THE CLASSICS.

Amid the signs of the times in the present age--fruitful in change if

not of improvement,--we have observed with pain not only a growing

neglect of classical literature, but continued attempts on the part

of many who hold the public ear to cast contempt on those studies

which were once considered essential to the scholar and the

gentleman, which formed such minds as Bacon's and Milton's, and which

afforded the most delightful of occupations to the leisure of a

Newton and a Leibnitz. In every age there has been a class of men who

from a depravity of taste, or else a passion for singularity, have

maligned all that is ancient or venerable. And sometimes with a

strange perversity of purpose, we see men wasting their opportunities

in a mischievous ridicule of useful pursuits which they might have

advanced and illustrated to the benefit of themselves and mankind.

Thus the seventeenth century, deeply imbued as it was with the spirit

of classical inquiry and the love of ancient literature, gave birth

to a Scarron and a Cotton, of whom the latter particularly was fitted

for higher pursuits, and the former perhaps worthy of a better fate.

But if in a spirit of indulgence for misguided genius we pardon the

offence of their jest for its wit, and feel that in so doing we are

involuntarily paying that tribute which is due to talent even when

misapplied, let us beware of extending the same indulgence to those

who from ignorance undervalue pursuits which they cannot appreciate,

or to those who contemn like the fox in the fable, objects which they

have vainly sought to obtain, or worse than all, to those who have no

better motive for their censure than the wish to pilfer without

detection, from the rich stores of those whom they have banished from

the public eye, and driven from their rightful abodes in public

recollection by a course of systematised slander. It would perhaps be

unjust to say that the opposers of the ancient and learned

universities of England, who have chiefly wrought the evil influence

upon English literature to which we have been alluding, belong all of

them to one of these three classes, but that many of them may be

ranked with the last we cannot doubt, when we see what things they

often send forth to the world as _their own_, and this too with an

air of the greatest pretension. That some of these persons were

actuated by better motives we must admit when we trace to its origin

the history of this partially successful war against classical

studies. The two universities of Oxford and Cambridge, those ancient

abodes of learning, to a certain degree undoubtedly deserved the

reproach of lagging behind the march of mind, in denying to modern

literature the share of attention to which it was justly entitled.

Absorbed in explorations of the past, and wedded to the love of

antiquity in all their associations, they sought literature in her

earliest haunts, and delighted most in their olden walks, which they

loved for the very frequency with which they had trodden them. The

system of study which had trained so many of their sons to eminence,

seemed to them the best, and they were too slow in moulding its forms

to the progress of science. It was endeared to them not only from the

nature of its pursuits, but from past success, and it was no mean

ambition which stimulated their sons to tread in the paths which a

Bacon or a Clarendon, a Newton or a Locke, had trodden before them.

And yet a little reflection should have taught them that if these

glorious models of human excellence had left science where they found

it, their reputations had never existed. A fierce opposition at

length sprung up to a system of study so narrow and exclusive,--the

growing wants of education demanded a university in London, which

project was opposed by many of the friends of the old institutions.

The elements of a party thus formed, were soon combined, and as the

controversy waxed warmer, they attacked not only the venerable

temples of learning, but the very study of the ancient languages

itself, at first, perhaps, because the most celebrated abodes of this

species of literature were to be found in the universities to which

they had become inimical. Like every other literary controversy for

some time past in England, this question connected itself with the

party politics of the day, and thus many changed sides on the

literary, that they might be together on the political question.

Strange as it may seem, it has been for some time a reproach against

the English that the Tories would not encourage the Whig literature,

and vice versâ. No reader of the British periodicals for the last

twenty years can have failed to remark this fact, which serves to

account for the progress of the literary heresy which has already

done so much to degrade English literature and to deprave the tastes

of those who read only the English language. We shall not pause to

inquire further into the effects produced by this illicit connexion

between politics and literature in England, although it presents a

highly interesting subject of inquiry, and one which must deeply

occupy much of the attention of the historian who may hope hereafter

to give an accurate account either of the political or literary

condition of that country for many years past. Neither is it our

purpose to arraign at the bar of public opinion those who have

draggled the sacred "_peplon_" itself in the vile mire of party

politics, although we sincerely believe that they will have a heavy

account to settle with posterity for this unhallowed connexion. We

merely allude to it by way of pointing out one of the causes of the

heresy which we mean to combat, from the belief that it is

mischievous, and the more especially as it diverts public attention

from the particular want of American literature. Unhappily our

reading in this country is chiefly confined to the English novelists

and the periodicals of the day, from which we derive a contempt for

the lofty and venerable learning of antiquity, and a belief that

instead of too little, we bestow too much attention upon classical

literature in America! That the novelists and trash manufacturers of

the reviews should foster this opinion is not at all surprising, for

they find their account in it. And yet it stirs the bile within us

when we see a paltry novelist who cannot frame his tale without

borrowing his plot, or conduct his dialogue without theft, affect to

despise the study of those authors whom he robs without any other

restraint than the fear of detection; or when we hear them offer to

substitute their lucubrations for the writings of the great masters

of antiquity--men who put forth opinions upon the most difficult

questions in moral or physical science, and support them only by a

dogmatism which would look down all opposition and frown upon any

inquiry into the grounds of their doctrines, who, like Falstaff, will

give no reasons for their moral or political opinions, and yet

insinuate by their {222} air of pretension that they are "plenty as

blackberries"--sciolist novelists who doubt what is believed by all

the most intelligent of their race, and believe what no other persons

but themselves can be brought to believe--men who insinuate their

superiority over the great models of the human race by affecting to

despise whatever they have offered to the public view and modestly

intimating their reliance upon their own superior resources. Problems

in morals and politics which have filled with doubts and difficulties

the minds of Bacon or Locke, of Montesquieu or Grotius, are now

settled at a stroke of the pen by our novelist philosophers. Nothing

is more common than to see the solution of some one of them by the

dandy hero of some fashionable novel, who, sauntering from the dance

to the coterie of philosophers in blue, solves the difficulty _en

passant_, and fearing that this trifling occupation of so mighty a

genius may attract attention, then hastens to divert public

observation from his sage aphorism and impromptu philosophy by

flirting with his friend's wife or playing with his poodle. The

conception of a costume is the only occupation worthy of his fancy,

and the composition of a dish the only subject which he would have

the world to think capable of tasking his powers of attention and

reflection; and yet all the learning of all the schools is shamed by

the display of this literary _faineant_ who acquired his knowledge

without study, whilst inspiration only can account for the wisdom

with which he is instinct. A nation has groaned through long

centuries of almost hopeless bondage--the clank of a people in chains

is heard from the Emerald isle--a cry of distress fills the air--a

mighty orator, an O'Connell, arises before them, filling the public

mind with agitation and pointing the way to revenge. In the energy of

despair a portion of the captives have broken their manacles--they

rush to liberate their fellows--the air is full of their cry for

revenge--the conclave of Europe's wisest statesmen is at fault--a

king trembles on his throne--and what, gentle reader, do you suppose

is to be the result of these mighty throes and convulsions? why, just

nothing, literally nothing at all. A Countess of Blessington surveys

the scene from afar; reclining on an Ottoman, beneath a cloud of

aromatic odors she recollects the subject of conversation at her last

"soiree;" the idea flits across her brain with a gentle pang as it

flies, that the energy of O'Connell is becoming exceedingly vulgar,

and that the convulsions of a revolution so near her would be

extremely trying to her nerves, not to mention those of Messrs.

Bulwer and D'Israeli. Her resolution is taken, and at spare intervals

between morning visits and soirees, she writes the "_Repealers_,"

which is at once to settle the agitations of a kingdom, and

annihilate O'Connell himself. She has no sooner finished, than

washing her hands "forty times in soap and forty in alkali," she

despatches the production to Mr. Bulwer, who looking upon the work

pronounces it good; and lo! the succeeding number of the New Monthly

shall teach you the wonderful virtues of the moral medicaments which

come from the Countess of Blessington's specific against Irish

agitation. But who is Mr. Bulwer himself? for in this age so

wonderful for accomplishing great ends by little means, it has become

necessary to know him. Why a literary magician, a sprite of Endor,

who by the potency of his charm conjures up the spirits of the mighty

dead. Evoked by him the departed prophets arise. A Peter the Great,

and a Bolingbroke, a Pope and a Swift, not to mention others of

somewhat lesser note, come forth and speak at his command as once

they spoke. The departed oracles of English literature are no longer

mute. But the visits of the dead are of necessity short. They have no

time now for such chit-chat as some may suspect they have hazarded

whilst living. They come on a mission of importance which they have

barely time to accomplish. The hidden secrets of policy are to be

revealed, mightly oracles in philosophy and criticism are to be

declared. Truths fall like hailstones, and wit descends in showers.

