study of language affords in comparing words and idioms, has a powerful influence in rendering our ideas precise and definite.

When you next happen to be in a book store please to price any small editions of Demosthenes and any of Xenophon’s or Plato’s works. I prefer German editions; and those which have the Greek text without notes or version.

PKINCETON, December 8th, 1823.

Your last letter has been lying unanswered for a month, and would probably lie a month longer, if I should wait until my mind is sufficiently free from occupation to leave me in a fit state to write a. letter. I have indeed hours of release from study, but after a day of close confinement to metaphysical or ethical subjects, I confess that I feel less inclined to nothing than handling a pen. If you have ever spent three or four weeks in thinking

“Of Providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,
Fix’d fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute,
And found no end in wandering mazes lost,”

you may conceive of the mental exhaustion wThich I now experience. Clarke and Leibnitz, Hume and Brown, have led me an enchanting, but dangerous flight through the clouds of speculation by day, and have danced before my brain in the phantasms of the night. It is my satisfaction to know after all the mortification consequent upon a view of the inscrutable nature of many questions in morals, that the path to heaven and perfect unalloyed enjoyment of the truth is open to the humblest and simplest child of Adam. The New Testament, while it inculcates a system unparalleled for its sublimity and consistency, is obscured by no sophistical refinements, and defies the attempts of philosophy to complete or systematize it more fully. The general impression left by an hour’s humble reading of God’s word is unlike the effect of any other work. It is a feeling of calm submissive tranquillity. I am inclined, therefore, to think that nothing tends so directly to the formation of a truly Christian character as the continual, prayerful, unquestioning perusal of the Scriptures. They do not present naked doctrines; they are addressed to the natural feelings, and they affect our hearts imperceptibly but powerfully. Let me pray you to be a diligent student of this holy book. He who takes delight in the Bible must imbibe its spirit; and its influence, I think, is all-powerful. After the learned prating of philosophers, the sweet and modest words of inspiration fall on my ear like melody.

Wednesday, Uth.

A goodly chasm in the epistle! and yet, I assure you, left without any possibility of remedy, by the variety of engagements which pull me hither and thither. Besides the recitations of this week, which force me to read about 600 octavo pages, I have to sit four hours in our Theological Society two nights in the week; and have now on hand, preparation for debating on next Monday night; item, an oration to be transcribed and committed for Tuesday, and one to be composed and committed for Monday. Except as it interferes with pleasant extra duties, I do not complain of this; it is infinitely preferable to an ennuyeuse vacation in which I begin and leave unfinished a thou sand different things. Your situation in the city is truly enviable on one account, — the facilities afforded by it for the reasonable and convenient purchase of books. Many valuable works are knocked down at occasional auctions to persons who cannot at all appreciate them, and who get them for almost nothing. Our seminary is very full — our numbers more than 100. College rather thin. I dropped two sermons of Dr. Lindsly’s into the office for you. They would give more pleasure to one who discerned his characteristic manner, as we do, in every paragraph; 1 think they will please you, however, from the untamed vigour of the style. Our temporary teacher of Chemistry, Mr. Halsey, has come to hand, and is commencing operations.2

PRINCETON, December 29, 1823.

Your full letters are always welcome, and with the general principles of your last I am inclined to coincide. The venom and unhallowed fire which have sometimes characterized the controversies of Christians I can heartily agree with you in depre cating. The wisdom of the serpent is more sought after in this day by many than the mildness of the dove. I can also from the heart subscribe to the doctrine that “secret things belong to God,” and that those only are to be set up as necessary tenets which God has revealed to us in his sacred oracles.3 Polemics, I fear, will not abate in their virulence among the soi-distant lovers of truth,

1 “Improvement of Time. Two Discourses delivered in the chapel of the College of New Jersey, December, 1822.”

2 Luther Halsey, D. D., Professor from 1824 to 1829.

3 His correspondent had quoted Bishop Watson’s sentence — “En codicem sacrum — here is the fountain of truth. Why do you follow the streams derived from it by the sophistry, or polluted by the error of men?”

