iew. There are no
hues so soft and delicate as those with which the imagination invests
that which is unseen or faintly discerned. Remoteness in space has the
same idealizing effect as remoteness of time. The voice that comes to us
from the dim distance is like that which comes to us from the dim past.
We know, but we do not feel, the interval which separates Shakespeare
from Scott, Milton from Wordsworth, Hume from Hallam. We know them only
by those airy creations of the brain which speak to us through the
printed page. Solitude, and silence too, are the nurses of deep and
strong feeling. That imaginative element which exalts the love of Dante
for Beatrice, and of Burns for his "Mary in Heaven," deepens the fervor
of admiration with which the pale, enthusiastic scholar, in some lonely
farmhouse in New England, hangs over a favorite author, who, though
perhaps a living contemporary, is recognized only as an absolute essence
of genius, wisdom or truth. The minds of men whom we see face to face
appear to shine upon us darkly through the infirmities of a mortal
frame. Their faculties are touched by weariness or pain, or some
humiliating weakness or unhandsome passion thrusts its eclipsing shadow
between us and the light of their genius. Not so with those to whom they
speak only through the medium of books. In these we see the products of
those golden hours, when all that was low is elevated, when all that was
dark is illumined, and all that was earthly is transfigured. Books have
no touch of personal infirmity--theirs is undying bloom, immortal youth,
perennial fragrance. Age cannot wrinkle, disease cannot blight, death
cannot pierce them. The personal image of the author is quite as likely
to be a hindrance as a help to his book. The actor who played with
Shakespeare in his own "Hamlet" probably did but imperfect justice to
that wonderful play, and the next-door neighbor of a popular author will
be very likely to read his books with a carping, censorious spirit,
unknown to him who has seen his vision only in his mind.

Mr. President, I dwell with pleasure on the considerations to which an
occasion like this gives birth. It is good for us to be here. Whatever
has a tendency to make two great nations forget those things in which
they differ, and remember those only in which they have a common
interest, is a benefit to them both. Whatever makes the hearts of two
countries beat in unison, makes them more enamored of harmony, m