But lo! what figure is that which stalks across the scene and comes

to take his part in this play of phantasmagoria with which we have

just been entertained. Does he belong to the land of shadows or the

world of reality? "Under which king, Bezonian, speak or die." It is

an impersonation of the mental and moral qualities of Mr. Edward

Lytton Bulwer himself, not a prophet--but more than a prophet. The

"most wonderful wonder of wonders." Pope and Swift are overpowered by

his wit. The star of Bolingbroke pales before the superior effulgence

of this luminary, and Peter the Great, mute in astonishment, stands

"_erectis auribus_" to catch the oracles of government which flow

from the godlike man. The scene changes--whither doth he go? He

seizes the reins of government, he retrieves the affairs of a mighty

empire by way of recreating a mind exhausted with the play of its

mighty passions, and then wearied with the amusement, he turns in

quest of other pursuits. The rule of an empire and the affairs of

this world are objects too petty for the employment of his mind; he

looks for some higher subject, and finds it in himself--the only

subject in creation vast enough to fill the capacity of his spirit.

He communes with the stars--he talks to the "TOEN," and the "TOEN"

replies to him, and finally, big with his mighty purpose he achieves

the task of writing "his confessions." And as my lord Peter concocted

a dish containing the essence of all things good to eat, so this book

is full of something that is exquisite from every department of

thought. Such are the books which have displaced the writings of the

masters of antiquity and the old household books of the English

tongue. You may not take up a review or periodical now-a-days, but it

shall teach you the folly of bestowing your time upon the study of

the ancients, now that their writings afford so much that is more

worthy of attention. Alas! that such should be the priesthood who

administer the rites in the temple of English literature--the money

changer has indeed entered the temple, when those who write for money

come in to expel all who have written for fame. How often does it

happen now-a-days that the writer of a bawdy novel, derives

reputation enough from that circumstance, to assume the chair of

criticism, and exposing a front of hardened libertinism to the scorn

of the good and the contempt of the wise, avails himself of his

situation to frown down every attempt to resuscitate our decaying

literature, by the introduction of better models, and to restore

health to the public taste, which this very censor has contributed to

deprave? There is no more common occupation with such a man than the

correction of the errors of the most illustrious statesmen and

philosophers in magazine articles of some six or eight pages; the

French revolution is the {223} favorite theme of his lofty

speculations, and Napoleon's the only character which he will exert

himself to draw. With how much of the lofty contempt of a superior

spirit does he speak of the labors of a Bentley, a Porson, a Parr, or

an Elmsley; of a Gessner, a Brunck, a Heyne, a Schweihauser or a

Wolffe. The anxious labors, for years, of such men as those go for

nothing with him--they serve only to excite his scorn, or else afford

him the favorite subjects of his ridicule. With the ingratitude of a

malignant spirit, or the coarseness of ignorance, he reviles the

self-denying students who may be truly said to have renounced the

world in their enthusiastic search after the buried lore of

antiquity--men who have paled before the midnight lamp in their

ceaseless efforts to penetrate the obscurity of the past--lonely

eremites, who feed the lamps that cast their dim light on the votive

offerings which antiquity has laid upon the altar of knowledge--men

who have dwelt apart from their race and denied themselves the common

pleasures of life, that they might without distraction restore the

decaying temple of ancient literature, and recover for the use of

their own and future generations, treasures which else had been

buried and forgotten; who have lived in the past until they have

imbibed its spirit, and return like travellers full of the wisdom of

unknown lands, and rich with the accumulated experience of past ages

to shower their treasures and their blessings upon the ungrateful

many who despise them for their labors and taunt them for their

gifts, that they too may learn what a thing it is to cast pearls

before swine; and who, superior to the unmerited scorn of this world,

and to all the temptations of its grovelling pleasures, meekly bear

their ill treatment with no other emotion than the fear that the

benefits thus painfully acquired and freely bestowed, may turn out to

be coals of fire which they have been heaping upon unthankful heads.

And are men who labor for such objects as these to be ridiculed as

looking to things too small, because they sojourned so long in the

gloom of past ages, that their optics have been enlarged to discern

not only the mouldering monument, but the smallest eft that crawls

upon it? Shall they be taunted because they have learned to live in

mute companionship with their books, and like the lonely prisoner,

love objects which to others may seem inconsiderable, but are

endeared to them by all the force of a long association, whose chain

is interwoven link by link with the memory of their past? And if,

like Old Mortality, they love to restore each mouldering monument,

and retrace every time-worn inscription that may serve to renew their

silent communion with the hallowed and dreamy past, surely the

occupation may be pardoned, if not for its uses to others, at least

for the quiet affection and sweet enthusiasm of the dream which it

serves to awaken in the mind which is busy in the employment. But the

utilitarian spirit of the present age is ever ready to measure the

value of these pursuits by that pecuniary standard which alone it

uses. What are their fruits? Will they move spinning jennies or

propel boats? are they known on 'Change? how do they stand in the

prices current, and in what way will they put money in the purse?

Strangely as this may sound in the ears of those who love knowledge

for itself and its spiritual uses, and absurd as these things would

have appeared to the literary world a century ago, we much fear that

we must return answers to them satisfactory, in part, at least,

before we can even obtain an attentive hearing to what we shall say

of their higher excellences. It is true that classical attainments

are in few instances the objects of pecuniary speculation, nor is it

our purpose to hold out temptations to literary simony to those who,

insensible of the peace which the love of knowledge sheds abroad in

the human heart, would hope to sell or purchase that precious gift,

for mere money. If this were the only end which the student had in

view, we should regret to see him perverting to unworthy purposes the

sacred means to higher ends. To such a man learning has no

temptations to offer, for its best rewards he can never obtain

without a change of heart. We can no more unite the love of knowledge

and of Mammon than serve the two masters spoken of in Scripture. It

is the rare excellency of this holy taste that it releases us from

servitude to the unworthy desires which are too apt to fill the minds

of those who have never known what it was to thirst after the waters

of truth. It is indeed the redeeming spirit of the human mind, which

casts out the evil passions by which it had been possessed and torn.

But there is a class of students burning for distinction and

ambitious of eminence rather than wisdom, to whom we would appeal

under the hope that in the pursuit of their own lesser ends they will

cultivate tastes which may serve to awaken them to the more precious

uses of knowledge. If then we can show these that the study of the

ancient languages affords not only an admirable, but perhaps the best

exercise for training tender minds into healthful habits of thought

and reflection, that in looking to an economy of the time which

measures the little span of human life, it is the pursuit in which

the youthful mind can do most in acquiring human knowledge, we shall

at least hold out strong temptations to these studies, even to those

hasty and incautious inquirers who reject every thing for which they

have no present use. But if we go farther, and demonstrate that the

man who would thoroughly understand modern literature, must seek its

foundations in that of the ancients,--that the poet and philosopher,

the orator and statesman, who would train his mind to a successful

pursuit of his favorite object, must look to the great masters of

antiquity for the best models of his art, surely we shall persuade

him to apply the means which a knowledge of the dead languages

affords him, to the study of the literature which they embody. And

shall he pause here in his career? is it to be supposed that he will

still look to knowledge only for the earthly honors which it will

enable him to obtain when he has in view the higher rewards which the

love of truth has within itself? Will he be content with the narrow

horizon which first bounded his prospect when he has taken a more

elevated view of creation? Feeling that every sensible addition which

his knowledge makes to his wisdom is another link by which he mounts

in the chain of spiritual existence, he will lose the original ends

for which he was laboring in the nobler objects which unfold

themselves to his mind. He learns to disregard what men may say of

him, sustained by the proud consciousness of what he is. And like the

mariner who has become weary of coasting adventures, he boldly puts

forth to sea in quest of that unknown land which his spirit has seen

in its dreams. These are the higher uses of the pursuit of knowledge,

and although we are far from asserting that classical {224} studies

are the only pursuits that are thus rewarded, yet we will hazard the

assertion, that there are none more eminently fitted for

strengthening the human mind and elevating its character.