“Till warned, or by experience taught they learn
That not to know at large of things remote,
From use obscure and subtle, but to know
That which before us lies in daily life
Is the prime wisdom; what is more, is fume,
Or emptiness, or fond impertinence:
And renders us in things that most concern
Unpractised, unprepared, and still to seek.”

Paradise Lost, B. 8.

While I would adhere to these opinions with all the powers of my soul, I would still desire to maintain a firm and unshaken zeal for the truth of the scriptures. It is not the “contending for the faith once delivered to the saints,” which is reprehensible, but the manner of contending, so unholy and so repugnant to the spirit of the gospel. God forbid that I should conceive that one truth, even the least, of that system which he has revealed is unimportant, or undeserving of strenuous exertion for its maintenance. To our limited vision many doctrines may appear destitute of any practical bearing, as some parts of the animal fabric seem useless; and yet, so impious would it be to charge God with inculcating doctrines which might or might not be believed with equal security, that as to the symmetry of the Divine plan, I should say —

“If from the chain a single link you strike,
Tenth or ten thousandth breaks the chain alike.”

The creed of professing Christians was originally brief and simple. All creeds are barriers erected against error, and of course must grow and change with the phases of heresy. The primitive confession of faith was one sentence, (Acts viii. 37.) The symbol called the Apostles’ creed grew out of the necessity of the times, and was reared as a defence against those who denied the Godhead or the real passion of Christ. The Athanasian creed as it stands in the English Liturgy is still more complex, and our own formula being directed against a variety of opponents is quite a volume. Many of its clauses ought to be expunged, as referring to Catholic tenets, and peculiar errors, from which we are now sufficiently guarded. “The purest churches under heaven,” says our Confession, “are subject both to mixture and error,” and therefore I should not feel secure in adopting every sentiment of our church, while I consider the system called Calvinistic, as the only system founded on the obvious meaning of the Bible, the only system reconcileable to a sound philosophy, and the most consoling system to one who feels himself a lost sinner. I say this after having once risen against the doctrine of Rom. ix. 15, with all the enmity of a rebellious heart. I trust that God has convinced me that no u foreknowledge of my conduct “was his motive for rescuing me from the slavery of sin; (alas, had this been the case, my conduct would have secured me eternal wrath,) and that “not according to our works, but according to his own purpose and grace, which was given us in Christ Jesus before the world began.” I wish to impose my private sentiments on no man; as I have already said, go to the Bible, and believe not one word which is not there written. But I entreat of you, let not metaphysical speculations, or prepossessions antecedent to inquiry, forestall your judgment.

PRINCETON, 26£/i January, 1824.

I know how to sympathize with you in your late disappointment, [a journey.] It is the twin to one which occasioned me some disquietude last autumn, and which 1 have not yet ceased to regret. Whether from the early associations produced by an ancient collection of travels, over which I used to pore in my first reading days, and which tinges with old remembrances my air-castles and my dreams to this day, or from some causes more latent, I do not profess to know, but there is in my character a restless, burning desire for peregrination, an anxious expectation of some opportunity to rove beyond seas and mountains. Such feelings, as wild and romantic, I have endeavoured to quell; and yet in all my studies the thought floats up, (and especially when I read or think of foreign countries,) that I am preparing to wander, at some day, far from home. Our wishes are not always proportioned or accommodated to our character and abilities, and perhaps the sooner this whim is crushed, the better. But all transmarine voyages apart, my wish to visit Virginia, the old dominion, the land of my fathers, my own natal soil, — to see the ruin (now a barn) in which my grandfather preached, the valley where I first saw the sun, the mountains where my father spent his boyhood, and where the Alexanders are “rife” even now; this wish I would not, and cannot repress. As to Greece, your second topic, it has all my heart. I have just been reading the report of Webster’s noble speech, [on the Greek revolution.] It is apparent that he has laboured to keep under all undue enthusiasm, and that his sentiments instead of out running the popular feeling, have, as expressed, fallen far short of it. This man has commanded my highest admiration by what he has at times exhibited to the public.

