Of all the "death-bed sayings" on record, none please me more than that
of Beausobre to his son: Go, said he,
"Argentum et marmor vetus, æraque et artis
Suspice.
Suspice, et forma non fragilis
Movebit in pectore delectationis multum.
Ibi, cum Euroauster, tum erit admiratio--
Flori felicitatis suavis et jucunda."
Moving among the solid temples of "silver," and of "marble," reared by
ancient literature, the intruder finds the holy beauty around him
giving softness to his step, and banishing all ungentle levity. The
plastic mind gradually yielding to the touch of that loveliness which
has crept in through the senses, becomes of itself grand and lovely.
The heart too receives its coloring--even as the cheek is colored, when
standing beneath the stained windows of some real temple.
These truths have come home to _me_, at too late an hour, and a quill
or two will not be worn out sinfully, in an attempt to impress their
importance upon younger men.
If I fail, as most probably I shall, the consciousness of having
consumed a day in useful effort, will be a tolerable reward--perhaps
reward enough.
"The inner man moulds the outer," is an old and true saw. Its truth may
be seen, reader, by looking around you--indeed, by looking _at
yourself_. If you are a philosopher--a genuine philosopher--your glass
will image forth an aspect of serene dignity. If a sophist, one of
perplexed cunning. In the first instance, your _manner_ will be lofty
yet affable--a key to the better feelings of all:--in the latter
grovelling, yet scornful--to every one food for the most unreserved
contempt. Yielding that these different appearances are produced by the
workings of the inner man, can you hit upon a mode for ennobling these
workings, in themselves confused and feeble, so evidently effectual as
the introduction of knowledge and its all-arranging hand? Some may say
that the manner is of no moment. The effects produced under every one's
own observation would, if remembered, serve to stifle this assertion.
Why was it that the most eloquent of Grecians struggled for years to
remove the defects of a faulty bearing, if no valuable end was to be
attained?
It follows then that dignity and suavity are of service: that these--in
many cases essential--are the offspring of a confidence in one's own
knowledge. And now, I ask, whence may we draw richer supplies of this
than from the pages of ancient writers? Are they not rife with all the
useful reasoning--the philosophic intelligence--the happiness of
application, that cultivated man could devise for the assistance of
untutored intellect?
From the logic of the sage we learn, by a spirit of imitation natural
to human beings, to quicken our own powers of reasoning. The
perspicuity of arrangement and expression, so admirable in our master,
becomes gradually a part of our own style. We are led by the strength
of example to lop off the redundancies of a corrupt method, and by the
acquirement of correct notions of purity, enabled to render our
productions chaste and clear. And these improvements in the reasoning
powers are effected at the same time that we possess ourselves of the
richest treasures of lore!
But this is only one source of advantage among many as valuable. Wit, a
power of the mind seldom granted with a liberal hand by
nature--receives, in the course of communion with the playful and keen,
a training of no little value. Charmed by the attic grace which softens
and mellows the satire of our companions, (for let us conjure up at the
hearthside the great masters of the past, and through their works hold
with them 'pleasant converse,') our efforts will be to increase by
farther intercourse, the small store already laid up perhaps
unintentionally. Thus may we, if naturally possessed of wit, so polish
and sharpen the gift of nature, that no armor may resist its progress:
or, if destitute of this strong weapon, form for ourselves one less
beautiful indeed, but of scarce less real worth.
Without this chastening influence, native wit degenerates into a
harshness excessively grating to the ear of refinement, and productive
of no single good effect.
Thus is improved or created a quality allowed by all to be of much
utility in the contests between mind and mind. And what is life but a
field of conflict, wherein the passions of one--perpetually at strife
with those of another--are forever calling to their assistance the
weapons of intellect!
I have before spoken of the effect produced on the manner by a
confidence in one's acquired resources. Carrying this a step farther, I
will remark, that many of the qualities regarded as amiable among men,
such as urbanity and modesty, may be gained not only by the act of
storing the mind, but from the actual lessons and counsels of the bland
teachers from whom these stores are received. Will any one deny the
happy consequences of an urbane and modest deportment, in man's
intercourse with his fellows? Surely none would so far forget the
beauty of virtue as thus to sneer at its manifestations.
We can scarcely find among the various pursuits of men, one in which
the pursuer may not be assisted by the experience and lessons of his
predecessors on the same path. The painter esteems himself happy when
able to collect in his studio the meanest of the antique models. The
sculptor contemplates among the relics of the past those
master-efforts, so deservedly famous, and is indefatigable in a study
essential to the production of purity in his own manner. Extend this to
eloquence. Most truly the orators of antiquity have been sturdy
pioneers upon a noble path, and to neglect their guidance would retard
the pursuer of the same course, and entangle him in many difficulties.
