Bai was the Egyptian term for the branch of the Palm-tree. Homer says that one of Diomede's horses, Phœnix, was of a palm-color, which is a bright red. It is therefore not improbable that our wordbayas applied to the color of horses, may boast as remote an origin as the Egyptian Bai.
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 astheir 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 theirair 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 difficultyen 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 literaryfaineantwho 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 thefavorite 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 classicalstudies 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 asit 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 languagealone (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,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 fromthat traceof 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 thosefeelings 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 chosenmodels, 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
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.