otism in modern bosoms? As well might the fancy have been indulged of brightening and swelling the blaze of Moscow, by a farthing rush-light, when the conflagration was at its height. We venture to say, that for every single paragraph breathing a spirit of rational freedom, that can be found in the literature of Greece and Rome, one thousand are contained in the works of British, American, and other modern writers. Nor, on this subject, did the moderns borrow from the ancients. The reason is plain. The latter had little or nothing to lend. The former, therefore, looked into themselves, and into the reason and nature of things, and found there the treasures they sought. And, as to patriotism, the uncultured Caledonians of old, and the Swiss peasants, at a later period, displayed as much of it, as ever the Greeks or Romans did. And so would the uncultured Irish now, were they in a condition to do so. Was it ancient literature that taught and emboldened the barons of England to extort from their monarch their Magna Charta? No: such was their want of scholarship that they could scarcely read the instrument, when prepared. Some of them could not read at all. Yet that single charter contains more of the genuine principles of freedom and of human rights, than all that the Greeks and Romans could boast. Were the American patriots better versed in ancient literature than any other people, when they asserted and achieved their independence? Many who had never opened a Latin dictionary, and who were strangers to the Greek alphabet, acted distinguished parts on that occasion. Be the cause what it may, the Anglo-Saxons and their descendants have long understood, and understand at present, what salutary freedom is, much better than any other people. The Greeks and Romans might have derived useful lessons from them, on that subject. Nor is it true that a spirit of freedom and patriotism has prevailed in European countries, in proportion to the prevalence of classical knowledge. We do not say that the reverse of this is true, though facts somewhat favorable to such a position might be adduced; but we do say, that it is a knowledge of nature, not of Greek and Latin, which teaches man his rights.* We shall only add, that, in the Mississippi Valley, where classical literature has not yet taken root, the spirit of patriotism is as pure and pervasive, and the love and knowledge of freedom as fervid and correct, as in any other portion of the globe-much more so than they ever were in Greece or Rome.

Nor can we subscribe to the belief, however general, and however often and dogmatically asserted, that it is impossible to infuse into an English translation the spirit, force, and fire of an ancient Greek or Roman composition. Or, if an impossibility of the kind exist, it is because the original production is not fully comprehended and felt. And if the disciplined translator cannot become thoroughly master of

There is a much greater amount of classical learning in Germany, than in any other equal portion of the globe. Why then have not the Germans taken a lead in the overthrow of despotism, the assertion of human right, and the establishment of freedom? Why, on the contrary, do they calmly tolerate the sway of one of the most despotic governments of Europe? The reason is plain. The spirit of freedom is awakened and nourished, not by the classical tomes of the ancients, but by the books of the moderns-more especially, however, by the book of nature. That chapter of the latter, which gives the true history and philosophy of man, his rights, privileges, and all his relations, contains a hundred-fold more of the spirit of freedom, than all the Greeks and Romans ever wrote. Let the Germans study that, with but half the attention they bestow on ancient literature, and the Austrian and Prussian sceptres will soon be shorn of much of their power, or shattered to pieces.

the original, is it probable that the common reader of Greek and Latin can? If the better scholar fail, will the worse succeed? These questions answer themselves.

The English is as powerful and expressive a language, as the Latin or Greek; and, as heretofore mentioned, it is more copious than either. It is in vain to tell us, then, that when an Englishman or an American fully comprehends the meaning, and enters perfectly into the spirit of a piece of ancient literature, whether it be prose or verse, and is, at the same time, equal as a writer to the author of it-and practice will render him so-it is in vain, we say, to contend, that, under these circumstances, a translation may not be rendered equal to the original. If, owing to the peculiarities of different languages, some transient beauties be lost, others may be added, and neither the meaning nor the spirit of the ancient composition be marred. In proof of this, we offer Murphy's translation of Tacitus, in which we venture to say there are but few, if any passages, where the Roman historian and biographer has suffered in the version. In some, we have thought him improved. Nor do we hesitate to add, that there is not one Greek scholar in a thousand, whe, did pride permit him to acknowledge the truth, does not read to more advantage, and with a higher relish, Pope's translation, than Homer's original. The same is true of the translation, by the same English author, of Ovid's celebrated letter of Sappho to Phaon. In spirit, feeling, and force, the translator has surpassed his original. True; he does not equal him in brevity of expression; nor, for reasons connected with the two languages, is it possible to render an English translation as brief as a Latin original. is the only quality, in which it need be inferior, and it is of but little moment. We shall only add, that the more purely and elegantly one language is written, the more easily and literally can it be translated into another. Hence the great facility of turning the writings of Voltaire into English.

