The cause of man; an oration: : together with valedictory addresses, pronounced at the commencement of Rhode Island College, September 7, A.D. 1796. / By Tristam Burges. ; [One line from Pope]

The cause of man; an oration: : together with valedictory addresses, pronounced at the commencement of Rhode Island College, September 7, A.D. 1796. / By Tristam Burges. ; [One line from Pope]

Table of contents

Title page

THE CAUSE OF MAN.

ADDRESSES.

I. To the CORPORATION.

II. To the PRESIDENT.

III. To the TUTORS and PROFESSORS.

IV. To the UNDER GRADUATES.

Vth ADDRESS.

§

§

[Page]

[Page]

THE CAUSE OF MAN: AN ORATION: TOGETHER WITH VALEDICTORY ADDRESSES, PRONOUNCED AT THE COMMENCEMENT OF RHODE ISLAND COLLEGE, SEPTEMBER 7, A. D. 1796.

By TRISTAM BURGES.

Say rather Man's as perfect as he ought.

POPE.

THE CAUSE OF MAN.

[Page]

HUMAN nature has been a theme of much discussion. Among the ancients, some railed at man, and some ridiculed his imperfections. Certain modern philosophers make depravity* a part of their creed; and assign the most elevated seat in Paradise to those, who feel the most perfect contempt for human nature. The catechisms of these sages inform us, that man is malevolent; that his passions hurry him into wretchedness; and that his understanding is only another name for imperfection. Should individuals offer this for a description of their own minds, perhaps justice might read the character with silent approbation. When 'tis produced as the picture of man, the same justice commands to wipe the aspersion from the portrait of our common nature.

If exalted actions flow from elevated sentiments, then, to establish human dignity, and reason man into approbation of himself, must be among the first advancements towards virtue.

Be it, therefore, our task, to plead the cause of man.

Let us examine his disposition; consider the utility of his passions; survey the perfection of his understanding, and observe how far surrounding creation stands as monumental testimony of human greatness.

[Page]From the situation of man, we may argue the necessity of benevolence in his disposition. He was, doubtless, formed for happiness. His desire of bliss, and his powers of fruition, evince the truth of this assertion. His felicity depends, almost entirely, on social intercourse. Solitary, man is in want, in fear, in disconsolation. A reciprocation of beneficence alone can make him happy. This he must be disposed to perform, or he cannot fulfil the final cause of his nature. Man's destination for happiness, and his mutual dependence, therefore, clearly originate the necessity of human benevolence.

Feeling and experience evince the benevolent disposition of man. A sight of distress wounds the heart. A view of joy warms the soul with gladness. We are pleased to remove pain. We rejoice to communicate delight. These things we could not perform without a disposition to diffuse felicity. This disposition is all we mean by benevolence.

Suppose the heart of man malevolent, he must then lose every social satisfaction. For who could receive those mutual favours, which none were disposed to bestow? Man must be condemned to solitary misery. Never would he wipe a tear from the eye of sorrow; never would he pour the balm of consolation into the bosom of grief. Nay, he would grieve at the appearance of joy. He would eagerly disseminate wretchedness. Every benefaction of Providence would swell the tide of human misery; and man could never smile undisturbed, while one joyous emotion existed, even in the bosom of Deity. Must we believe man endowed with such a disposition? Yes, if we believe him malevolent. But can our reason, our feelings, our experience, subscribe to such a creed? No. For necessity and sympathy both evince man benevolent. Nor could he be otherwise, unless his soul were blacker than the dunnest fiend that fear-distempered fancy ever generated in the dark regions of mythology.

[Page]Though man stands vindicated from the charge of malevolence, yet has calumny blackened his character with other accusations.

Human passions have often been a mark for the arrow of contumely. Austerity condemns them, because they are sometimes irregular. As well might the same austerity curse the elements of nature, because the thunder, the earthquake, or the hurricane, sometimes rend an oak, split a mountain, or sweep a kingdom into the ocean.

If we impartially look on our own nature, the utility of our passions must appear.

Man is, at times, in danger. Danger originates the necessity of caution, and caution is secured by the passion of fear.

Unresisting innocence invites the hand of oppression. To prevent a repetition of injury, omniscient Deity planted the seed of anger in the bosom of man.