But to return to the first position which we have taken as to the

peculiar fitness of this pursuit for the early employment of the

human mind. It is something in its favor, that for centuries past,

until of late, there has been nearly a common assent amongst literary

men that the study of the ancient languages affords the best exercise

for the youthful mind,--an opinion so old and so prevalent, must have

had at least some foundation in truth. Indeed, when we come to look

at the nature of the system of training necessary for the youthful

mind, we cannot long doubt the fitness of these pursuits for that

end. There is no period, but boyhood, of a man's life at which he

would submit to the drudgery necessary for training his memory in the

exercises by which it is most strengthened. It would be difficult to

induce him to submit to such tasks when he had arrived at a more

advanced period of life, and taken even a superficial view of the

more agreeable walks of knowledge. With a boy who stands upon the

threshold of science, it is far different. Taught that the end in

view is worthy of all his pains, and that his commencement of the

pursuit of knowledge must of necessity be difficult, he is as willing

to seek science through that pass as any other, and the more

especially as he perceives that the exercises are not beyond his

strength. In the study of the ancient languages, (the Greek

especially, because it is more regular than any other) he not only

finds an improvement in the powers of simple suggestion or mere

memory, but he is insensibly led to processes of generalization from

the great saving of labor which he discovers in classification, thus

burthening his memory with a rule only, instead of the mass of facts

which the rule serves to recall and connect--an advantage which the

study of none of the modern languages will afford to the same extent.

In the difficulties of translation, which occasionally present

themselves, he is not only forced to reason upon the rules which

regulated their forms of construction, but often finds it necessary,

by an examination of the context and subject matter, to ascertain the

meaning of the author; and thus early learns to consider the logical

arrangement of propositions and sentences. How often do we find boys

thus eagerly and earnestly engaged, in inquiring into the customs and

history of the people whose language they are studying, and reasoning

upon the motives of action and the characters of men, without being

conscious of the high nature of their speculations, or that they are

doing more than translating the meaning of a difficult sentence--thus

without weariness gradually storing their minds with a knowledge of

allusions necessary for their future reading, and which in the mass

would never be acquired by the youthful intellect from the fatiguing

nature of a study directed to them exclusively. How often do we find

a lad profitably engaged in metaphysical inquiries and nice

calculations of human motives at a time when works exclusively

devoted to these subjects would only serve to weary and disgust him.

The youthful mind is thus trained to the capacity of undergoing the

severest processes of thought and reasoning by a system of occasional

and gentle exercise which amuses without wearying or breaking its

spirit. There are certain advantages peculiar to the study of that

most wonderful of all languages, the Greek, in the culture of the

youthful mind. They are to be found in the regular forms of

compounding their words, and in the almost invariable applicability

of rules to its modes of expression. In tracing a compound word to

its root, the mind is insensibly forced to trace the compound

emotions of the human mind to their source through the seemingly

hidden links of the chain of association which are almost pointed out

one by one in the varying terminations of the radical as it branches

out into its many different shades of signification. What boy of

tolerable capacity could turn to a root in Scapula's Lexicon, with a

view of its various compounds, without tracing (often unconsciously

it is true) the simple to the compound emotions of the human mind

through that chain of association which may be deemed necessary and

invariable, since not only the simple, but also the compound emotions

and perceptions are to be found in every human mind? How could he

fail to acquire a knowledge of the cognate ideas of the mind with

this ocular reference to their connexion before him? He thus learns

the kindred ideas which the expression of certain given ideas will

call up, he begins to know how to marshal the host under their

leader, he perceives the true force of expression which belongs to

words, and traces much of the progress of human thought by means of

the land-marks which this regularly formed language indicates to the

inquirer. He perceives the modes by which the ancient masters of

style in this language learned to express with precision the most

abstract of ideas, and as it were, to transfer to paper almost every

shadow which flits through the human mind. Penetrating to the truth,

through the metaphysical and logical construction of this language,

that style consists more in the arrangement of ideas than words, he

acquires rules which he may transfer to his own language, and thus

increase its capacities of expression, at the same time that he may

often improve the beauty of its form without impairing its strength.

No man ever acquired a thorough knowledge of the Greek without having

in the course of his progress penetrated often and far into the walks

of philology and metaphysics. As no philologist has ever arrived at

eminence without an attentive study of this language, so perhaps it

will not be going too far to say that without it, none ever will.

They were thus trained--the great masters of the English language who

have improved its construction and added so much to its beauty and

strength. The greatest and most sudden improvement which has ever

been wrought at any one period in the English language, certainly

took place in the reign of Elizabeth, and yet every page, nay, almost

every line of the great authors of that day, betrays a constant and

studied reference to the models of antiquity. Next to them, and

pre-eminent as a reformer in our language, stands Milton, who was

trained in the same studies, and whose marvellous power over language

has never been sufficiently considered in the attention which is

bestowed upon his genius. Perhaps no other man ever effected such a

change in the construction of a language, or did so much to reform

it. It has been well said that his construction was essentially

Greek. He only possessed the wonderful power of transferring the

construction of one language to another, dissimilar in its origin and

forms, and of transfusing as {225} it were an old spirit into a new

body. Profoundly versed in written and spoken languages, he was yet

more a master of the language of thought and feeling, and was thus

able to improve the arrangement of the groupes and to touch with a

more natural coloring and living expression the forms by which we had

sought to embody our ideas. And what was the chosen model of that

mighty genius, whose language may be said to mirror thought, if that

of any other English author can be said to paint it? The Greek! the

immortal Greek! which surviving the institutions and national

existence of its people, stands forth like the Parthenon itself, and

defies the genius of all other nations in all succeeding ages to

produce a structure which shall equal its combinations of strength

and elegance--a language which even yet justifies the proud boast of

its creators, that in comparison with them, all other nations are

barbarous. It is evident from the whole spirit of the writings of

this immortal man, that he believes in no other Helicon but the

Greek. If we were called upon to recommend to the reader of English

literature only the writings which would afford him the best

substitute for the study of the classics in the improvement of his

style, we should undoubtedly recommend him to the works of Milton.

There are several authors since his day, who, trained in the same

studies, have labored with less effect, it is true, for the same end;

and indeed it would be difficult to point out a single author who has

improved the strength and beauty of the English language, without a

knowledge of the structure and literature of the Greek. There have

been many who, without this knowledge, have well used the language as

they found it. But Temple, Tillotson, Addison, Bolingbroke, Warburton

and Johnson, who have all contributed sensible additions and changes

to its structure, formed their styles upon ancient models.

We have already adverted to the knowledge of the allusions to the

ancient mythology acquired by the study of the Greek and Latin

authors, a knowledge which can only be fully acquired in this mode,

and which is of inestimable use to the student, not only in

understanding the writings even of modern times, but in learning to

write himself. The ardent imagination of the East has produced

nothing more beautiful than the splendid mythology of the Greeks--a

mythology which abounds in powerful imagery and poetic conception.

Perhaps there is nothing so little various as fiction,

notwithstanding the numerous and repeated efforts at such creations.

Indeed it would be curious to ascertain how much of the fiction now

in possession of the human race is of ancient origin, and thus to

perceive how little would be left if we were to abstract the

creations of the mythic ages of ancient Greece. Nothing could

illustrate more strongly the fact that the history of the human heart

is always the same. We find powerfully portrayed even in the fictions

of that early day, the intrigues of love and ambition, the vanity of

earthly hopes, and the warfare of contending passions. There is

scarcely a feeling which is not pictured in some poetic

personification which developes its tendencies and nature, and there

is not a moral of general use in the conduct of life which is not

illustrated by some well designed and beautiful allegory. It seems to

have been an early practice with the eastern sages to address the

reasons of their people through the medium of their ardent and

susceptible fancies. The Hebrew, the Egyptian and Grecian lawgivers

and sages, all resorted to it, and truth presented in this attractive

form has never failed to take a lasting hold upon the public mind.

Addressing itself in this form most powerfully to the young, because

their fancies are most susceptible, it cannot fail to make an

impression at that age when it sinks most deeply in the human mind.

It is thus that principles of action are instilled into the human

mind at an age when reason is scarcely yet capable of eliminating the

true from the false, and the youthful imagination receives an early

and wholesome excitement from the contemplations of poetic

conceptions whose simplicity fits them to be received, and whose

beauty commends them to be loved, by the youthful mind. The most

powerful, the most beautiful and concise modes of expressing much of

human feeling and passion, are to be found in the Grecian mythology.

