Chapter XII: Part 12

2. If we do but resign ourselves to facts, we shall soon be led on to the second reflection which I have promised—viz., that, not only are things not better abroad, but they might be worse at home. We have, it is true, a Protestant literature; but then it is neither atheistical nor immoral; and, in the case of at least half a dozen of its highest and most influential departments, and of the most popular of its authors, it comes to us with very considerable alleviations. For instance, there surely is a call on us for thankfulness that the most illustrious amongst English writers has so little of a Protestant about him that Catholics have been able, without extravagance, to claim him as their own, and that enemies to our creed have allowed that he is only not a Catholic, because, and as far as, his times forbade it. It is an additional satisfaction to be able to boast that he offends in neither of those two respects, which reflect so seriously upon the reputation of great authors abroad. Whatever passages may be gleaned from his dramas disrespectful to ecclesiastical authority, still these are but passages; on the other hand, there is in Shakespeare neither contempt of religion nor scepticism, and he upholds the broad laws of moral and divine truth with the consistency and severity of an Æschylus, Sophocles, or Pindar. There is no mistaking in his works on which side lies the right; Satan is not made a hero, nor Cain a victim, but pride is pride, and vice is vice, and, whatever indulgence he may allow himself in light thoughts or unseemly words, yet his admiration is reserved for sanctity and truth. From the second chief fault of Literature, as indeed my last words imply, he is not so free; but, often as he may offend against modesty, he is clear of a worse charge, sensuality, and hardly a passage can be instanced in all that he has written to seduce the imagination or to excite the passions.

A rival to Shakespeare, if not in genius, at least in copiousness and variety, is found in Pope; and _he_ was actually a Catholic, though personally an unsatisfactory one. His freedom indeed from Protestantism is but a poor compensation for a false theory of religion in one of his poems; but, taking his works as a whole, we may surely acquit them of being dangerous to the reader, whether on the score of morals or of faith.

Again, the special title of moralist in English Literature is accorded by the public voice to Johnson, whose bias towards Catholicity is well known.

If we were to ask for a report of our philosophers, the investigation would not be so agreeable; for we have three of evil, and one of unsatisfactory repute. Locke is scarcely an honour to us in the standard of truth, grave and manly as he is; and Hobbes, Hume, and Bentham, in spite of their abilities, are simply a disgrace. Yet, even in this department, we find some compensation in the names of Clarke, Berkeley, Butler, and Reid, and in a name more famous than them all. Bacon was too intellectually great to hate or to contemn the Catholic faith; and he deserves by his writings to be called the most orthodox of Protestant philosophers.

§ 4.

In its relation to the Literature of the Day.

1.

The past cannot be undone. That our English Classical Literature is not Catholic is a plain fact which we cannot deny, to which we must reconcile ourselves, as best we may, and which, as I have shown above, has after all its compensations. When, then, I speak of the desirableness of forming a Catholic Literature, I am contemplating no such vain enterprise as that of reversing history; no, nor of redeeming the past by the future. I have no dream of Catholic Classics as still reserved for the English language. In truth, classical authors not only are national, but belong to a particular age of a nation’s life; and I should not wonder if, as regards ourselves, that age is passing away. Moreover, they perform a particular office towards its language, which is not likely to be called for beyond a definite time. And further, though analogies or parallels cannot be taken to decide a question of this nature, such is the fact, that the series of our classical writers has already extended through a longer period than was granted to the Classical Literature either of Greece or of Rome; and thus the English language also may have a long course of literature still to come through many centuries, without that Literature being classical.

Latin, for instance, was a living language for many hundred years after the date of the writers who brought it to its perfection; and then it continued for a second long period to be the medium of European correspondence. Greek was a living language to a date not very far short of that of the taking of Constantinople, ten centuries after the date of St. Basil, and seventeen hundred years after the period commonly called classical. And thus, as the year has its spring and summer, so even for those celebrated languages there was but a season of splendour, and, compared with the whole course of their duration, but a brief season. Since, then, English has had its great writers for a term of about three hundred years,—as long, that is, as the period from Sappho to Demosthenes, or from Pisistratus to Arcesilas, or from Æschylus and Pindar to Carneades, or from Ennius to Pliny,—we should have no right to be disappointed if the classical period be close upon its termination.

By the Classics of a national Literature I mean those authors who have the foremost place in exemplifying the powers and conducting the development of its language. The language of a nation is at first rude and clumsy; and it demands a succession of skilful artists to make it malleable and ductile, and to work it up to its proper perfection. It improves by use, but it is not every one who can use it while as yet it is unformed. To do this is an effort of genius; and so men of a peculiar talent arise, one after another, according to the circumstances of the times, and accomplish it. One gives it flexibility, that is, shows how it can be used without difficulty to express adequately a variety of thoughts and feelings in their nicety or intricacy; another makes it perspicuous or forcible; a third adds to its vocabulary; and a fourth gives it grace and harmony. The style of each of such eminent masters becomes henceforth in some sort a property of the language itself; words, phrases, collocations, and structure, which hitherto did not exist, gradually passing into the conversation and the composition of the educated classes.

2.