The language of modern Greece, from what I can learn, has changed more as it regards idiom and construction, than in single words. The Komaic is modernized by the peculiar use of VOL. i. — 2*

34: FKOM TIIE THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY.

the auxiliaries and prepositions, and has lost that force which declension strictly so called, conferred on the old Greek. The most satisfactory piece I recollect on the subject, is in a No. of the Quarterly, some years back. The Pilot they are reading this moment down stairs. I have been in old times so whirled and crazed by novels, that I try to keep clear of the vortex, though I generally skim this class of books.

The North American Review is likely to keep up its reputation and merit. Mr. E., it is hinted, finds the sphere of clerical and even literary influence too small for his ambition. He is young, handsome, and fascinating, conscious of mental force, and well-informed as to his high character, and he intends, as is said, to make a launch into the political world. His studies for some years have had a leaning this way, and general policy has engrossed his pen, with a few exceptions.

Boston and Cambridge, which may be considered as, in an eminent degree, the seats of literature in America, are daily increasing their claim to this character. The men who enjoy the rich and sinecure professorships in the university find time and means abundant to woo the muses. Rational religion, in this sense of the term, lays too slight a hold upon the heart to excite great zeal for their tenets, and they appear before the world as literati, rather than as Christian ministers.

I do desire to see learning prosper, to be learned myself; I desire to be happy in the good things of this world, so far as consistent with virtue; I desire to commend Christianity to the world by all that charm which courtesy and cheerfulness can give to as rude a piece as I, — yet I could curse myself, (however unfaithful I may be now, or alas may be hereafter,) if I thought that I could ever consent to make merchandise of the cross, by bartering it for aught of earth. My wish is, in my humble measure, to make every effort tend to one point, the establishment of Christ’s kingdom on earth, and in the hearts of men. And O that future devotcdness might take the place of the worldly spirit that has, and docs prey upon my peace. It would give me unfeigned joy, my dear friend, to see you brought to this noble stand which I wish we may both reach, — to renounce the joys, honours, cares of the present life, for the sake of living for God. Our only excuse, our only inability is our guilty, low, irrational love of the world and of self. God demands our hearts this moment. As a sovereign he thunders his requisition, as a father he whispers pardon, reconciliation, assistance. And what shall we mention to Him as the object of our preference to his service? Pleasure? gair 1 ease? glory? Life is a vapour, and we know it. Joy is fleeting. Let us determine, at least, to perish in search of God. I trust you suspect me of no wish to lead you to any system. Read God’s word, without comment, without prepossession, without cavil.

PRINCETON, February 24, 1824.

Instead of being in the lecture room, my proper place at this hour, I am squandering away the time at home, and among other matters commencing to spin out something which may pass for a letter. I thank you for your last; for the length of it, and the information which you were so kind as to communicate. In addition to what I have already learnt from you, I should like to have this problem resolved, viz.: How could the “Allgemeine Litteratur Zeitung von Leipzig” be got at, — on what terms, — and with what hopes of regular transmission 1 You speak of having the small-pox near you, and among you; — we have had two cases in Princeton but its progress has, I think, been effectually stopped. One of our students has been very near death with the bilious colic, but has recovered. In the near prospect of death, he manifested great joy in the hope of soon meeting face to face the Saviour whom he had taken as his portion. Death, to him, seemed despoiled of all that is terrific. Bucknall, another of our students, is lying extremely ill with what appears a rapid consumption. Little hope is entertained of his recovery. So many friends, companions, and classmates have sunk around me, that I seem most loudly called on to be ready also, as being ignorant of the day or hour when my soul shall be demanded. Would to God that I might be excited to do what is remaining to be done with all my might, — to become more holy, and to strive not to be taken from the earth without having done any thing for the benefit of my fellow-men. My qualifications for the ministry are so slight and defective that I shudder at the thought of being in eighteen months invested with that sacred office. So much ignorance, inexperience, and immaturity, seem ill to befit the character of a teacher and pastor. The truth is, I feel too young; and could I dispose of my time profitably, I should be glad to intermit my regular theological course for a year or two. Dr. [J. P.] Wilson I have a great curiosity to hear, and if I should ever come to Philadelphia shall certainly make it a principal point in my memoranda to go to his church. Philadelphia would certainly lose a bright and shining light at his death. Apropos of preaching, — have you read [Edward] Irving 1 He has certainly been shamefully misrepresented by the tribe of angry critics; and yet with all his originality, and all his occasional strength and pathos, he makes me unspeakably splenetic with his nauseous affectation of obsolete words and manner, and his contempt for all logical method. Whoever compares him with Robert Hall, (the most eloquent and classical writer of the age, if my judgment is taken,) will see that mighty power, and a style rich and elegant, and matter original and weighty, are not inconsistent with the strictest observance of rhetorical rules, and the strictest conformity to the polite usage of Ian guage.

