“Ψενδηγορεῖν γἀρ οὺκ ἐπίσταται στóµα

τò δῖον, ἀλλà πâν ἔπος τελεῖ.”

“Οὺκ ἂν τάδ' ἒστη τῇδε, μὴ θεῶν μέτα.”

Which city has the greater right to an attitude of intellectual haughtiness, Boston or Edinburgh? In preparation for all inspired work in poetry and art, and, much more, in religion, it is necessary to make the palms of the hands clean and to shake off them the glittering, stout vipers,—intellectual pride, vanity, and self-sufficiency. Has Edinburgh shown a greater decision and skill than Boston in dislodging these wreathing reptiles from her fingers, as Paul shook off the serpent on Melitus, feeling no harm? Is Edinburgh really the equal of Boston in culture? Where is there in this city a better metaphysician than Sir William Hamilton or Dugald Stewart? Who here has advanced exact science more than Black, or Playfair, or Sir David Brewster? Is there a better political economist here than Adam Smith, the author of “The Wealth of Nations”? Have we better historians than Hume and Robertson? Is there any rhetorician here likely to be more influential than Hugh Blair? Have we a painter superior to Sir John Leslie, a more delightful essayist than Thomas De Quincey, a better writer on ethics than Sir James Mackintosh? What literary name have we, on the whole, superior to that of Walter Scott? […]