The subject of Mr. Emerson’s Address is Literary Ethics. It is on the same lofty plane of sentiment and in the same exalted tone of eloquence as the Phi Beta Kappa Address.  The word impassioned would seem misplaced, if applied to any of Mr. Emerson’s orations.  But these discourses were both written and delivered in the freshness of his complete manhood.  They were produced at a time when his mind had learned its powers and the work to which it was called, in the struggle which freed him from the constraint of stereotyped confessions of faith and all peremptory external authority.  It is not strange, therefore, to find some of his paragraphs glowing with heat and sparkling with imaginative illustration.

“Neither years nor books,” he says, “have yet availed to extirpate a prejudice rooted in me, that a scholar is the favorite of Heaven and earth, the excellency of his country, the happiest of men.”  And yet, he confesses that the scholars of this country have not fulfilled the reasonable expectation of mankind.  “Men here, as elsewhere, are indisposed to innovation and prefer any antiquity, any usage, any livery productive of ease or profit, to the unproductive service of thought.”  For all this he offers those correctives which in various forms underlie all his teachings.  “The resources of the scholar are proportioned to his confidence in the attributes of the Intellect.”  New lessons of spiritual independence, fresh examples and illustrations, are drawn from history and biography.  There is a passage here so true to nature that it permits a half page of quotation and a line or two of comment:—­

“An intimation of these broad rights is familiar in the sense of injury which men feel in the assumption of any man to limit their possible progress.  We resent all criticism which denies us anything that lies In our line of advance.  Say to the man of letters, that he cannot paint a Transfiguration, or build a steamboat, or be a grand-marshal, and he will not seem to himself depreciated.  But deny to him any quality of literary or metaphysical power, and he is piqued.  Concede to him genius, which is a sort of stoical plenum annulling the comparative, and he is content; but concede him talents never so rare, denying him genius, and he is aggrieved.”

But it ought to be added that if the pleasure of denying the genius of their betters were denied to the mediocrities, their happiness would be forever blighted.

From the resources of the American Scholar Mr. Emerson passes to his tasks.  Nature, as it seems to him, has never yet been truly studied.  “Poetry has scarcely chanted its first song.  The perpetual admonition of Nature to us is, ’The world is new, untried.  Do not believe the past.  I give you the universe a virgin to-day.’” And in the same way he would have the scholar look at history, at philosophy.  The world belongs to the student, but he must put himself into harmony with the constitution of things.  “He must embrace solitude as a bride.”  Not superstitiously, but after having found out, as a little experience will teach him, all that society can do for him with its foolish routine.  I have spoken of the exalted strain into which Mr. Emerson sometimes rises in the midst of his general serenity.  Here is an instance of it:—­