The true value of an image consists in the conciseness with which it

expresses the idea that it represents. An image is misplaced and

useless, no matter how beautiful in itself, if it presents your idea

in a more tedious and cumbrous form than that in which a few simple

words would have explained your meaning as well. It is then obviously

unnecessary, and presents itself to the reader as a mere attempt at

beauty, which at once recalls him from the subject to the author,--an

effect which is always unfortunate for the latter. Good imagery, on

the contrary, offers a glowing picture which at once makes a vivid

impression upon the mind, accurately representing your meaning, and

calling up ideas through the force of a necessary and natural

association, which would not have been otherwise awakened except by

the use of many more words. Such in an eminent degree is the imagery

of the mythology of which we have been speaking. Where is the course

of power without knowledge to guide it, so briefly yet so forcibly

depicted as in the mad career of Phaeton misguiding the steeds of the

sun? And what picture so descriptive of the writhings of disappointed

ambition as that of Prometheus on his rock with the vulture at his

liver? Tantalus in the stream is an ever living fiction, because it

borrows the form of Truth when it points to the punishment of him who

rashly essays to satisfy his thirst for happiness by the

gratification of unhallowed lusts; and Sisyphus toiling at his stone,

is the faithful picture of man who vainly confident in his unassisted

strength seeks to roll the ball of fortune up the slippery eminence.

What can be more beautiful than that picture of fraternal affection

which we find in the fable of the sons of Leda--a union of spirit so

pure that it was typified in the two bright stars which still

maintain alternate sway in heaven as an everlasting memorial of that

undying love which married the mortal to the immortal in one common

destiny. In what other language could Byron have described fallen

Rome, "the Niobe of nations," than that which he used, the language

of truth and feeling which is now common to the whole of the

civilized world, and must be as universally used as known, since it

embodies the pictured thought and feeling of the human heart. The man

who neglects this mythic and most beautiful of languages, must be

content to see himself excelled by those who have studied it, both in

strength and beauty of expression. Perhaps we do not hazard too much

in asserting that a knowledge of this mythic language {226} alone (if

we may call it so,)--a knowledge only to be obtained by reading the

Greek and Latin authors--would compensate the student for the labor

bestowed in acquiring those languages. So far we have looked only to

the advantages to be derived from a mere study of these languages,

without any reference to the literature which they embody. And if we

have shown so far that these studies of themselves afford a reward

for our labors, how much more important will they seem when we

consider the learning which we shall find in them. But it may be said

that we promised to show that these studies were not only profitable,

but the most profitable in which the youthful mind could be engaged;

and so far we have not redeemed the pledge. To this we reply, that

the study of natural philosophy by which we comprehend physics and

morals, and that of languages, afford the only subjects to which the

mind is directed in books. Now, in relation to the first, we assume

in common with most of the best thinkers on the subject of education,

that such studies would serve to weaken the youthful mind by its

premature exertions under a load as yet beyond its capacity; and with

regard to the study of other languages than the Greek and Latin, that

all the advantages to be derived from the mere study of language,

which the others afford, are also to be had by the classical student,

whilst the more regular formation and peculiar structure of these two

ancient languages promise benefits to the youthful mind which are

peculiar to themselves, or at any rate, much greater in them than in

any others.

We come now to the second proposition which we laid down, and that

is, that out of his own language, there are no other two languages

whose literature holds out as many inducements to the student for

acquiring them, as that of the Greek and Latin languages, since

independently of their own worth, these studies are absolutely

essential to the proper understanding of modern literature as it now

exists. Surely there could exist no opinion more unfortunate for the

progress of science, than that which supposes, that a view of science

as it now exists, is all that is necessary for its thorough

investigation; indeed, we believe the assertion may be safely

hazarded, that no one can ever qualify himself for the race of

discovery who looks alone to what men now think without a reference

to what they have formerly believed and written upon the subjects of

his inquiry. Strange as it may seem, the man who would ascertain

truth, must not confine himself to the simple inquiry of what it is.

He must also see what men have thought about it. He must look to the

history of human opinion and the modes of reasoning by which men have

arrived at their conclusions. He must not only be able to understand

the results of right reason, but he must learn also to reason for

himself. It was a perception of this necessity which induced the

immortal Bacon to turn his attention to the mode of investigating

truth, rather than to the discovery of truth itself. He perceived

that it was the most important benefit which could be conferred by

any man of that day, and the Novum Organon, the most wonderful of

mere human conceptions, was the result. A view of the different modes

of reasoning to truth which had been employed before him, a

comparison of the methods which the most successful philosophers had

pursued, soon taught him that there was as much in the method used as

in the genius of the investigator. He who would pursue the path of

truth, would do well to prepare himself with a guide book made up

from the experience of former travellers; he will thus learn the

various roads which intersect his true path, and might be likely to

put him out, each of which some former pilgrim has taken before him,

from whose recorded experience he may take warning; or sometimes it

may happen that whilst the crowd of philosophers have been wandering

for centuries through a mazy error, the account given by some long

gone traveller of a partially explored route may lead the happy

investigator into the true way, and thus forward him on his journey.

In the progress of truth, which of necessity must be slow and

cautious, it is important to weigh every step, and every chart should

be preserved. It was thus that Copernicus, retracing the steps of

philosophers for two thousand years, discovered in the almost

forgotten accounts of the writings of Nicetas, Heraclides and

Ecphontus, traces of a route into which he struck off and was

conducted to the most brilliant discoveries. It was thus that Galileo

was conducted to some of his discoveries in hydrostatics by the hints

of Archimedes. Indeed, how many of the most important discoveries of

science have thus originated? Had Archimedes and Pappus never

written, or had they been neglected, the method of tangential lines

of Fermat and Barrow, approximating so closely as they do to the

discovery of the differential calculus, had perhaps never existed,

and to these we must attribute the subsequent important discovery of

Newton and Leibnitz. Indeed, the whole history of scientific

discovery is the history of a chain whose links have been forged by

different men, and fitted at different times. If such be the most

fortunate mode of scientific discovery, how much do we increase the

importance of the study of the ancient literature, when we come to

reflect that the termination of their scientific labors during the

night of the middle ages, is the point of departure from which all

modern scientific discovery has emanated. It will at once be

recollected that at the revival of letters, the only sources of

information were derived from the study of the ancients revived

chiefly by Boccacio and the philosophers of the Medici school and

from the Arabians, whose knowledge was drawn chiefly though at an

early period from the same source. Notwithstanding the elegant

rivalry between the Abassides and Ommoiades, which so much fostered

the spirit of learned inquiry, notwithstanding the resort of the

Arabian philosophers to the Indian school, and the polite and

elevated spirit of the Saracen conquerers who offered peace to the

modern and degenerate Greeks in exchange for their philosophy, it is

still evident that with the exception of some few discoveries in the

science of medicine, they were yet far behind the ancients at the

period of the decay of letters. Ancient science became the text upon

which modern writings were for ages the commentary, one of its

languages became the medium of communication between the learned and

polite of all nations, and no book of science was published for a

long time except in the Latin. The writings of mathematicians as far

down as Euler, those in medicine in England as far down as Hunter,

the writings of Blumenback, of Grotius and Spinoza, the Novum Organon

of Bacon, and indeed those of nearly all the modern philosophers,

until the middle of the seventeenth century, {227} were in Latin. In

Belles Lettres, criticism and rhetoric, in history, physics and

morals, the models of the moderns were all chosen from antiquity. In

addition to this too, the progress of Roman arms, and afterwards the

advance of Roman letters, had incorporated much of the Latin language

and idiom in all of the polite modern languages except the German.

