one youth more unpromising than the resta lisping, stammering, short-breathed boy—in every motion hideously, almost spasmodically contracting his muscles, and with a constitutional infirmity amounting almost to deformity. The stranger departs, with sympathy for the poor youth, who, if he lives, will afford sport and ridicule to his neighbors, and never be heard of, or remembered, but as a lusus naturæ. At an interval of thirty years, that stranger revisits Athens. The city is all in tumult; the anxious, agitated crowd are assembled, hanging spell-bound upon the lips of the Grecian Orator, as he scathes by the lightnings, and stupifies by the thunders of his eloquence, the partisans of PHILIP. That speaker, whose spirit-moving strains and whose soul of fire kindles every heart into a consuming flame, is the same ignoble youth who was never to have been heard of without pity, but whose name is now, in the ends of the earth, familiar as a household word incorporated into every language as a synonyme for eloquence, and whose fame is engraven in letters of adamant on the register of immortality.

How shall we account for this mental phenomenon? The problem is solved in the language of the classic poet: "Improbus labor omnia vincit" or by the higher authority of Heaven's inspired record: "Seest thou a man diligent in business? he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men."

In Poetry-to pass by HOMER and HESIOD-where else can you find the deep breathing pathos of SAPPHO, the graceful ease of ANACREON, the burning sublimity of PINDAR, the gentle sweetness of THEOCRITUS, the glowing fervour of ÆSCHYLUS, the impassioned grandeur of SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, the melting tenderness of MENANDER, of whom one beautifully says: "The lyre he touched, was formed of the strings of the human heart?" To these questions I unhesitatingly reply, that beyond the limits of the Sacred Scriptures, you will nowhere find these qualities, in all the annals of uninspired literature.

In Philosophy-visit in imagination ancient Athens, go to the Academy of Plato, and then to the Lyceum of Aristotle, and then to the Portico of Zeno, and then wander along the banks of the Ilyssus, and see those groves crowded with philosophers and their thousands of disciples, and listen to their sage precepts. Who would not labor to acquire an intimate knowledge of that refined language, which was the medium of communication and the vehicle of thought to these giant minds. It is not surprising that CATO

should have been converted from his hostility to every thing Greek, and have applied himself, in his old age, to the study of a language so rich in lessons of wisdom and virtue.

In the Fine Arts-in sculpture, the inimitable PHIDIAS has left all modern artists at an unapproachable distance behind; he breathed his very soul into the inanimate material. With a mind heaving with deep emotion, and big with lofty conceptions, and thoughts all on fire, he seized the chisel, and, as if by the touch of a magician's wand, the cold marble became instinct with impassioned life, and glowed with inspiration. The Elgin monuments in England contain specimens of the skill of PHIDIAS that cannot be equalled. MICHAEL ANGELO, the wonder of the fifteenth century, and the glory of Italy, of modern artists, has approached nearest to PHIDIAS, but though intoxicated to madness with the love of his enchanting art, his productions are unnatural in the comparison.

In Architecture-the stately Doric, the chaste Ionic, the luxuriant and gorgeous Corinthian orders of Greece, are now the admiration of the world, and will doubtless ever stand confessed the model and perfection of the art.

In Painting—the productions of ZEUXIS and APELLES, judging from the accounts of their intoxicating and more than oratorical influence on the crowds they drew around them, must have been finished specimens of absolute perfection. The Helen of the former was the wonder of the age. To finish the picture, ZEUXIS procured six of the most beautiful maidens from Crotona to sit for the face, from a combination of whose beauties he sought to embody ideal perfection. One of them, from diffidence, was unwilling to unveil her face before him. When the multitude crowded around to gaze upon the picture, and the enthusiastic shouts of admiration rent the air, the painter himself was the only dissatisfied spectator; his exclamation was, "Oh, for the blush of the sixth maiden!" Such was his exquisite sense of the ludicrous, that he fell a victim to the power, of his own pencil; he died in a convulsion of laughter at the sight of the picture of a grotesque old woman he had painted. You are all familiar with the incident of the painted grapes of APElles. When the birds alighted on the picture to peck the fruit, the painter was mortified that the boy bearing the basket of fruit was not striking enough to frighten the birds away. He exposed his pictures to the public, and invited general criticism, that all their faults might be corrected. An humble cobbler ventured to criticise a foot, which the

one youth more unpromising than the resta lisping, stammering, short-breathed boy—in every motion hideously, almost spasmodically contracting his muscles, and with a constitutional infirmity amounting almost to deformity. The stranger departs, with sympathy for the poor youth, who, if he lives, will afford sport and ridicule to his neighbors, and never be heard of, or remembered, but as a lusus naturæ. At an interval of thirty years, that stranger revisits Athens. The city is all in tumult; the anxious, agitated crowd are assembled, hanging spell-bound upon the lips of the Grecian Orator, as he scathes by the lightnings, and stupifies by the thunders of his eloquence, the partisans of PHILIP. That speaker, whose spirit-moving strains and whose soul of fire kindles every heart into a consuming flame, is the same ignoble youth who was never to have been heard of without pity, but whose name is now, in the ends of the earth, familiar as a household word- incorporated into every language as a synonyme for eloquence, and whose fame is engraven in letters of adamant on the register of immortality.