But this

We are aware of the prejudice arrayed against us, on this subject. But we are unmoved by it, and fearlessly state what we believe, in defiance of it. We therefore repeat, that an English scholar, who is an able and accomplished writer, can, provided he thoroughly comprehends it, and feels it, translate a Greek or Latin composition, matter and spirit, into his mother tongue. And, unless the scholar, who reads it in the original, thus comprehends and feels it, he does not enjoy it, and is not benefited by it, as the Committee allege he is. What advantage does he derive from visions of beauty floating in his mind, which he is unable to express in his own tongue? They neither enrich, strengthen, nor refine him, as a writer or a speaker. They are mere mental lumber, and therefore unavailable, if not prejudicial. But the truth is, that the whole matter is but a fancy. Whatever a scholar clearly understands, no matter from what source it is derived— the study of Greek and Latin, or the study of nature-he can communicate clearly and forcibly, provided he is a forcible thinker, and has made himself master of his native language. In contending, then, that an individual can be delighted and benefited, by the beauties of works written in the dead languages, while he is unable to transfer those beauties, and use them in a living language, the Committee appear to us to have contradicted themselves. In such a case, there

is no delight or improvement, without actual possession of what delights and improves; and, if possessed, the beauty can be translated, to delight and improve others.*

To us, the opinion of the Committee seems equally unfounded when they assert, that, " to appreciate justly the character of the an- | cients, the thorough study and accurate knowledge of their classics, in the language of the originals, are indispensable. The mere knowledge of a language, and of the number, form, and powers of the letters in which it is written, give but a very limited acquaintance with those who speak it. It is the literature and the history of a people that disclose their character. And, as respects the ancients, access can now be had to these two sources of information, without a knowledge of their language. We know of no Greek or Roman work, valuable on account of the matter it contains, which has not been translated. And, indeed, not a few have been translated, that have no intrinsic value. To call them curious, is to give them their full meed of praise. There is enough written in English, or translated into it, to communicate to those, who will study it correctly, as intimate an acquaintance with the ancients, in every matter and relation worth knowing, as the most accomplished Hellenists and Latinists of the day have, To contend, then, that to gain a knowledge of the Greeks or Romans, in their manners, persons, customs, civil and household economy, or any thing else of moment, we must study their languages, is a mistake. As well may it be said, that to attain a knowledge of the Russians or Laplanders, we must study their languages, instead of reading well-written histories of them. Some of the best-informed Grecian and Roman antiquarians we have seen, knew nothing of the dead languages. They had derived all their knowledge of antiquity from English publications, original or translated. Shakspeare, though unversed in the languages of the Greeks and Romans, had an intimate

It would be well for those, who believe in the incommunicable beauties and delights inherent in Greek and Latin composition, to endeavor to ascertain how much of those qualities are in the sentiment, and how much in the sound. The sonorousness and euphony of Greek and Latin are much superior to those of English. Of this, every classical scholar must be sensible. Hence much of the delight derived from reading them, is the delight of harmonious musical sound-especially when the sound is an "echo to the sense." We say "harmonious sound;" for such is generally the exquisite order and arrangement of the words, that, if they be altered, much of the beauty of the passage is marred, and an equal amount of the pleasure of reading it dissi pated. This may be illustrated and proved by the following quotations:

"Exoritur clamorque virûm clangorque tubarum”—an exquisitely beautiful line, the sound fairly echoing the sense. Let the words be transposed into their natural order, "Clamorque virum clangorque tubarum exoritur," and more than half the beauty is gone.

"Stat sonipes, ac frana feroz spumantia mandit.” "Feroz sonipes stat, ac mandit spumantia frana.” "Intonuere poli et crebris micat ignibus æther."

"Poli intoneure et æther micut crebris ignibus.'

Every one must perceive that the beauty of the two latter lines is equally destroyed, by changing the artificial to the natural arrangement of their words. Of Greek and Latin composition generally the same is true. The only object of transposition in it, is euphony and harmony, or the improvement of sound. In English composition, much is already done, and more may be done, in the same way.

There is also a reason, why we fancy more beauty in Greek and Latin composition, than we really perceive. We do not in general perfectly understand it. A sort of shadowy dimness hangs over its meaning. And every one knows that a little obscurity heightens materially the feeling of beauty and sublimity. This it does, by giving more play and wider scope to the imagination. The beauty of a moonlight scene is much improved, by the fleecy rack, which flits across the heavens.

Once more. Classical scholars are proud of their attainments. They, therefore, feel a selfish enjoyment in persuading themselves that they have access to rich fountains of pleasure, in their knowledge of Greek and Latin, from which the uninitiated are excluded. And it is a law of human nature, that men can so far realize their wishes, as to believe ultimately what they are anxious to believe. Such are some of the chief reasons, why it is contended, that the beauty and spirit of Greek and Latin composition are necessarily lost in a translation.

acquaintance with their characters, customs, manners, and literature. Yet, since his time, translations have been greatly multiplied and extended, and original works on those points written; and hence the same amount of knowledge, which he had, may now be much more easily acquired.

MARGARET BELL'S VOW.