The Italian and Spanish in particular have been well called "bastard

Latin." How then can any student of modern literature only, hope to

understand the genius of his own language, or even the spirit of that

literature to which he has devoted himself? What scientific inquirer

can hope, in any great degree, to forward the march of discovery no

matter what may be his genius and spirit, if he be without this

learning? Independently then of the intrinsic value of ancient

learning, we humbly think that the reasons enumerated by us, suffice

to prove not only the importance but the absolute necessity of these

studies to the accomplished scholar and man of science. But we are

prepared to go further, and maintain that on certain subjects of

mental inquiry, it still affords the best models extant. In poetry,

the best models are confessedly ancient. In rhetoric, Aristotle,

Quinctilian and Horace, have left nothing for modern investigation to

add upon that subject. But it is in history, oratory, the philosophy

of government, law and psychology, that the pre-eminence of ancient

literature is most important to be noticed. We are perfectly aware

that the history of remote antiquity has for every mind a charm which

does not belong to the genius or the taste of the historian. Ideas of

events remote in point of time, whether past or future, always fill

the mind with a certain degree of awe and uncertainty. A feeling of

mystery always attends our ideas of what is remote in point of time

or place. It is on the tale of the traveller from far distant lands

that we hang with most delight and wonder. Had Columbus discovered

America within two days voyage of Europe, the tale of his genius had

been yet untold. So too the mind looks to events long past with an

awe and wonder akin to those feelings which fill it in its eager gaze

into futurity. It is this power of association which attaches the

antiquarian so devotedly to his peculiar study, and so soon converts

it into a pursuit of feeling rather than of reason. It is the same

mysterious link which binds the poet to the early customs and history

of his country, and which lends a charm to the simplest ballad if it

be ancient, and connects his contemplations with the past. It was the

same feeling so strong in the human heart which swelled in the breast

of the indignant old lawgiver when in despite of his formal pursuits

and fancy-killing studies, he pronounced his rebuke on those who

ignorantly maligned "that code which has grown grey in the hoar of

innumerable ages." It is a mighty journey which the human mind takes

when it is transported from the present to the past. When the mind

awakes to realize these long-gone scenes, feelings of mingled awe and

pleasure insensibly possess it. A thousand associations of gloomy

grandeur attend us as we seem to walk amid the mighty monuments of

the dead in the silent twilight of past ages. We feel as if we were

treading the lonely streets of the city of the dead, and lifting the

pall of ages. We start to find that the mouldering records of man's

pursuits then told as now, that still eternal tale of empty vanity

and misbegotten hopes. The ashes of buried cities on which we tread,

the timeworn records of fallen empires and past greatness, the

monuments of events yet more remote and faintly discernible in the

dim distance, seem the too visible memorials of "what shadows we are,

and what shadows we pursue," and like Crusoe we recoil with wonder

and fear from _that trace_ of man on the desert shore. The earlier

the records to which we refer, the more deeply are we struck with the

wonderful power of our minds which enables us to use the hoarded

experience of ages and enter into silent communion with the dead, and

the more sensibly are we impressed by the comparison of the

imperishable creations of our spiritual nature, with the fading

glories of our mortal state. We ascend the stream of time as the

traveller of the Nile in quest of its mysterious sources, and the

farther we proceed the more wonderful is the view adown that vale of

ages through which it flows. Behind us, in the dim distance arise the

dark and impenetrable barriers, whose cloud-capt summits seem to

point to the heavens as the source of the mysterious river, whilst

before us flow the dark rolling waves of that wide stream which is to

bear us too to the mysteries of that land of shadows where we are

taught to expect an eternal, perhaps an awful home. Fair cities and

mighty empires arise in momentary show along its shores, and then

pass away upon its rolling waters. In swift succession the

generations of man chase each other upon its heaving billows in

shadowy hosts,--the dim phantasmagoria of our mortal state! And yet

like shades that wander along the Styx, some memories still live upon

its silent shore to tell the tale of wrecks and ruins which stud the

wave-worn banks. Lo! yonder rocky headland around which sweeps the

swift stream as it stretches into the dark bay where the waters lie

in momentary repose. How many were the marble palaces, how smiling

were the gardens which gladdened that once lovely spot. Yon

mouldering fane that yet clings to the wave-worn rock, was once the

least amongst ten thousand, and where are they?--Lost in these dark

waters in whose deep womb are buried the long forgotten glories of

our mortal race.

From the charm of such associations we do not pretend to be exempt,

nor do we envy the man who could claim such an exemption. But we are

free to confess that this circumstance is too apt to disturb the

judgment in a comparison of the merits of ancient and modern history.

To a certain extent it may fairly be estimated amongst the advantages

of the former, for if it gives a greater interest to early history it

holds out a greater temptation to the ardent prosecution of that

study. But we do not fear the comparison without such adventitious

aid, for we maintain that as historians the ancients are still

unequalled. Of all their histories which have descended to the

present time, there are none which have not many of the higher

excellences of historical composition; but it is for Thucydides,

Tacitus and Plutarchus, the great masters in their respective styles,

that we challenge modern history to produce the parallels. The

definition which Diodorus has given of history, "that it is

philosophy teaching by example," may truly be applied to the writings

of the two first named historians. Indeed, we have never taken up the

works of the first without wonder at the rare and philosophical

temperament which enabled him to conduct his eager search after truth

without disturbance from those {228} feelings which personal injuries

and the spirit of party would so naturally have awakened in others

under the same circumstances. Himself a principal actor in the scenes

which his page commemorates, his situation and temper alike fitted

him for conducting his researches in a spirit of truth, a task which

he accomplished in a manner as yet unrivalled. How deep is the

devotion to the austere majesty of truth which he displays in his

masterly preface when he offers up the favorite fictions of his

nation as a sacrifice upon its altars, and stripping his subject of

its stolen ornaments, presents it to the world in naked simplicity.

If historical criticism has become a science in the hands of the

accomplished Niehbuhr, surely its origin and chief ornament are to be

found in that noble monument of antiquity. It was no small evidence

of future greatness which the young Demosthenes gave, in the choice

of this history as his model. For where could he find the springs of

government touched with so true a knowledge of their nature, or in

what book are the actions of man in masses traced to their motives

and causes with an analysis so searching? If we would trace society

through the first forms of republican government, and witness its

agitations under the opposition of those ever living and opposing

forces the democratic and aristocratic principles, we must look to

Thucydides. A living witness and a profound observer of the

unbalanced democracies of ancient Greece, his deep sagacity always

enabled him to resolve their line of action into the two elementary

and diverging forces according to their true proportions. As the

modern astronomer is able to detect even in the course of the most

erratic comet the resultant of the two opposing forces of the solar

system, so this profound observer of the human heart was able to

trace in the madness of revolution, the contests of a more pacific

policy, and even in the horrors of anarchy, the direction given by

the two elementary and opposing forces of the social system. Would we

trace society still further as another combination of these

elementary forces in different proportions gives its direction in the

line of despotism, we must turn to the Roman Thucydides--to Tacitus,

for a true knowledge of the internal machinery which regulates it

under this form of government. Do we wish to obtain an accurate view

of the motives which move masses to action? would we investigate man,

not as an individual, but according to those common qualities of the

human mind by which we may classify his species and genera, and by

which only we must consider him if we would rightly estimate the

effects of circumstances upon masses? Turn to either or to both of

these historians, whose profound and searching analysis so rarely

fails of detecting the motives to human action. In both we shall find

the same deep philosophy, the same careful study of the human heart,

and the same eagerness to utter truth when clearly conceived, without

regard to the forms of expression; the great and distinctive

difference is in the difference of temperament arising perhaps out of

a difference of situation. The more fiery Roman gives you glowing

sketches, not pictures--they flow from him with that careless haste

so indicative of boundless wealth. Each sketch bears within itself

the evidence of lofty conception, and shows in every line the traces

of a master's hand whose rapid touch is too busy in embodying the

forms with which his brain is teeming to waste its energies in those

minuter cares so necessary for filling out a perfect picture. With

rapid pencil he leaves perhaps a simple line, but it is the line of

Apelles--the hand of the master was there. The conceptions of the

rival Greek, like his, are lofty but more matured, and the same

careless ease with a somewhat superior elegance, mark his execution.

His coloring however is milder, and you are never struck with those

startling contrasts of light and shade so peculiar to the Roman.

The inquirer who would train his mind in those pursuits most

necessary for the statesman, and, for that reason, seeks an intimate

knowledge of human nature, would arise from an attentive study of the

works of these great historians with feelings of pleasure and self

gratulation. Conscious, that he had acquired much knowledge of man as

a mere instrument in the hands of the politician, he already begins

to perceive the rules by which men of sagacity have reckoned with

much of probability if not of certainty, upon the future actions of

their fellow beings. But not being yet fully aware of the uses to

which this knowledge may be applied in directing the affairs of

society, he is now anxious to inquire into the results of those

attempts which the great masters of the human race have made, to

regulate the movements of masses and mould them to their peculiar

views. He must now turn to Plutarch's superb gallery of portraits of

the distinguished men of antiquity; he must open that book, which

oftener than any other, has afforded the favorite subject of the

early studies of the distinguished statesmen and warriors of all the

countries to which modern civilization has extended. He will here

perceive the modes by which his models are trained to greatness, and

learn to know and estimate the distinctive qualities which have

elevated their possessors so far above the common mass. His studies

which heretofore were directed to his fellows will be now turned to

himself, and a course of self reflection will teach him to exercise

and improve his strength, and to measure the proportions in which it

must be applied to the levers which move the ball of public opinion.

