THE

YALE LITERARY MAGAZINE.

VOL. IV.

NOVEMBER, 1838.

NO. 1.

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE REV. JEREMIAH DAY, D. D. LL. D.

PRESIDENT OF YALE COLLEGE.

PRESIDENT DAY was born in New Preston, a parish in the town of Washington, Connecticut, 1773. His father, the Rev. Jeremiah Day, who was graduated at Yale College in 1756, was pastor of the church in New Preston, and lived to an advanced. age, much respected. President Day was entered a freshman. in Yale College, 1789, but on account of infirm health, did not complete his collegiate course with the class to which he at first belonged. After an absence of several years, he rejoined the College, and received the degree of Bachelor of Arts in 1795.

This was the year of Dr. Dwight's accession to the presidency. By the removal of Dr. Dwight from Greenfield, the school which he had established in that village, and which had flourished very greatly under his instruction, was destitute of a preceptor. Mr. Day was invited to take charge of this school, and continued in it a year; when he was elected a tutor in Williams College, Massachusetts. Here he remained two years. In Yale College, he commenced his tutorship in 1798. He had early chosen theology as a profession, and while officiating as tutor, began to preach as a candidate for the ministry. On the resignation of Professor Meigs, who had been called to the presidency of the University of Georgia, Mr. Day was elected, in

1801, to succeed him as Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy. At this time Mr. Day was in feeble health, and was obliged to suspend the business of instruction. By the advice of his physicians, he passed one winter in the island of Bermuda. In 1803, his health was so far restored, that he entered upon his professorship; the duties of which he continued to discharge, till the death of Dr. Dwight, in 1817, when he was elected to the office of President. He was inaugurated in July of the same year. On the same day in which he was introduced into the presidency, he was ordained, by the clerical part of the Fellows, a minister of the gospel.

While President Day was Professor of Mathematics and Natural Philosophy, he published several mathematical treatises for the use of students in that department; which are used in Yale College, and some, or all of them, extensively in other institutions. Since he has been President of the College, he has published several occasional sermons; and lately, "An Inquiry respecting the Self-determining Power of the Will; or Contingent Volition."

In 1817, the College in Middlebury, Vermont, conferred on President Day the degree of Doctor of Laws, and in 1818, Union College, in Schenectady, the degree of Doctor of Divinity. The degree of Doctor of Divinity, likewise, was conferred on him in 1831, by Harvard University.

President Day has already occupied his present station about the same length of time as his immediate predecessor, Dr. Dwight; and longer than any other head of the College, with the exception of President Clap. Yale College is thought to have been peculiarly fortunate in its Presidents; and it may be said with truth, that it has at no time flourished more, than under the administration of President Day.

3

THE SUPREMACY OF MIND.

THE mind, while it has read the great mysteries of the external creation, remains in itself the greatest, we may add, the grandest of all mysteries. Not that its nature, its powers, its passions, or its destiny, are not to some extent known and felt, but, as if an universe in itself, the more we endeavor to extend that knowledge, new endowments and attributes constantly appear, until we are lost in their magnitude and number, and the ultimate end of their creation becomes more distant, grand, and mysterious. Indeed, while upon reflection it might seem even more possible to comprehend the vastness of an universe, than to conceive of the definite extent to which the powers or capacities of the mind may be developed, to the eye of enlightened intellect, this quickening fact would bear in it nothing to amaze or bewilder. The attributes of divinity called into exercise in the formation of one soul, were infinitely superior in their nature to those that fashioned the whole of creation beside. The loftiest ideas which reason can form of the Deity himself, can scarcely exceed the capabilities of mind: mind filled with wisdom, power, justice, mercy, and benevolence: mind in its completest perfection of development-yet mind still.

In view, then, of its exalted character, and the many high and ennobling thoughts its contemplation so obviously tends to inspire, we cannot ponder too often or deeply upon this wonderful masterpiece of nature's workmanship: we cannot look upon it with a regard too enthusiastic, or adore it with a love and devotion too ardent or profound. The mind, by contemplation of itself, grows greater and better. Those peculiar sensations of grandeur and sublimity, which we know not how to describe, but which rush upon us, deep and absorbing, in watching the stars of a clear and tranquil evening, may, to some extent, typify the infinitely more sublime emotions which pass before us, in considering our own endowments and destiny. In the highest sense of the word are they poetry-a rich, intellectual poetry,enjoyed by those alone of elevated thought, and refined taste. It springs directly from those feelings of power and dignity, which can only belong to cultivated mind. It is a mystery of sensation which gives to the whole of the outward creation, a richer and brighter coloring; quickens the imagination as it dwells upon the nature and destiny of man; conducts it by elevated veins of thought, and as if through the force of divine. inspiration, to mines of richest truths and loftiest prophecy; tells us that there is something within us too high and ethereal

for earth; reveals to us in the future an eternity of improvement, an universe of enjoyment; and kindling in our bosoms a burning passion for advancement, bids us cultivate, expand, refine the powers bestowed upon us by nature, give free scope to thought, burst the fetters which would cramp and cripple the mind, and walk forth in the proud freedom of moral and immortal beings.