Self love, to some the most odious of all the passions, is still an emanation of benevolence. Like that, it has for its object the diffusion of felicity. It first secures our own enjoyment. It then offers our bosom to a parent, to a friend, to our country, to the indiscriminate citizens of the world. Thus on self love are grafted philanthropy, patriotism, friendship, and all the tender growths of domestic charity.

A love of glory is the most violent, extensive and durable, of all the passions. For glory, men encounter toil, danger, and death itself. No pain, no labour, no toilsome virtue, no arduous heroism, can be a price too dear to purchase immortal renown. A passion which thus disposes men to sacrifice ease, safety, and life itself, to gain the applause of their fellow men, must inviolably unite mankind, and lodge in every breast a pledge for the social exertions of each individual.

Let the votaries of apathy decry the passions. What can be the felicity, what the virtue, of their passionless philosopher? If man were void of self love, would [Page] the voice of native want rouze him from the sleep of indolence? What would shield his bosom from danger, what would arm his hand with power, if fear did not teach him caution, and anger learn him to resist the aggressions of violence? Who would toil for man? who, with a smile, would bleed on the altar of emancipation, if the God of nature had not with love of glory warmed the bosom of man? Destitute of passions, man had stood, like the marble statue, without a motion; and eternally worn the same smile or frown which the last touch of nature's hand left impressed on his countenance.

Understanding claims our next attention. This forms a splendid part of human nature. By this man perceives, remembers, reasons and imagines. Perception and memory principally subserve the operations of reason and imagination.

Guided by reason, man has travelled through the abstruse regions of the philosophic world. He has originated rules by which he can direct the ship through the pathless ocean, and measure the comet's flight over the fields of unlimited space. He has established society and government. He can aggregate the profusions of every climate, and every season. He can meliorate the severity, and remedy the imperfections, of nature herself. All these things he can perform by the assistance of reason.

By imagination, man seems to verge towards creative power. Aided by this, he can perform all the wonders of sculpture and painting. He can almost make the marble speak. He can almost make the brook murmur down the painted landscape. Often, on the pinions of imagination, he soars aloft where the eye has never travelled; where other stars glitter on the mantle of night, and a more effulgent sun lights up the blushes of morning. Flying from world to world, he gazes on all the glories of creation: or, lighting on the distant margin of the universe, darts the eye of fancy over the mighty void, where power [Page] creative never yet has energized, where existence still sleeps in the wide abyss of possibility. By imagination he can travel back to the source of time; converse with the successive generations of men, and kindle into emulation while he surveys the monumental trophies of ancient art and glory. He can sail down the stream of time until he loses ‘sight of stars and sun, by wandering into those retired parts of eternity, when the heavens and the earth shall be no more.*’

To these unequivocal characteristics of greatness in man, let us adduce the testimony of nature herself. Surrounding creation subserves the wants and proclaims the dignity of man. For him day and night visit the world. For him the seasons walk their splendid round. For him the earth teems with riches, and the heavens smile with beneficence.

All creation is accurately adjusted to his capacity for bliss. He tastes the dainties of festivity, breathes the perfumes of morning, revels on the charms of melody, and regales his eye with all the painted beauties of vision. Whatever can please, whatever can charm, whatever can expand the soul with extacy of bliss, allures and solicits his attention. All things beautiful, all things grand, all things sublime, appear in native loveliness, and proffer man the richest pleasures of fruition.

Can he then raise his feelings too high in the scale of self approbation? Can he sufficiently abhor that contumely which perpetually babbles of human depravity? In man, is it not calumny against heaven? Is it not pointing the arrow of ingratitude against the munificent bosom of a God?

If man can rejoice in diffusion of felicity, is he not, like his Creator, benevolent? If his passions urge him to embrace the common interest of man, are they not useful? If his understanding guides him down the career of existence, is it not perfect? If surrounding creation waits on his wants, does it not, in the language [Page] of its Creator, talk aloud of human greatness? Do not all these shining tints brighten on the portrait of man? Yes. He rejoices in munificence; he toils for universal felicity; he developes the mysteries of nature; he aggregates the goods of space, of duration, and even arrests the attention of earth and heaven.