Mr. has thrown the gauntlet, as you have probably

seen, into the peaceful camp of the Quakers, and challenged them with something of the old Cameronian spirit. Although I think that Quaker error ought to be opposed, and that the Quaker arguments do receive their answer in one and another part of his book, yet I see more wit than argument in his work, and more levity than becomes subjects so solemn, and a community so respectable. However, it will uncover the nakedness of Quakerism, I trust, to some of the rising generation, and make them ashamed of the mysticism which they have hitherto swallowed without knowing why or wherefore. I hope your progress in French is satisfactory. The pittance of knowledge which I once had is fast leaking out, as all knowledge that is neglected, must. I need some stimulus greater than any which I now enjoy to make me read French; I hardly open a French author once a month. To acquire a good knowledge of the language would be a strong inducement for me to spend some time in your city. My intimate friends in Philadelphia are very few at present. You are my only regular correspondent; and to knit, in my own name, all the old family acquaintances, is what I shall never attempt. Hut-ton of the Deaf and Dumb Asylum is a particular and inestimable friend, and with him I believe the list ends. Any thing favourable in the literary world? — in your city 1 You have probably read Sprague’s ode for the Shakespeare jubilee. That production seems to me the best lyric that I have ever seen from an American pen. It breathes the spirit of Collins and Gray. I wish to see American literature take a start. I long for the time when our productions shall be truly American, not slavish copies of Transatlantic works, but impressed with the national character. Our forests, and mountains, and waters, surely furnish scenes second to none that European poets and romancers have hackneyed, and our mighty works of nature might, I should suppose, inspire a feeling as ethereal as ever prompted the Theban Pindar. On this score I can quarrel with Sprague.

New magazines, they tell me are afloat in both our great cities. I hope you will not let the New Yorker outdo you. I believe that, as far as enterprise is concerned, the New York magazine has its advantage in its proximity to the “land of notions.”

The Lethean influence of Quakerism in your town is, I fear, almost as inimical to the Muses, as the commercial turmoil of New York; yet if Philadelphia cannot support a better monthly publication than either Blackwood’s or Campbell’s, [London New Monthly,] which, me judice, are the merest froth conceivable, then my notions of Philadelphia talent are amazingly out of the way. The great difficulty in America appears to be, that literary men must (from pecuniary motives) be professional men, and must needs give all their labour to their professions. In Europe there are literary men of leisure, by scores, who write for periodical works. The compensation made in England for compositions are sufficient to feed poor authors.

PRINCETON, March l*lth, 1824.

You have begun the law. Success to you, and all your future clients. I am not one of those who suppose the profession of the law incompatible with the strictest integrity, although I think, what I believe no one denies, that its dangers and temptations are considerable. The general principles of politics and jurisprudence you will no doubt find agreeable; indeed, I should like very well to glance at the subject myself for a few months. We are fond of sketching fancy visions of future life. Where is it probable that you will turn your face after being admitted to practise? Do you expect to continue a Philadelphia!!, or do you banish all such queries? If you retort the question, as it would be natural to do, I must say, that my mind is in suspense. My constitution calls for a Northern climate. Lower Canada wrould suit me: my feelings and prepossessions would lead me southward, but slavery appals me: literary considerations make the Middle States alluring, though I can’t say that this latitude fits my temperament. The wants of the church point out a large expanse of territory to the South and West, and I confess that (as the Quakers say) I feel a drawing to those three sister States north of the Ohio, where slavery has not set her foot. Is it probable that we shall ever appropinquate 1 Wherever I may jjo, I trust that duty and a desire of usefulness will sway me. If my life is spared, it is not improbable that I shall spend two or three years in itinerating. I feel daily my need of personal converse with the world which is to be the theatre and the subject of my future operations. The clown, the mere student, the bookworm, though vastly learned, is no more fit to produce a moral than a political revolution; yet this is what we aim at. I am happy to observe by the public prints, as well as by private information, that extemporary preaching is becoming more and more common, even in the frozen East and North, and that the opposition to the cold, unnatural, modern way of pleading with dying sinners, is increasing. Lawyers are not often heard to complain of an inability to extemporize, nor should a clergyman; and he who does is unfit for the pulpit. This change is peculiarly consolatory to me. I never expect to be able to read a sermon with any life; and as to committing to memory, I would rather write ten sermons than get one by heart. Upon this ground, I reckon our debating societies among the most, interesting and important institutions about our Seminary.