To show that we do not place too high an estimate upon this wonderful

book, we might simply refer to the internal evidences of its rare

excellences. But we cannot refrain from offering further proofs, more

striking at least, if not as strong. It is no small evidence of its

excellence that it is a book of more general interest than any other

biography or history extant; that it is amongst the first and the

last books which we like; its interest taking an early hold upon the

youthful mind, and continuing through our after life. And the fact is

not to be forgotten, in choosing the books for such a course of study

as the one just referred to, that most of the great modern statesmen

and generals, have bestowed much of their early attention and study

on this work; for this is some evidence that its pages serve to

awaken an early love of heroic virtue, and contribute to form the

habits necessary for its growth and continued existence. In our

reference to the works of the three authors which we should choose in

preference to all others of human origin, for the study of human

nature we have not adverted to the true order in which they should be

read. The book of biography should precede as well as succeed the

study of the two historians. We challenge all modern history and

biography for the production of three parallels to our chosen {229}

models, whose works can contribute so much to the attainment of this

particular end. Davila, the favorite of Hampden,--and Guicciardini,

whom St. John preferred to all modern historians,--have some of the

excellences of which we have been speaking, but will any one compare

them to the first? In the English language, Clarendon is the only

history worthy of the attention of the student in search of an author

who illustrates the science of human nature by a reference to the

recorded experience of past generations. The works of Gibbon, Hume

and Robertson, are admirable for their style and general interest,

but they take no true views of man (_epistola non erubescit_) as the

instrument of legislation; they do not present us with that

impersonation of the common qualities and motives of our nature,

which alone can be the subject of laws, and whose character only can

be moulded by the general institutions of society,--in short, with

that man who is the true subject of the politician's study. Indeed we

doubt if the historical works of these gentlemen ever were or ever

will be the favorites of any great and practical statesman,--a test

which we ask shall be applied to the models which we have chosen. We

are perfectly aware of what we hazard by such assertions, but safe

behind our mask, we feel secure from danger.

In the view of the course of study which we have just been surveying,

we paused at the point where the inquirer having learnt the strength

and the temper of the various great springs which chiefly influence

human action, had turned aside to ascertain the best modes of

handling them by a reference to the experience of those who had

successfully regulated the machinery of society and effected in its

movements the particular objects which they had in view. From this

point, the transition is easy from the history and biography of

antiquity to its oratory. For where shall we find the springs of

human action so dexterously handled? It must be remembered that the

orators of antiquity approached their subjects under circumstances

very different from those which attend our modern debates. They

practised upon the societies in which they lived, under the same

penalties which attend the eastern physician who undertakes the

Sultan's cure. The gift of this splendid but fatal talisman of the

heart was always attended with the most unhappy consequences to its

possessor. Exile and death were the penalties, in case of failure, in

the measures which they recommended, or even in case of the loss of

popular affection. And so deep were the distresses of those gifted

but unhappy children of genius, that one of their most sincere

admirers was forced to exclaim

"Ridenda poemata malo

Quam te conspicuæ divina Philippica famæ,

Volveris a prima quæ proxima."

It is not to be supposed, that under such circumstances they would

ever approach their subject without a most careful consideration of

its nature and consequences, or that they would fail to study the

means of recommending themselves and their plans to popular favor.

Indeed it would naturally be expected that in the effort to persuade

the will of those upon whom they were operating, into a concurrence

with their own, they would scarcely place in competition with that

object the desire to write an oration to be admired by posterity. We

should look to find then a more attentive observance of the modes of

influencing the human heart and reason, than amongst the modern

speakers who were moved by none of their fears. A comparison of the

ancient with the modern orators would fully prove the fact, but as we

cannot of course enter into that comparison here, and deserve no

thanks from the reader for inviting his attention to it, we would

advert to the fact that these are the only real statesmen whose

orations have had an interest for a remote posterity. From which the

conclusion is fair, that of all speeches accessible to the reader,

these are the most valuable for acquiring the means of influencing

men, since no other orations of successful orators remain in an

agreeable form. Who reads the speeches of any of the modern orators

who have been statesmen at the same time, and who succeeded in

impressing their views upon the public mind. No one reads the

speeches of Walpole, Chatham, and Fox, the real orator statesmen of

England, whilst Burke's orations, which invariably dispersed his

audience, are familiar to almost every reader of the English

language. The most distinguished orator and statesman that France has

produced was Mirabeau; the most successful in America were Henry and

Randolph. Yet what orations have they left behind them which are

indicative of the real genius of those master minds? The modern

speeches which are held up as models, are those which failed to

effect the end of their delivery, and even if pleasing in point of

style and composition, they must have been very feeble as orations.

But the admirers of modern oratory, the readers of Sheridan, Curran

and Philips, will perhaps demand that definition of oratory which

thus excludes their favorites from all competition with the orators

of antiquity. We define it to be, the means of attaining, by the

persuasion either of the feelings or reasons of men, an end which of

ourselves, we cannot effect. This is the only point of view in which

a statesman would use rhetoric as an instrument. The display of

learning and the exhibition of the graces of composition and style,

he leaves to the author in his closet who has time to bestow upon

pursuits less exalted than his. The real orator, if he be the subject

of a despot, will study the character of the man whom he sues, and

mould his address in the form most persuasive to him who holds the

power of which he would avail himself. If on the other hand the power

which he seeks resides with the people, he will appeal to that temper

and those dispositions which are common to the mass, and having

selected the arguments and sentiments most persuasive to them, would

never think of sacrificing one tittle of them to secure the

reputation of an orator with the future generations who might read

his effusions. Ridiculous as it may seem to the lovers of the gaudy

imagery and polished periods of the Irish orators, we maintain that

the speeches of Cromwell and of Vane, which seem so absurd to us now,

in effecting their ends, accomplished the true object of rhetoric.

They suited the temper of the times, they served to mould the

progress of public opinion, and proved powerful instruments in

directing the revolution. Profound observers of those times, they

were too sagacious as statesmen to think of sacrificing the means of

securing great public ends for the sake of pleasing the taste of

posterity and acquiring the reputation of turning polished periods--a

task in which, after all, the wretched Waller had excelled them.

{230} Who believes that such oratory as Sheridan's or Curran's, aye,

or even as Burke's, would have produced a tithe of the influence upon

the sturdy old roundheads which the cant of the day exercised over

them. These effusions would have been treated with scorn, or would

perhaps have called down punishment upon the heads of their authors

as holding out temptations to the carnal man. Any attempt, in the

temper of those times, to deliver orations fitted for the taste of

posterity, would have been as ridiculous and misplaced as Petit

Jean's apostrophes to the sun, moon and stars, in his defence of the

dog. Indeed, it is the prevailing sin of modern taste to suppose that

the making of a "fine speech," can be a sufficient inducement for

speaking. Plato has defined rhetoric to be "the art of ruling men's

minds," and the moment it ceases to look to that end, it is vain and

ridiculous. This is the besetting sin of American oratory. Adams,

Everett, or even Webster, will seize any occasion, the death of

Lafayette, the erection of a monument, or any thing which may serve

as a text for a speech, to deliver orations which can have no

possible influence except to convince the few who read them, that

their authors have not only read, but learned to round a period.

Polished sentences, brilliant imagery, and even the ancient forms of

attestation are profusely displayed, and all the orator's most showy

wares are studiously arrayed, for effect, so as to tempt the public

to what?--to any useful end which they have in view? No, simply to an

admiration of their authors. It was the practice of antiquity, it is

true, to deliver funeral orations--but they are miserably mistaken if

they expect to shelter themselves under those usages in their

unmeaning and personal displays. They pursue the form, but neglect

the substance. Do they suppose that when Pericles delivered his

funeral oration over his countrymen who had fallen in the expedition

to Samos, he had no other object than that of making a speech? Do

they believe for a moment that he whose rhetoric procured him the

surname of Olympius, that the master orator of antiquity, (if we may

judge his oratory by its effects,) that he who never addressed an

assembly without first praying the Gods "that no _word_ might fall

from him unawares which was _unsuitable to the occasion_," would have

spoken from such a motive as that only? Could they have supposed that

such was the motive of Demosthenes in his funeral oration over those

who fell at Cheronea?

Higher ends were in the view of these orators upon these occasions.

