fling labor. Other languages of Europe, and our own among the rest, are derived but in part from the Latin; and I assert that so far as that part goes, a knowledge of Latin is essential to one who would understand it fully, and wield it with certainty and effect. Nearly all our words of Roman origin retain the radical meaning of their primitives. Their general import may, it is true, be gathered from English usage; but the peculiar, the nicely critical propriety of their application, is unknown, save to the classical scholar; and all others, who attempt to write their own mother tongue, especially in the discussion of literary subjects, are liable to mar their pages by slight inaccuracies of style, and inaccuracies in the use of single words, which destroy their claim to the honor of being classical models of composition. Such is the inevitable result of the natural progress of the human mind. Had we lived in the times of the ancients, and they in ours, the case would have been reversed. They would have drawn instruction from our writings; their languages would have received an infusion from ours; and to learn the exact quality of that infusion, they must have traced it to its fountain head with us. We do not compromise one particle of our claim to originality, by admitting the necessity of resorting to ancient tongues, in order to learn our own. It is only admitting, in the spirit of philos-ophy, what the natural course of human thought, and our relative position to the great civilized nations who have gone before us, make it incumbent on us, as reasoning men to admit. Perhaps the exceptions may be urged of such men as Franklin, who have written our language in great purity and elegance, without having been trained in the discipline of classical schools. If I grant that these apparent exceptions are exceptions in fact, I might defend my position by the plea, that a few exceptions never invalidate a general rule; and I might array in reply to every single exception, five hundred examples in which the rule holds good. But there is little argument to be drawn from the literary powers of Dr Franklin, against the utility of classical learning. According to his own statements,

his style was formed by closely imitating the best models of English composition-the papers of the Spectator-which, we all know, are from the pens of the most accomplished classical scholars England has ever produced. The purity, simplicity and beauty of Dr Franklin's style, therefore, is, after all, the consequence of an exquisite taste in ancient literature; although with him, it comes at second hand. Is any one prepared to say that the language of Franklin would not have been more bold, more stirring, more eloquent, had his mind, after having been cultivated and refined in the study of antiquity, given free scope to its acknowledged powers, and acted by its own resistless impulses, untrammelled by the fetters of imitation?

Not only our language, but our literature, is closely dependent on the classical. The fine conceptions, the productions of the beautiful fancy of the ancients, have exerted so strong an influence upon the tone and genius of the elder English literature, that one half of the beauties of the latter are lost sight of without a knowledge of the former. The great writers of England have been filled to overflowing with classic lore. The history, and poetry, and oratory of Greece and Rome, have lent them their tributary aids; the sages of antiquity have poured out their richest treasures to illustrate, adorn, and enforce the glorious conceptions of English intellect. (Classical allusions and illustrations, tastefully employed, are enchanting to a cultivated mind.) In English literature they are used with a skill and beauty that form one of its most delightful traits. This does not arise from, nor does it argue, a want of originality. It would be impossible to prevent such influences of the literature of one age upon that of another, except by entire ignorance of everything that does not come within our own experience. We may complain of it, if we please, but we cannot change the order of time, and place ourselves at the beginning of the history of our race. The ancients were before us, and we have studied them, and cannot help it. We cannot read our own writers, without being constantly remind

ed of those great men. The law of progress requires that it should be so. As well might you attempt to throw up a dyke against the fountain-heads of a mighty river, and expect it to flow uninterruptedly on to the ocean, as to dam up the channels of thought, and hope to force the mind onward in the career of improvement.