How shall we account for this mental phenomenon? The problem is solved in the language of the classic poet: "Improbus labor omnia vincit" or by the higher authority of Heaven's inspired record: "Seest thou a man diligent in business? he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men."

In Poetry-to pass by HOMER and HESIOD-where else can you find the deep breathing pathos of SAPPHO, the graceful ease of ANACREON, the burning sublimity of PINDAR, the gentle sweetness of THEOCRITUS, the glowing fervour of ÆSCHYLUS, the impassioned grandeur of SOPHOCLES and EURIPIDES, the melting tenderness of MENANDER, of whom one beautifully says: "The lyre he touched, was formed of the strings of the human heart?" To these questions I unhesitatingly reply, that beyond the limits of the Sacred Scriptures, you will nowhere find these qualities, in all the annals of uninspired literature.

In Philosophy-visit in imagination ancient Athens, go to the Academy of Plato, and then to the Lyceum of Aristotle, and then to the Portico of Zeno, and then wander along the banks of the Ilyssus, and see those groves crowded with philosophers and their thousands of disciples, and listen to their sage precepts. Who would not labor to acquire an intimate knowledge of that refined language, which was the medium of communication and the vehicle of thought to these giant minds. It is not surprising that CATO

should have been converted from his hostility to every thing Greek, and have applied himself, in his old age, to the study of a language so rich in lessons of wisdom and virtue.

In the Fine Arts -in sculpture, the inimitable PHIDIAS has left all modern artists at an unapproachable distance behind; he breathed his very soul into the inanimate material. With a mind heaving with deep emotion, and big with lofty conceptions, and thoughts all on fire, he seized the chisel, and, as if by the touch of a magician's wand, the cold marble became instinct with impassioned life, and glowed with inspiration. The Elgin monuments in England contain specimens of the skill of PHIDIAS that cannot be equalled. MICHAEL ANGELO, the wonder of the fifteenth century, and the glory of Italy, of modern artists, has approached nearest to PHIDIAS, but though intoxicated to madness with the love of his enchanting art, his productions are unnatural in the comparison.

In Architecture-the stately Doric, the chaste Ionic, the luxuriant and gorgeous Corinthian orders of Greece, are now the admiration of the world, and will doubtless ever stand confessed the model and perfection of the art.

In Painting-the productions of ZEUXIS and APELLES, judging from the accounts of their intoxicating and more than oratorical influence on the crowds they drew around them, must have been finished specimens of absolute perfection. The Helen of the former was the wonder of the age. To finish the picture, ZEUXIS procured six of the most beautiful maidens from Crotona to sit for the face, from a combination of whose beauties he sought to embody ideal perfection. One of them, from diffidence, was unwilling to unveil her face before him. When the multitude crowded around to gaze upon the picture, and the enthusiastic shouts of admiration rent the air, the painter himself was the only dissatisfied spectator; his exclamation was, "Oh, for the blush of the sixth maiden!" Such was his exquisite sense of the ludicrous, that he fell a victim to the power, of his own pencil; he died in a convulsion of laughter at the sight of the picture of a grotesque old woman he had painted. You are all familiar with the incident of the painted grapes of APELles. When the birds alighted on the picture to peck the fruit, the painter was mortified that the boy bearing the basket of fruit was not striking enough to frighten the birds away. He exposed his pictures to the public, and invited general criticism, that all their faults might be corrected. An humble cobbler ventured to criticise a foot, which the

painter altered at his suggestion; when the mechanic, by this piece of deference, was emboldened to make other criticisms, the painter gave a reply which is said to be the origin of the Latin proverb: "Ne sutor ultra crepidam."

I have adverted to these improvements in the arts of the ancients to shew that, if we are to repair to them at this day as models in the fine arts, we should exhibit no less deference to their language and style, in which they labored with equal industry and success, and which are far more important subjects for attention. Indeed, it admits of a serious question, whether without a constant familiarity with these unchanging standards, any modern language would not rapidly decline into provincialisms, vulgarisms and barbarisms. Few men in modern days have been found to excel as eloquent writers or speakers who have not been classical scholars. SHAKSPEARE, BURns, FRANKLIN, and PATRICK HENRY have been adduced as examples to show what men could accomplish without a knowledge of ancient languages; but they are only exceptions, to make the very best of the objection. As to SHAKSPEARE, it would appear that he had some knowledge of Greek, as he exhibits a familiarity with portions of Grecian literature, that seem never to have been translated in his day; and the superiority of the others might, and doubtless would have been much greater, had they been aided by classical learning.

The value of classical literature is greatly enhanced, from the consideration that we must repair to Greece and Rome, as to the fountains and depositories of a vast proportion of the knowledge we gain of ancient history. In searching for the annals of history, and the sources of knowledge on this subject, we are met by the painful fact, that many of the most interesting productions have been obliterated by the waste of time. Indeed, as all early written documents could be preserved only in the fugitive form of manuscript, it is wonderful that so much has escaped the casualties that were encountered, and has been transmitted to so late an age. Fire, and sword, and superstition, and the devastating hand of ages, and the ignorance of men, have made fearful inroads and ravages upon the productions of mind; they have obliterated much, and given us only a glimpse of more, just serving to awaken a curiosity which can never be fully satisfied. Like the leaves of the Sybil, their value is the more enhanced, in porportion as their number is diminished.

The investigation of the history of early manuscripts is full of painful interest. The writings of ARISTOTLE were found with the grand