Monday, 22c7.

You may judge how little I am master of my own time by the abrupt manner in which I left what I had written; I shall now endeavour to finish. I observe that I spoke of itinerating, on the other page: my reference was to land-journeying, and I forgot to make any allusion to my dreams of transmarine peregrination, which event is always to be excepted in my calculations. Four years hence and where shall we be 1 what

manner of persons? how employed? If the impenetrable curtain which screens the future could be drawn aside, we might see some astonishing and unexpected change. It may be that the grave may then contain my mortal part, or the depths of the sea; or care and affliction may have eaten out all hopes of terrestrial peace, or a thousand other results, now unthought of. All things here suffer change, all things created are fleeting, God only remains. My dear friend, shall we not attach ourselves to this only support which can sustain the final shock ] Is it not desirable, is it not wise, to “lay hold on the strength of God “? Small as our experience is, it ought to have informed us that the joys of this world are sweet and fascinating only in the pursuit, and that supposing and granting that they were exquisite in possession, they fade away like the tints of morning clouds. This you have heard, no doubt, until, perhaps, you are weary of it. And yet if these things do not affect us now, when the heart is susceptible, when its fibres are not entwined so closely as they shall be around the world, when we have not become intoxicated with pleasure and glory, is it to be hoped that they will affect us when the storm and hurricane of life is maddening us 1 Pardon me for saying that I consider the present moment of your life a most critical moment, pregnant perhaps with eternal consequences. You have made election of a profession, and expect very soon to enter upon its active duties. Now I do not say that by becoming a lawyer you put yourself out of the reach of religious influence, or that the moral influence of your calling will be directly injurious to virtuous principles; but I say, with confidence, that in all probability, every successive step you now take will lead you further from a reasonable hope of salvation. I am speaking of human probabilities; we are not to take God’s special dealings into our calculations. Do you find the love of honour leading you now from the consideration of the self-denying gospel 1 How will it be when ambition shall have received ten-fold strength from the continual fuel presented to it “? Does multiplicity of business exclude prayer and devotion now? Look at the whirlpool of every lawyer’s cases. Do you find your heart becoming more insensible to religious motives? Believe me, it is but the presage of more dreadful indifference. In this matter there is no stationary point. Hearts do not amend by indulgence, sin loses no power by having the reins given to it, the world becomes no less fascinating, God is not appeased by continued defiance. Refer to the situation of any lawyer, one, for instance, whose circumstances you could wish your own, and say candidly, does that situation afford advantages for the cultivation of piety, such advantages as you now enjoy. This very hour is the best possible season which remains for you. I press this motive because it is one which struck terror once to my soul, and opened my eyes to the dangers of my situation.

PRINCETON, April 13th, 1824.