THE old-fashioned house, which stands at the foot of the Shanobie hill, is the most ancient dwelling in our village. It formerly belonged to Mrs. Margaret Blaney, familiarly known as "Mother Blaney." Her grave is in the little enclosure, which the traveler cannot fail to observe, nearly at the summit of the hill, filled with cedars and firs. In the winter, when the ground is covered with snow, it is a more conspicuous and more beautiful object, than it appears in summer, when all around is green. She chose to be buried in her own ground, and is as solitary in her death as she was in her life. She lived quite alone, from year to year, and was never seen from home except occasionally at church, and funerals, in the fields when berries or nuts were ripe, and on every third week when she regularly went out to make a visit. From time immemorial, Monday has been washing-day throughout our village-Tuesday, ironing-day-Wednesday, churning-day-and Thursday, being only baking-day, was the time when Mother Blaney chose to honor somebody or other with her company. She did not exactly know whom it would be when she left home, but if one family was going out, she went to visit another, and usually succeeded in finding some one at leisure to wait on her. If they apologized to her

for being out of tea, she was sure to have a little in her pocket, which she had brought in anticipation of such an emergency. If the weather on Thursday proved unpropitious, the visit was postponed to the next Tuesday, for Saturday and Monday must in no case be intruded on, and Wednesday and Friday were "bad-lucky days."

There were twelve or fourteen places, where she regularly visited, and she was cheerfully received at each of them, it being understood that when autumn should arrive, and apples, pumpkins, and nuts become ripe, Mother Blaney would invite them all to spend an afternoon, (commencing at two o'clock,) and evening, (closing at nine,) when they might be as merry as they pleased at her expense. This was Mother Blaney's celebrated annual party.

On ordinary occasions, such as attending church or visiting her friends, she wore a plain gingham or calico frock; but when she appeared "at home," she was arrayed in all her glory,—an inflexible and somewhat faded crimson silk dress, modeled after a fashion which had passed away before the remembrance of most of her visiters,-an immense real gold" watch, with a key and seals of corresponding amplitude, a lace cap with bows of gold-colored ribbon, and a string of enormous gold beads about her long, curving neck. What an imposing figure she was in the eyes of us simple natives, uninitiated as we were into the mysteries of fashion. The anticipation of her splendid appearance one day in the autumn, induced us to treat her with great

reverence during the year. Alas, that all the world should bow down to pomp and show, while true unostentatious merit passes by, unheeded. There was not, probably, a more useless person among us than Mother Blaney. When did she visit the sick, instruct the ignorant, or assist those, whose "sewing had all run behind-hand, because the measles or whooping-cough had been through the family;" or because "the young ones had been so worrisome and tendful with their teething, that their mother could do nothing but see to them?" Never did Mother Blaney trouble herself with the vexations and perplexities of her neighbors. She looked on such things with perfect indifference, and only emerged from her castle on every third Tuesday or Thursday, to tell her good stories, and take tea. And here, let me by no means forget to state, that, although in her absence she was familiarly styled Mother Blaney, no person would have ventured to take such a liberty with her name when she was present-but every one spoke to her in a tone of deference, and called her Madam, Blaney.

She had plenty of books,-Shakspeare, Milton, Ossian, Rollin, &c. with which she seemed to be perfectly conversant. A strange, moody old woman was she. If we happened to meet her at any time except on her visiting days, when she calculated on being sociable, we found her quite another person, as cold and inaccessible as can be imagined, entirely absorbed by her own thoughts, which evidently were not of the happiest character. She had long been a subject of wonder in our village, and many conjectures had been made respecting the causes of her seclusion. How agonizing it is to be in suspense, broiling, as it were, upon the flaming coals of unsatisfied curiosity. One afternoon, she came to my mother's, and, finding all but myself gone out, was on the point of departing, regardless of my respectful and very urgent request that she should stay. I fancied it was going to thunder and lighten, and felt afraid of being quite alone-having besides a strong hope that I should be able to learn something of her history; for my curiosity was nearly overleaping the bounds of due reverence. She stopped one minute to wipe her shoes, which had been soiled by her walk through the miry lane, and one more minute to drink some beer, then the rain came pouring down in torrents, and, having no umbrella, she concluded to wait awhile. It rained hard all that afternoon, and it was not until the sun went down, that the heavy clouds broke away, and the reflection of his parting smile beamed in gold and crimson upon us. The old lady seemed quite out of humor with the storm, and I did not venture to ask her a question, but only brought her a dish of blackberries. They were the first of the season, and she was extremely fond of them. She was grateful, and delighted,-in quired where I had found them, and if there were any more, &o. Then she began to talk rapidly about common things, and finally, in her expatiations, she alighted upon herself,-to me, the most acceptable of all topics. So I hazarded a few timorous inquiries, which she readily answered; and while I was thinking what I might venture to ask next, she began, "I rather guess," and then hesitated-and then went slowly on again, "I rather guess you could keep a secret.' "Oh yes," 1 responded, in great joy at the prospect of having one to keep. "I know you always speak the truth," she continued, " and I should like to tell my story to somebody before I die: it's rather too