They were subjects connected with the public policy of the times and

with measures which they themselves had directed. Upon the success of

these depended their popularity, and on that hung their fortunes,

their homes, nay, their lives. They afforded happy occasions for

defending their policy, for pushing their claims upon public favor,

and for weaving by a thousand plies the cord which bound them to

popular sympathy, in those moments of deep feeling when the people

were too much absorbed in their own emotions, to examine into the

personal motives of their orators. No such consequences depend upon

the popularity of our orators. Their popularity can scarcely be

really affected, by any orations which they could deliver on the

battle of Lexington, the Bunker Hill monument, or the death of La

Fayette. The public measures of the present day have but a remote

connection with them. What worthy motive then could have influenced

them, we were going to say, in the perpetration of such folly? In

such men of the closet as the younger Adams and Everett, it is not

surprising; but in Webster, who is capable of real and effective

oratory, it can only be viewed as a weak compliance with the morbid

taste of the clique around him.

Of the importance of the study of the ancient laws, particularly the

Roman or civil, we shall say but little, as in the first place, a

view of that subject in all its relations with modern government and

civilization, would far exceed the limits of this essay; and because,

secondly, no one can be found who will deny the uses of this pursuit

to the lawyer. To the general reader we would only remark, that

instead of abandoning this useful study to the lawyers, as a pursuit

proper only to that profession, he would do well to remember that the

revival of letters has always been mainly ascribed to the discovery

of the pandects at Amalphi; that since that time professorships of

civil law have been attached to every learned University in Europe,

and no scholar for many centuries afterwards was reckoned

accomplished without some knowledge of this subject. He should

remember too, that since the revival of letters, this law has formed

an essential, nay, the chief ingredient of the jurisprudence of

Spain, Holland, France, and all Italy, with the exception of

Venice;--whilst, notwithstanding all that has been suggested by the

idle casuistry of national pride, it is the most important portion of

the law of Germany, Hungary, Poland and Scotland. And much as we

boast of the common law in England and what was English America, yet

in both countries, the civil code is the law of courts of admiralty,

the basis of most of our chancery law, and even on the common law

side of our judiciary it is freely used on the subject of contracts,

and has furnished the groundwork, nay, almost the entire system of

our legal pleadings. Should this reader be a divine, we would beg

leave to remind him that the canon law itself is so intimately

associated with the civil code, that no good canonist has yet existed

who neglected the study of this last. Indeed, the canon law is at

last but a compound of the christian system of ethics and the civil

code of municipal law. Need we say more in support of the claims of

this study upon the attention of the general scholar and reader? Can

the statesman or scholar expect to understand the history of nations

and governments without a knowledge of their laws and judicial

systems, those alimentary canals, which distribute the food that

supports the moral being of society? As well might the anatomist

expect to derive a knowledge of his science by a view of the external

structure of the human frame, whilst the internal organization and

the whole circulating system were concealed from his observation. And

quite as absurd are the investigations of the historical inquirer,

who, content with a knowledge of the form of government, looks no

farther into the internal structure of a society. We would fain

pursue the interesting inquiries which this subject suggests, in

connection with the history of modern governments and the progress of

civil liberty, did our limits permit. But our purpose is

accomplished, in having recurred to facts, which of themselves

demonstrate the necessity of this highly important study.

We come now to the psychological view of ancient {231} literature,

which subject is so intimately connected with the inquiry into the

tendencies of this study, towards elevating and extending the

spiritual capacity of man, that we shall embrace it under that head.

As no man would engage in any laborious pursuit without having some

object in view, so perhaps no one would ever enter into the pursuit

after knowledge if it offered no rewards. It is coveted by many,

because it sometimes brings to its possessor wealth, and almost

always secures him reputation, whilst a few only desire it for its

spiritual uses--and yet these last constitute its highest reward. Let

the practical man of the world who doubts it, and who would laugh at

any arguments adapted to his reason upon this subject as a mere idle

thing, look to the history of literary men. Let him behold such a man

as Bayle, for example, who having secured in his taste for knowledge

a consolation and a happiness of which the world could not rob him,

only thought of his persecutions to laugh at them, and found but

amusement in what the world deems misfortunes. Poverty, exile,

disease, all in their turns assailed him, and yet no one who reads

his history can doubt but that he was the happiest man of his day.

Resigned to all human events, he found his pleasure in the one noble

taste which absorbed his mind, and he succeeded in elevating his

spirit to such a distance above the misfortunes and persecutions of

this world, that they dwindled into utter insignificance in his

estimation. A dismission from an office of honor and profit, under

circumstances which would have excited murmurs and anger in the minds

of most other men, was scarcely noticed by him, or noticed in a

spirit of cheerful content. "The sweetness and repose" (said he upon

this occasion) "I find in the studies in which I have engaged myself

and which are my delight, will induce me to remain in this city, if I

am allowed to continue in it, at least until the printing of my

dictionary is finished; for my presence is absolutely necessary in

the place where it is printed. I am no lover of money nor of honors,

and would not accept of any invitation should it be made to me; nor

am I fond of the disputes and cabals which reign in all academies:

_Canam mihi et musis_." Car. Lit. vol. i, p. 22. These were not mere

professions; his life, nay, his very death illustrated their truth

and sincerity. The very hour of his death was soothed and solaced by

this taste, which subdued even the sense of the last mortal agony.

This, and instances similar in nature, if not in degree, which abound

in the lives of literary men, afford conclusive evidence of the

rewards which knowledge brings to the human mind itself. What can

elevate the dignity of our nature more in our view than the

contemplation of such spectacles as these? What terms expressive

enough should we find, to convey our sense of gratitude to the genius

who would offer us a gift that would enable us to defy the

persecutions of this world and laugh at its misfortunes! a gift,

which, for our enjoyments, would render us independent of every other

being in existence, save ourselves and him who created us--a gift

which would endow us with a taste and the means of gratifying a taste

which age cannot dull, and gratification cannot satiate. And yet to a

great degree, the mind which is imbued with the _love_ of knowledge

enjoys these blessings. When this becomes the absorbing taste of our

minds, it not only endures--but man cannot take it from us. Whilst

sensual pleasures die, and the tastes which they gratify decay with

time, this is the immortal desire of our being which survives when

all others fade away. It is the charmed gift which we bear within

ourselves, and whose spells can call up a thousand forms of beauty

and light even in the depths of the dungeon, and surround the couch

of disease with bright visions and pleasant hopes. As those who ate

of the fabled lotus were said to forget their country and kindred in

their enjoyments, when they had tasted of its flowers, so those who

have once fed upon the immortal fruit of the tree of knowledge, cease

to regard those temporal cares and pleasures which bind man to this

earth, and lead through a maze of uncertainty to disappointment at

last. They look into nature--and each link which they discover in the

great chain of truth, seems, in the enthusiasm of the vision, another

step on that ladder by which man mounts from earth to heaven. Each

hidden harmony which they discover in nature is another thought of

the divine mind which they have conceived and understood, and serves

to bind them still more closely in that communion into which the

Creator permits them to enter with him. The consideration of man, the

pleasures merely earthly which he controls and which belong to him,

always temporal and always alloyed with pain, they can consent to

relinquish, in the consciousness that they are entering into closer

communion with him who is pure, perfect, and unchangeable. And their

pleasures as much exceed those which they renounce, as the Creator is

superior to the created. They have tasted the living stream of truth,

whose waters refresh the more, the more they are drunk--they find

themselves on the borders of that eternal spring whose course is

infinite in extent. Whilst they follow its trace they secure

immortality,--for none who drink of its waters shall ever die.

See the student who dwells alone in his hermitage, or who perhaps

nightly cribs his worn frame in some almost forgotten attic;--he is

surrounded by circumstances which to the eye of the common observer

denote the extremity of wretchedness and misery! Those who are more

elevated by the pride of place and by the possession of those things

which the world calls good, often look upon him with pity and

contempt; and yet how rashly do they judge. Do they know whether he

regards their pleasures or whither his aspirations would lead him. He

looks out upon the stars, "those isles of light," which repose in the

liquid blue of the vaulted heavens, and they speak to him of wisdom

and love, of beauty and peace. He walks abroad amid the works of

nature, and traces in all her hidden harmonies a beauty and a unity

of design which speak but of one spirit, and that the infinite and

eternal spirit of the universe. He begins indeed "to mingle with the

universe;" and, like the mystic Egeria, a spirit of beauty pure and

undefiled arises from the silent memorials of creative design, to

commune with him in his morning walks and evening meditations. He

compares the soul, which guides and animates the physical universe,

with the vain and contentious spirit of his fellow man; he compares

the order and beauty of the physical universe, which submits all its

motions to the divine will, with the moral government of man,--at

once the sport and the victim of his own caprices; and learns to

despise what most men value, and to prize those pleasures {232} which

they neglect. He has learnt to feel that He who rules all events, has

considered him also, in his Providence; and willing to put his trust

in that being, without whose knowledge "not a sparrow falleth to the

ground," he stands forth the most self-humbled, and yet the most

elevated of God's creatures.