We propose to undertake, in the following pages, the grateful task of considering the nature, and tracing the influence of this apparently highest of human emotions, in some of its most striking and pleasing relations. And though at first glance it might appear too far removed from the daily thoughts and avocations of life, to be of any great importance or interest, yet is it an enthusiasm which enters, perhaps, even more than we are ourselves aware, into our own aims and affections, which, in moments of solitude and reflection, comes upon us with a breath of inspiration, and which can only enable us to attain the goal of mental or moral greatness. It is not the actual desire of amassing knowledge-yet without it, wisdom, howsoever great, would bring with it nothing of pure or lasting enjoyment. It is not ambition-yet the attainment of power would be but a useless toil, did not this sensation add a charm and diffuse a lustre. In short, a full perception of it, a capability of feeling and enjoying it in all its relations and bearings, is of itself, intellectual greatness.

"The mind is its own place, and in itself

Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven."

Here has the great bard grasped, in two of his immortal lines, all the poetry of our being vast, grand, perplexing as it is. And who does not feel an enthusiasm kindling at his heart, as he enters into the full idea which is here conveyed? What more splendid definition could be given of that endowment, which, raising us far above the level of the animal creation, would seem to connect us with a higher and purer order of beings. Here, too, is one of those few and golden passages, in which the whole mind of the author,-his thoughts, feelings, powers,-have embodied themselves in "one word," and that word is "lightning." Had Milton left nothing behind him but these two lines, had they in their naked state continued to live, and had we no other means of judging of his talents and character except by them, we might, by endeavoring to enter in this one mighty conception, picture a being as superior in mind, and elevated in sentiment. We would have marked him with a vigor and intensity of thought, a depth and keenness of emotion, an exaltation and refinement of taste, which would have raised him to a proud eminence above his fellow men, and stamped on him the impress of a God. In a word, we would have seen in him a proud exam

ple of the truth of his own most noble sentiment, of the perfect triumph of mind over the evils which may attend its possessor, and of the golden reward which awaits its full expansion.

With faculties so completely developed, with tastes so highly refined, what overwhelming tides of new and unknown sensation must not exist! what mysteries of knowledge and emotion opened alone to the gifted, the enlightened mind! If it be not irreverential, we might imagine the garden of Eden, with all its charms and delights, the residence of man within it, his admission to intercourse with his Creator, his continued elevation of thought, and consequently the exquisiteness of his enjoymenta beautiful and sublime allegory, used to express the mysterious relations of the mind with an unknown influence, as wonderful in the moral, as gravity in the physical world-attracting it on with mighty and constant force to a higher and nobler state of intellectual existence. Such emotions, the most exalted species of spiritual poetry, such capabilities, partaking, (in a most humble sense it is true,) of the nature of those that designed and created the universe, such capacities for improvement-boundless as eternity itself-must be immortal, and "glorious as the stars in heaven."

To say that this emotion in its various modifications inspires the poet, and kindles the orator, would be to say nothing new. In truth, all the higher species of poetry, the poetry which would bear us up from the mere consideration of man in his earthly passions and relations, the poetry which ever craves after a state of mental and moral perfection, springs from, and is nourished by this feeling. It is, indeed, to a greater or less extent, connected with all true poetic ardor, for it is "its own great reward." Without it, there can be none of that sense of superiority, which must ever nerve and inspire; none of that contempt for the propensities which constitute the meaner portions of our nature, and which, weighing down imagination and thought, would prevent a lofty flight; none of that refined sense of enjoyment which can only be felt in the rapid expansion of the mind, and the consciousness that it may become greater and greater, better and better, beyond all human conception.

It likewise accompanies us as we descend from the consideration of mind in its immortal, to mind in its temporal relations. As we behold the influence exerted by the giant and fully developed intellect, widening round and round from its deathless centre, until it is lost in all that is pure and elevated in humanity, what is it that makes our own hearts beat, and our own blood gush so rapidly? Is it not a feeling, that we too have a spark within us of that flame, which burns a central heat in the moral world? That we too may attain something of that mental greatness which towers a living "landmark” on the wastes of