Indeed, with the works of these, elocutionists have invariably
recommended familiarity. The strength of Demosthenes,--_monte decurrens
velut amnis_--the 'abundant grace' of the polished Tully, are of
themselves milk for a giant's nurturing. But they have not come forth
alone from the wreck of time. They are attended by worthy companions.
The depths of a strong mind teem with the seeds of fine thought. Ideas
lofty and rich are then in embryo, and it is a tedious but an essential
task to bring them to maturity. The lessons and practice of those by
whom excellence was most nearly approached, cannot do other than afford
aid of the strongest nature to the student, who has in immediate view
an anxious care of these germs, and looking forward to the season when
a gigantic growth has rewarded his culture, longs with a virtuous
ambition for its coming, that he may scatter among men the fruits of
mature strength. Let all remember this, and seek not only rule of
guidance, but successful illustration among the pages of the past.
It would be no difficult matter to point out other important qualities,
ripened by a study of the ancient classics. To show how strongly
assisted the organs of judgment, &c. may be by the strength-infusing
food of knowledge, winnowed as it has been by time, would be truly
_labor absque labore_. But I have already trespassed on the reader's
courtesy, and shall leave the unfilled catalogue to be completed, if he
thinks it worth the while, at his own leisure.
It has been my object to show that "the classical student's own good
and that of his fellows, would be advanced by his assiduity:" and as I
have not yet remarked distinctly upon the latter, I will do so now, and
briefly.
Men unable individually to defend and protect their rights, enter into
compacts for mutual assistance. Certain laws are drawn up, guiding the
administrator of justice. This justice is the main duct by which the
social body is supplied. With it, order and tranquillity shed their
light upon a nation's progress towards happiness. Without it, the
members within, and the body sinks under a benumbing paralysis. It is,
then, the part of every good citizen to see that justice be maintained
free from impurity, and by precept and example to enliven its energies.
And what is it that gives weight to counsel, if it be not the adviser's
learning and reputation?
"Insani sapiens nomen ferat, æquus iniqui."
What, in a just man's practice, so softens down to our feelings all
necessary roughnesses, as a secret veneration for himself?
I have shown, or attempted to show, that the character becomes chaste
by communion with those exalted spirits from whom are drawn the
supplies of wisdom; and we now see that both the possession of these
supplies and the reputation gained thereby, are of service to the
public--moreover that skill, necessary in the management of public
affairs, is generated, or to say the least increased--so rendering the
ruler more capable of furthering the interests of the ruled.
We see then, that the individual and the public good are advanced by
the study in question. Let us now examine whether this advancement may
not be effected by confining ourselves first to translations, secondly
to our own legitimate literature.
With regard to the first, others have pointed out the futility of all
such transfers. The Turk exchanges his turban and robe for the
habiliments of the Christian. Through the mask of this assumed garb
what eye can detect the original Mussulman? Is he swarthy! others of
his adopted brethren are equally so. Does the tuft of long hair by
which Houri hands are to draw the faithful into Paradise, differ from
the unshorn locks of those around him? his assumed head-gear conceals
the difference.--Thus does he lose all trace of his former being, and
since the assumed qualities sit on him but indifferently, the change is
always for the worse. Are we to doubt the truth of this illustration?
All experience forbids us so to do. The sterling gold of
Shakspeare--converted into French tinsel--was only so converted to meet
with ridicule and contempt.
Secondly, may not these advantages be gained by researches into our own
literature? I would say, in the first place, that this latter is but a
branch engrafted on the ancient tree; and if we wish to effect thorough
familiarity, we must examine downward--solving difficulties as we
proceed--until we come to the root, from whence springs all lore.
Farthermore:--Acquaintance with "our own literature" being but one move
towards the attainment of thorough knowledge, this very admission
stamps it as an inferior degree of excellence, and will any one doubt
the utility of gaining the greatest in a generous pursuit?
This connexion of past lore with the present, suggests to me an
important point, upon which I shall linger for a brief space.
Few are ignorant of the close connexion between the ancient and modern
languages themselves. It was the influence of the polished and manly
Latin that gave euphony to the barbarous jargon brought by the German
tribes from their forests. It was this that spread over the nations of
modern Europe, mellowing in one instance the roughness of the Norman
idiom, and in fine, entwining itself inseparably with the mongrel plant
brought into being in England, after the conquest of Duke William.
Indeed, so much incongruity pervaded this, that many great writers have
believed it a vehicle too rude and perhaps unsafe, for the conveyance
of their harvests to posterity. Under this belief Bacon wrote his
"_Novum Organum_," as well as many of his more important works, wholly
in Latin.