If knowledge hath these spiritual uses,--and what reflecting man can

doubt the fact, how mortifying is it to see many wasting their

strength and throwing away the means by which they could attain these

ends, for the sake of wealth and earthly honors. As the alchemist

who, in his eager search after the grand magisterium, neglects many

discoveries really useful which were within his reach, so these men

put their frail trust in the world and waste their lives in the vain

pursuit of its phantoms. But we do not expect these men to take this

view of the subject unless they have trained their minds to it,

either through the christian philosophy, or what is second to that

system only, the school of the Platonist writers. It is for this

reason chiefly, that we have ventured to recommend the study of the

writings of the genius so nearly divine, of that author whose

psychological system presaged the christian revelation, as the

morning twilight betokens the coming sun. It was his, that beautiful

conception of the spirit of the universe, at once so poetical and

sublime;--an idea which Abraham Tucker only of modern English

writers, seems to have fully comprehended and explained. This sublime

and philosophical poet perceived that by an attentive study of

nature, the human mind was capable of entering into communion with

the divine mind through its works; he felt that he was capable of

conceiving more and more of the ideas which existed in the creative

mind, as he understood more of the system of the universe; he

meditated upon the harmony which extended through the greatest and

the least of nature's operations; his soul took in forms of beauty

and filled with lofty conceptions until it became enamored of its

contemplations, and in the spirit of true poetry he endowed the

universe with a soul which governed it and with which the mind of man

may commune. But to return to our original proposition; we asserted

that the writings of ancient philosophers afforded the best views of

psychology to which we have access. By psychology, we mean what

relates to our spiritual being. To maintain this proposition it will

be necessary to recur, for a moment, to the subject of inquiry which

engaged their attention, and to the spirit of those times.

The most important and natural inquiry which would present itself to

a being of limited powers of knowledge and enjoyment, and whose

existence at most is brief, is as to the best pursuit which can

engage his time and energies. The vanity of human wishes, the

transitory nature of earthly enjoyments, must have been as apparent

to the first man as to us. The necessity of discriminating between

the various ends of our actions, and objects of our desires, in the

brief space which is allotted us for action, must have impressed

itself at an early period upon the human mind. And as happiness is

the proposed end of all our actions, the most important inquiry which

can engage the human mind, is as to the best means of attaining it.

Accordingly, we find the "TO KALON" engaging the attention of all

ancient philosophers; and however differently they might conduct

their reasoning, all of them who were respected arrived at the same

conclusion, viz: that he whose conduct was most strictly regulated by

the rules of virtue, would enjoy the greatest degree of happiness. It

was thus, according to Plato, that we were to restore the immaculate

qualities of the pre-existent soul. The sterner Zeno maintained that

nothing was pleasant but virtue, and nothing painful but vice; whilst

the gentle and more persuasive Epicurus, reversing the rule, (and in

a certain sense the doctrines were identical,) taught that nothing

was virtuous but what was pleasant, or vicious if it were not

painful--because virtue is at last but the rule which shall conduct

us to happiness. At that time the light of Christian revelation had

not burst upon the world; the flickering and uncertain rays of human

reason afforded the only light to guide them in the search for the

path of truth, and "shadows, clouds, and darkness rested on it." The

bright hopes and the awful fears by which the Christian revelation

would prompt man to virtue, were then either unknown or but little

heeded. To tempt his disciples then to a virtuous life, and to

fortify them against the seductions of vicious temptation, the

ancient philosopher was forced to hold forth the rewards which virtue

offers to us in this life. The persuasions of oratory, the

allurements of poetry, the demonstrations of philosophy, were all

used to entice the youthful mind to the pursuit of virtue; and more,

the masters practised their creed in the view of their disciples. But

so far as external appearances bear testimony on the subject,

happiness does not always attend the practice of virtue in this

world. It was necessary, then, to refer the doubtful to some other

source of enjoyment. The philosopher referred the pupil to a source

which was within--the pleasant consciousness of well-doing;--the

enlargement of the spiritual capacity under a virtuous discipline,

were the exalted and noble inducements which they presented to their

view. Their theories of the universe, their social customs, their

daily habits, were all made subsidiary to the end of impressing these

grand truths upon their disciples. These conceptions stood forth in

severe and sublime simplicity, as they were formed by the cold and

cautious inductions of philosophy; but the master mind of antiquity,

not content with their unspeaking beauty, seized fire from heaven,

and breathing into them the warm spirit of his eloquence, sent them

forth to the world radiant and impressive forms, which appealed not

only to the reason, but to the sensibility of the beholder. Every

argument was used which could exalt our spiritual being, and every

illustration which could explain its nature, so far at least as they

understood it. The pursuit of virtue became a matter of

feeling--self-denial was an enthusiasm, and the world often beheld

the disciples of these great masters acting upon the abstract maxims

of mere human reason, and pursuing virtue with that unfaltering trust

in the hopes which it excites, which would shame many disciples of a

more certain faith, and those who have the guidance of a clearer

light. It is not surprising, then, that the nature of our spiritual

being, and the invigorating and regenerating influences of the

pursuit of knowledge and virtue, should be more often the theme of

ancient than of modern philosophers. And yet the moralist, the

philosopher and the poet, would each derive both assistance and

delight from the too much neglected works of these noble old masters.

We have seen the wonderful {233} revival of letters in Germany in

modern times ascribed to the study of the Platonists,--with what

truth our knowledge of German literature will not permit us to say.

But we do not doubt that the ascribed cause is adequate to that end.

Certain it is, that Bulwer has derived from these sources much of

that which is worth any thing in his writings. His views of our

spiritual being, and of the spiritual uses of knowledge, are

evidently clothed in light reflected from the Platonists. Indeed, the

finest portion of all his writings, that in which he describes the

change wrought on Devereux's mind by a course of solitary meditation,

or, to use a shorter phrase, the metempsychosis of his hero, is but a

paraphrase of the finest of all moral fables, the Asinus Aureus of

Apuleius, and one which at last fails to do justice to the splendid

original. Should any reader think it worth the time to examine into

the truth of our remarks upon the spirit of ancient philosophy, we

would crave his attention to this most beautiful allegory, as

affording a complete and interesting illustration of their general

correctness. The fable, founded upon a Milesian story, opens with the

description of a young man who has debased his soul with debauchery

until he is transformed to an ass; he falls gradually from one vice

to another, and under the dominion of all he suffers under the

degrading and debasing penalties appropriate to each. He was at last

on the eve of perpetrating a crime so monstrous that nature suddenly

revolted, and horror-stricken, he broke from his keeper and flies to

the seashore. With solitude comes reflection, and reflection brings

remorse. Despair is the natural consequence; and feeling that without

assistance he is lost, he turns to heaven for succor. The moon is in

full splendor, just rising from the waves; the awful silence of the

night deepens his sense of solitude;--"Video præ micantis lunæ

candore nimis completum orbem, commodum marinis emergentem fluctibus,

nactusque opacæ noctis silentiosa secreta, certus etiam summatem Deam

præcipua majestate pollere resque prorsus humanas ipsius regi

providentia," &c. p. 375. Relief is vouchsafed to him, a change

passes over his spirit, and nature wears towards him a different

aspect--her countenance is clothed in smiles, and all things seem to

rejoice with him. "Tanta hilaritudine præter peculiarem meam, gestire

mihi cuncta videbantur; ut pecua etiam cujuscamodi et totas domos et

ipsam diem serena facie gaudire sentirem." The entire conception is

not only highly poetical, but eminently philosophical; the progress

of the human mind in its transition through the range of vices, the

sentiments of remorse and despair, that yearning after better things

which ever and anon returns like a guardian angel to rescue man from

his most fallen estate, the change of heart, and the influence of

nature, are depicted in the spirit of truth and beauty.

But we fear that we are trespassing too far upon the patience of the

reader, and especially when our subject is not one of general

interest. And yet we are so deeply impressed with the fact that an

attention to this study is the great want of American literature,

that we could not forbear suggesting briefly the various points of

view from which its importance may be seen--even at the risk of being

tedious. Under the sanction, then, of past experience, and under the

higher authority of reason, we would crave the attention of the

rising generation to these studies, that they may prepare themselves

to do something worthy of their hopes and useful to their country.

And of this at least we can safely assure them that the exercises

which we recommend are those in which were trained all the best

models in science and general literature, whom they most revere and

admire.