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.