Fortunate, indeed, is it for us, that the creations of Grecian genius were guided by such unerring taste. The intellectual character of that gifted nation was formed under the happiest auspices. Nature was lavish of her beauties upon her favored land; but she did not convert it into a region of oriental softness. Every influence that tended to give refinement and elegance to the mind, was there felt; but refinement and elegance were made to stop at the proper limits, and never allowed to become degenerate and effeminate. Her free and ofttimes tumultuous politics gave energy, her matchless climate infused vivacity and cheerfulness, her scenery inspired a pure taste and an exquisite perception of beauty. The human form was developed in its fairest proportions. The majestic and intellectual head, the finely expanded frame, the active and airy and graceful motion, gave to artists, the prototypes of their chiselled gods. Add to this their beautiful modes of instruction; music and science uniting to give at once a humanized and manly tone to the character, in the groves of the Academy, on the places of public resort, by the wisest, best, and most eloquent from among them, with the noblest specimens of art all around them, the marble almost waking into life, the canvass glowing with the hues of heaven-and we cannot wonder at the perfection of Grecian taste;—we cannot but congratulate ourselves, that a race so favored, so gifted, were called to preside over the beginnings and direct the destinies of intellectual Europe, that the Genius of Greece yet lives, as fresh, as bright, as beautiful, as her own blue hills, sunny skies, and green isles.

Another additional consideration in favor of the study of ancient languages, is the fact that they are more finished than

any others. The perfection of the Greek tongue has always been the admiration of scholars. Its flexibility, its exhaustless vocabulary, its power of increasing that vocabulary at will by the use of compounds, make it an admirable vehicle for the communication of thought, even to the nicest shades; while its unrivalled harmony imparts to poetry a richness and beauty beyond the capacity of any modern tongue. The principles and power of language are here more fully unfolded; the philosophy of rhetoric is more thoroughly displayed. Add to this, the Greek grammar is now fixed and settled. There it is, beyond the reach of change, an object of study, to be resorted to at any time-ever perfect, ever beautiful. But beyond and above the study of mere language, I know of no better intellectual discipline than to determine the meaning of an ancient author. The principles of grammar are to be applied by the reason and the judgment; the situation of the author must be vividly presented to the mind by the memory and the imagination; the connexion of the passage in question with the context, is to be closely scrutinized; the style of ancient thought to be taken into consideration, and, after thus exercising the most important of our powers, the purport of a difficult passage may be settled. This is precisely the course of reflection and reasoning which men must follow, in determining the proper conduct for many difficult conjunctures in life;-it is acting upon probabilities.

Such is the process, and such the discipline, of determining single passages. Of a similar and more elevated kind, is the intellectual effort of comprehending the entire worth of an author. It is not enough barely to give his works a hasty perusal, or even a careful perusal, with a knowledge of the language simply. The student who would enter fully into the merits of a classical author, must take himself out of the influences immediately around him; must transport himself back to a remote age; must lay aside the associations most familiar to him; must forget his country, his prejudices, his superior light, and place himself upon a level with the intellect

whose labors he essays to comprehend. Few are the minds that would not be benefited by such a process. We are disposed to permit our thoughts and feelings to repose too much upon the objects nearest us; and thus a constant reference to self becomes the habitual direction of our thoughts. What was the character of the age in which he lived? what was the religion? how far did it gain a hold upon the minds of cultivated men? to what extent did it influence the tone of poetry? what were the philosophical theories, and how far were they true, and how extensively were they believed? what was the character of the nation, and what had been its historical career? what was the state of political parties and what was the government? what were the doctrines held by each, and wherein did they differ-and how far was the individual mind of the author in question wrought upon by all these influences? are questions which should be asked, and, as far as possible, answered, by the scholar who would do himself and literature full justice, by the mode in which he pursues his classical studies. I am aware that such is not often the path followed by the scholars of our country; but I do sincerely believe that the worth of classical learning will never be realized until some such method is adopted. I know, too, it involves a depth of thought and a wide range of studies, from which we are apt to shrink in alarm, and ask ourselves if there is not some shorter way to attain the object; but reason, as I think, decides without appeal, that such is the price of genuine classical erudition.

Knowledge of the sort I have described, may not lead to the invention of a single new mechanical agent; it may not be the direct means of increasing our fortunes a single dollar. But it will give us an enlarged view of our nature; it will disclose the workings of our common powers under influences widely differing from any that have acted upon ourselves; it will teach us to judge charitably of others' minds and hearts; it will teach us that intellect, and sensibility, and genius, have existed beyond the narrow circle in which we have moved.

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