This thought elevates man high on the theatre of existence, and places him full in view of a surrounding universe. It gives him an important part in the great drama of being. It tells him all intelligence are interested in the success of his performance.

Yes, my countrymen, you arrest the attention of shining millions. On you are fixed the eyes of all that bright throng of departed patriots, philosophers and philanthropists, who measured their atchievements by the dignity of their nature; and whose beatified spirits, now leaning from the azure battlements of heaven, allure their followers up the shining road to glory. You they hail as their genuine descendents; as the patrons of science; as the votaries of virtue; as the candidates of immortal beatitude.

Notes

*

Critics may remember, that depravity, through the whole of this piece, signifies such a disposition of heart as wishes universal diffusion of wretchedness.

↵

ADDRESSES.

[Page]

I. To the CORPORATION.

THE rites of this anniversary first call our attention to the Honourable Corporation. You, Gentlemen, are the founders and guardians of that seminary to which we owe our education. You majestic edifice you raised and hallowed to the genius of science. This commands our thanks.

Our fondness for this institution, and our knowledge of the liberality and pecuniary powers of its founders, give us a most pleasing anticipation of its future greatness. Under your auspices, this seat of literature may flourish long after the republican glory of Columbia has eclipsed the splendour of eastern empire. By your munificence, the name of Rhode-Island College may be handed to posterity, when the Cambridge and Oxford of Britain shall have faded from the page of history.

Then shall your reward be the reward of beneficence. The votaries of science shall sprinkle the tear, and burn the incense of gratitude, over the tombs of their departed patrons.

[Page]

II. To the PRESIDENT.

Reverend Sir,

WE know you are persuaded that custom alone does not give birth to this address. We claim the privilege of telling the world how much we feel obliged. Gratitude cannot be refused this small indulgence.

On this occasion, should we attempt to narrate the merits of our benefactor, modesty might raise a suspicion of adulation; envy would deduce our panegyric from the partiality of our hearts; while the world would inform us, that the science, knowledge and philanthrophy, of the man who has obliged us, are now become a theme of common conversation. We can, therefore, express our gratitude only; and ardently wish that others, in pursuit of science, may have the same director who has guided our steps.

Yes, if ever our souls, in the silent moments of devotion, have dared to heave a wishing sigh to heaven for a single favour on ourselves—often, when we behold his face no more, often shall that wish be repeated, for the health and felicity of him, whom generations yet unknown shall learn to call their benefactor. The world shall join in our devotion: a prayer so benevolent must ascend grateful to the ear of heaven; and the immortal spirit of great MANNING, the immaculate companion of the LAMB, shall, with a smile of gratulation, behold you still the Father of his orphan seminary.

III. To the TUTORS and PROFESSORS.

Honourable Tutors and Professors,

YOUR care, tuition and tenderness, have generated in our breasts something like filial affection. Far [Page] as recollection can extend its eye, we behold each of your actions towards us rising up, like the kindness of a parent, and irresistibly charming us into gratitude. From you we have received the precepts of science. From you we have learned the philosophy of morals. While the lore of wisdom has flowed from your tongues, your examples have allured us into love of virtue and religion, or left us wicked beyond the reach of palliation.

We know your bosoms throb with parental anxiety for our prosperous reception in life. We are assured we shall have all the favours of your friendship, all the blessings heaven can bestow on your prayers.

Each of our good deeds will seem a kind of reward for your many favours. Each of our digressions from virtue, will wear the fable complexion of ingratitude.

Accept, generous Sirs, this little tribute of our thanks; and suffer us to soothe our hearts with unceasing remembrance of your kindness.

IV. To the UNDER GRADUATES.

Fellow-Students,

I AM unwilling to leave the stage at this time, without addressing a few words to you. You are still in the career of collegiate acquisition. Still you enjoy those means of information which are now forever secluded from us. Pant not with too much eagerness for the day of emancipation. On that day, you will think the moments of your collegiate existence have been few.

College is the world in miniature. There you may learn, not science only, but man himself. There you may examine each principle which actuates the human [Page] heart. There you may trace every passion from its first dawn, involved in the shades of kindred emotions, through all its various phases, until it blazes out in all the meridian glow of action.