Your long letters are always welcome, and I thank you for using that goodly sheet of foolscap; we are neither lovers nor courtiers, and may therefore venture to lay aside the gilt-edge now and then. The only complaint I intend to make with regard to your last is, that it is too much in the style of an apology. Did I say any thing in the way of expostulation or rebuke upon your commencing legal studies 1 Assuredly, however my pen may have slipped awry, nothing was further from my intention. I do most sincerely approve of your choice, and can say heartily “Macte nova virtu te puer, sic ilur ad astra” Were riot my services most manifestly claimed in another field, I should make election of the same business. My views on the subject I cannot express more comprehensively than in the words of one of the first lawyers in New York. “It is hard,” he lately said to a friend of mine when speaking of his son’s becoming a lawyer — “It is hard for a lawyer to enter into the kingdom of heaven, and those who have tried, as I have, the vexation, and overwhelming pressure of an extensive practice, will confess that it is fraught with temptation and danger.” But I leave this subject; above all, I shrink from disputing about it. You will pardon me for wishing to keep controversy, at least, out of our letters. Two years’ continual sparring, in clubs, in debates, in the chamber, in the grove, at every corner, upon every knotty point in Divinity, have produced in me a satiety of argumentation. Private controversy has never resulted in my own change of opinion, and I am confident that I never convinced another. Pride is too strong to suffer candour to have its perfect work. You, no doubt, feel as I do, knowing that disputation must shoulder out all the other ingredients of our epistles. Somewhere I have read some saying of somebody’s, that lovers are never tired of each other’s conversation, because they are forever talking of themselves. I claim no experience in love matters, but I believe that the principle is correct. How naturally do we slide into discourse about ourselves, and our concerns! Grant me permission to talk of myself, and I will talk forever. After this confession you may understand, even if you cannot pardon my egregious egotism. And I ask no privilege which I am not willing to grant with interest, thinking with Horace, that

“Aequum cst
Peccatis veniam poscentem reddere rursus.”

You cannot gratify me more than by expatiating on your concerns, your habits, character, you may descend to the colour of your coat, or the tie of your neckcloth. According to my principles of letter-writing, a letter ought to be the mirror of its author; if he is a bad man, why let the epistle be so too; and let an egotist go on endlessly de carissimo scijiso. I was gratified by the communication on Hume’s death before I suspected you of being its author. Go on, I pray you, in this useful and delightful exercise of the pen. The friend who writes the “Student’s notes,” must be, truly, a valuable acquaintance. I had figured to myself a classical bachelor of some forty years as the writer of those pieces. There seemed to be evidences of maturity and sober judgment which pointed out the experienced author. As for me, though I defile many fair sheets, yet my abortions seldom satisfy me sufficiently to induce me to publish. And indeed, to be praised without being known, seems so faint a stimulus that it would scarcely repay me for the transcription. When I can profit myself or others, 1 shall not be backward in plying the quill.

1 But he, as well as the two other lads, had begun to amuse himself with writing for newspapers and magazines. I detect his hand in the “Christian Advocate,” at least as early as February, 1824, in the article signed Cyprian, and he had hardly refrained so long from taking advantage of the literary columns of Mr. Walsh’s “National Gazette.” It was to that journal the series entitled “A Student’s Notes “was contributed. They were asscribed to William B. Reed, then an under-graduate of the University of Pennsylvania.

This day is a day of penance to me, coming round once a month, being the day on which I have to commit a speech to memory; the most odious task in the whole circle of my duties. I never expect to commit a sermon, but must creep somewhere into the backwoods where unwritten discourses will be tolerated. Do you find me dull this morning? My sleep was unquiet last night, as it always is after an extraordinary excitement of the nervous system. I am often guilty of spending too many of my evening hours in “furious gossip,” which produces a kind of mental inebriation, as delightful pro tempore, and as shocking in its effects as the hilarity of the winebibber. My circle of acquaintance in the Seminary is contracted, but I have somehow managed to glide into a cluster of congenial souls, the like of whom, for genuine, friendly, social feeling, and for mental elasticity and vigour, I have never seen before, and never expect to see. If you wish to see me in some of my happiest moments, picture me in imagination lolling in a cushioned elbow chair, surrounded by about six or seven whom I can name, pouring forth, or drinking in without the slightest reserve, the fresh and new-born thoughts, that such excitements may be supposed to generate. If I ever knew the pleasures of social life it has been here; if I ever heard eloquence, it has been here.

It is commonly said in Virginia, that the “Alexanders are a tonguey race.” Let me have a long epistle, and let it be any thing that floats uppermost in the cerebellum. I fear I have given you the scum to-day. I have been much pleased with Hodgsorfs letters upon America; one candid and Christian traveller at least.