So close, therefore, is the union, that familiarity with one of the
principal languages of antiquity has become absolutely essential to a
_thorough_ intimacy with our own.
Upon the connexion with the other I will barely remark, that the
precept and practice of learned men most assuredly carry a weight at
home, and was it not natural for these, filled as they were with the
beauty of that tongue, whose melody and richness had lent a charm even
to the outpourings of wisdom, to introduce its merits into their own
less noble one? This they have done; and so originated a connexion
important and harmless, inasmuch as it has benefitted the one greatly,
without injuring the other.
I will now observe upon the time of life most suited to an attainment
of that skill, essential in opening to the neophyte these well-stored
magazines of useful and pleasing information. If the candidate for
distinction in any, the simplest profession, had at the time of
entering upon it, yet to master the rudiments of his language, would he
not contemplate the double task in despair? Knowing that the greatest
genius on earth, if without the means of expressing the teeming
thoughts of a crowded mind, is but a "mighty savage," he feels, if
success be his object, the absolute necessity of beginning the almost
endless labor. From childhood to manhood he should be furbishing this
key to his mind's resources.
And the case is the same with regard to the study of the elements which
throw open the riches of the past to our conception. These riches are
very seldom possessed when the means of doing so are not gradually
acquired in very early years. The hours are not then counted--the labor
does not present itself in a huge and startling mass to the narrow view
of youth, but is seen part by part as the student advances. With years
of inactive life before him, his time is his own, and we may almost say
unlimited. Undeterred by the calls of the world, he has leisure to
possess himself of every requisite for enjoying the feast to be
partaken of hereafter. Turn to one who, after neglecting the
acquisition of that which he has at length learned to look upon as most
valuable, attempts to rectify his error. With the duties of life
accumulating every moment on his hands--with the toil to be endured
spread out like a map before his eye, he rarely has energy enough to
persevere. The task is given up as a hopeless one, and his judgment, on
the ground of interference with essential duties, sanctions the
decision urged by timidity. Then deprived of all means of gaining the
treasure, he laments the error by which its acquisition was deferred
until too late a season.
I have said nothing of the exquisite entertainment to be drawn from the
study before us. My object has been to work on the feelings of real and
palpable interest, so effectual in ruling men of the present day.
Let us now turn to a picture, to me of great beauty. The strifes and
toils of the world are left behind us. We have sought the shades of
retirement, to consume in domestic happiness the few remaining years of
our earthly term. The merchant has come from the hills and valleys of
the east to the banks of the Nile. He brings with him
"Munera terræ
Et maris extremos Arabas distantes et Indos."
His wanderings have been among the groves of spice, and over the sands
of the great deserts. His cheek has been shaded by the palm and the
cool cedar, but it has too been blistered by a scorching sun. All this
is at length passed, and chaunting the "Allah Acbar," wearied--yet
joyful in his weariness--he plants his pavilion on the quiet shore,
there in patience to abide the coming of Dyerm or Xebeck, appointed for
his passage to the destined mart. Thus after experiencing the various
fortunes of active life, we sink into ease.
To him who has no '_munera scientiæ_'--no attachment to polite
research, from which to draw pleasure in the hours of solitude, this
seclusion is worse than a foretaste of that grave so soon to succeed
it. His mind is a mere void, aching to be filled. Accustomed to
satiety, before the affairs of life were relinquished, the contrast is
now all the more painful. It is this that accounts for the discontent
of those "_refugees from the closed shop_," whom we see around us. But
on this picture I do not love to linger. There is another, possessing
in the home of his retirement, a home of placid delight. Surrounded by
the fruits of mental exertion--the parent tree long dead--he revels
among the richly flavored and the luscious, until existence becomes one
continued feast. His influence in the world is undiminished--his works
are remembered with feelings of reverence and affection. Afar from the
restless crowd he is, as has been beautifully said, like the moon in
her relation with ocean; and rendered no less influential by the
tranquil steadiness with which he keeps aloof from the scenes of his
influence. To such a man the treasures of ancient lore are invaluable;
they are charms possessing power to call up the host of worthies, by
nature and assiduous cultivation, great and excellent. In the sacred
recesses of his studio he communes with these. He is cheered by his
intercourse with companions so pleasing, and his path to the grave is
smoothed by flowers of the softest leaf. At length the drama draws to a
close! Like the chaste Talbot, he breathes his gratitude to those who
have been to him the fountains of 'sweet joy.' It is his last breath.
Loved for his virtues, and venerated for his good works, he sinks to
the grave, on whose brink he has long been lingering, and whose ideal
horrors, the lessons of true knowledge have rendered to him objects to
be welcomed, not dreaded--loved, not feared.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.