The votary of that science which does not mend the heart, is, by its influence, transmuted into tenfold more a child of reprobation. Keep, therefore, your bosoms alive to all the exquisite emotions of virtue.

Suffer not a noble emulation, by eagerness of pursuit, to be degenerated into envy. Envy triumphs only in the expiring agonies of merit.

Beware of that passion which throws the dun mantle of suspicion over the white bosom of innocence.

Listen not to the whisper of slander. Slander involves merit in darkness; as the black cloud of the north rolls over the brightness of heaven.

My good friends, live without a fault, and you shall live without a sigh, unless it be the sigh of sympathy.

Vth ADDRESS.

My Classmates,

OFTEN, on similar occasions, from this place, the world has heard the pathetic narration of collegiate joys that are past. I will not pretend to determine why this has been done. This narration may be all reality. It may be a customary story, told to lure from the eyes of pitying spectators the tear of sympathy, as a tribute grateful to valedician eloquence. It may be an ingenious artifice, woven to conceal the loathsome visage of classical animosity.

Far from me be a wish to disguise the truth. Yet, [Page] if we have had enmities, why may we not cease to feel them? Why may not the white hand of charity throw the veil of forgetfulness over those parts of our classical existence, which we cannot recollect without a painful emotion? Never will our bosoms soften with a warmer glow of forgiveness. Never, perhaps, shall we all meet again, till we meet beyond the narrow sea of time. Let us, therefore, on this day, solemnize the funeral of expiring enmity. Let us plant on its tomb the green olive of friendship. Let us part as brothers.

Must we then part? Yes, the dark curtain of separation is now drawing between us. In a few hours we behold each others faces no more. To-morrow's sun shall see us scattered over the face of the world. We must now reciprocate a last adieu before a gazing multitude. This task is ungrateful. Parting friends, like parting lovers, wish to lean on each others bosoms, and sigh a fond farewell in some sequestered shade, where no grief-unhallowed eye can violate the tender intercourse.

Are not we of that description? Are not we friends? Can it be otherwise? Memory is witness too faithful. Never, never can he who now addresses you, cease to feel the obligations of gratitude. When pale disease * and excruciating pain stretched him on the restless couch for many a sleepless midnight, you watched his wants through all the tedious hours; you offered the cordial to his expiring spirits; you, with tender assiduities, soothed his groans, and cheered him back again to life. O my God! with thy tremendous bolt transfix this heart, if ever it cease to glow with joy at the joy of these my friends, or to melt with sorrow at their woes.

My good brothers, we this day launch out on the billowy ocean of life. A world lies before us. He [Page] who smiles away the terrors of the tempest, is our Father.†

Let all our exertions ultimate on the felicity of our brother men. Then shall a heart, which never can reproach us, be our eternal companion. Then, when the grim messenger of fate shall point his iron shaft full at our breasts, with a magnanimous smile, we will meet dissolution; sleep undisturbed the sabbatism of death, and wake to ceaseless raptures beyond the regions of time.‡

FINIS.

Notes

*

The speaker, while in College, was sick of a fever. During his illness, his classmates and fellow-students were his constant attendants.

↵

†

These two sentences are an imitations of Milton, b. 12, l. 646 and 647.

The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide.

↵

‡

The latter part of this sentence is an imitation of Pope, vol. iii. 12mo, p. 158.

Peaceful sleep out the sabbath of the tomb,

And wake to raptures in a life to come.

↵

Information about this book

Title statement

The cause of man; an oration: : together with valedictory addresses, pronounced at the commencement of Rhode Island College, September 7, A.D. 1796. / By Tristam Burges. ; [One line from Pope]

Burges, Tristam, 1770-1853.

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Text Creation Partnership,

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2011-05.

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N22816

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Evans 30139

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Early American Imprints, 1639-1800 ; no. 30139.

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— The cause of man; an oration: : together with valedictory addresses, pronounced at the commencement of Rhode Island College, September 7, A.D. 1796. / By Tristam Burges. ; [One line from Pope], Burges, Tristam, 1770-1853., Rhode Island College (1764-1804). Class of 1796..

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14, [2] p. ; 21 cm. (8vo)

by Carter and Wilkinson.,. Printed at Providence, :: M.DCC.XCVI. [1796].

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