Now I will attempt to show how this process of improvement is effected, and what is its limit. I conceive then that these gifted writers act upon the spoken and written language by means of the particular schools which form about them respectively. Their style, using the word in a large sense, forcibly arrests the reader, and draws him on to imitate it, by virtue of what is excellent in it, in spite of such defects as, in common with all human works, it may contain. I suppose all of us will recognize this fascination. For myself when I was fourteen or fifteen, I imitated Addison; when I was seventeen, I wrote in the style of Johnson; about the same time I fell in with the twelfth volume of Gibbon, and my ears rang with the cadence of his sentences, and I dreamed of it for a night or two. Then I began to make an analysis of Thucydides in Gibbon’s style. In like manner, most Oxford undergraduates, forty years ago, when they would write poetry, adopted the versification of Pope Darwin, and the Pleasures of Hope, which had been made popular by Heber and Milman. The literary schools, indeed, which I am speaking of, as resulting from the attractions of some original, or at least novel artist, consist for the most part of mannerists, none of whom rise much above mediocrity; but they are not the less serviceable as channels, by means of which the achievements of genius may be incorporated into the language itself, or become the common property of the nation. Henceforth, the most ordinary composer, the very student in the lecture-room, is able to write with a precision, a grace, or a copiousness, as the case may be unknown before the date of the authors whom he imitates, and he wonders at, if he does not rather pride himself on, his

novas frondes, et non sua poma.

If there is any one who illustrates this remark, it is Gibbon; I seem to trace his vigorous condensation and peculiar rhythm at every turn in the literature of the present day. Pope, again, is said to have tuned our versification. Since his time, any one, who has an ear and turn for poetry, can with little pains throw off a copy of verses equal or superior to the poet’s own, and with far less of study and patient correction than would have been demanded of the poet himself for their production. Compare the choruses of the Samson Agonistes with any stanza taken at random in Thalaba: how much had the language gained in the interval between them! Without denying the high merits of Southey’s beautiful romance, we surely shall not be wrong in saying, that in its unembarrassed eloquent flow, it is the language of the nineteenth century that speaks, as much as the author himself.

I will give an instance of what I mean: let us take the beginning of the first chorus in the Samson:—

Just are the ways of God. And justifiable to men; Unless there be who think not God at all; If any be, they walk obscure, For of such doctrine never was there school, But the heart of the fool, And no man therein doctor but himself. But men there be, who doubt His ways not just, As to His own edicts found contradicting, Then give the reins to wandering thought, Regardless of His glory’s diminution; Till, by their own perplexities involved, They ravel more, still less resolved, But never find self-satisfying solution.

And now take the opening stanza of Thalaba:—

How beautiful is night A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven. In full-orb’d glory yonder Moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths. Beneath her steady ray The desert circle spreads, Like the round ocean girdled with the sky. How beautiful is night!

Does not Southey show to advantage here? yet the voice of the world proclaims Milton pre-eminently a poet; and no one can affect a doubt of the delicacy and exactness of his ear. Yet, much as he did for the language in verse and in prose, he left much for other artists to do after him, which they have successfully accomplished. We see the fruit of the literary labours of Pope, Thomson, Gray, Goldsmith, and other poets of the eighteenth century, in the musical eloquence of Southey.

3.

So much for the process; now for its termination. I think it is brought about in some such way as the following:—

The influence of a great classic upon the nation which he represents is twofold; on the one hand he advances his native language towards its perfection; but on the other hand he discourages in some measure any advance beyond his own. Thus, in the parallel case of science, it is commonly said on the continent, that the very marvellousness of Newton’s powers was the bane of English mathematics: inasmuch as those who succeeded him were content with his discoveries, bigoted to his methods of investigation, and averse to those new instruments which have carried on the French to such brilliant and successful results. In Literature, also, there is something oppressive in the authority of a great writer, and something of tyranny in the use to which his admirers put his name. The school which he forms would fain monopolize the language, draws up canons of criticism from his writings, and is intolerant of innovation. Those who come under its influence are dissuaded or deterred from striking out a path of their own. Thus Virgil’s transcendent excellence fixed the character of the hexameter in subsequent poetry, and took away the chances, if not of improvement, at least of variety. Even Juvenal has much of Virgil in the structure of his verse. I have known those who prefer the rhythm of Catullus.

However, so summary a result is not of necessary occurrence. The splendour of an author may excite a generous emulation, or the tyrannous formalism of his followers a re-action; and thus other authors and other schools arise. We read of Thucydides, on hearing Herodotus read his history at Olympia, being incited to attempt a similar work, though of an entirely different and of an original structure. Gibbon, in like manner, writing of Hume and Robertson, says: “The perfect composition, the nervous language, the well-turned periods of Dr. Robertson, inflamed me to the ambitious hope that I might one day tread in his footsteps; the calm philosophy, the careless inimitable beauties of his friend and rival, often forced me to close the volume with a mixed sensation of delight and despair.”(39)

As to re-actions, I suppose there has been something of the kind against the supremacy of Pope, since the time that his successors, Campbell especially, have developed his peculiarities and even defects into extravagance. Crabbe, for instance, turned back to a versification having much more of Dryden in it; and Byron, in spite of his high opinion of Pope, threw into his lines the rhythm of blank verse. Still, on the whole, the influence of a Classic acts in the way of discouraging any thing new, rather than in that of exciting rivalry or provoking re-action.

And another consideration is to be taken into account. When a language has been cultivated in any particular department of thought, and so far as it has been generally perfected, an existing want has been supplied, and there is no need for further workmen. In its earlier times, while it is yet unformed, to write in it at all is almost a work of genius. It is like crossing a country before roads are made communicating between place and place. The authors of that age deserve to be Classics, both because of what they do and because they can do it. It requires the courage or the force of great talent to compose in the language at all; and the composition, when effected, makes a permanent impression on it. In those early times, too, the licence of speech unfettered by precedents, the novelty of the work, the state of society, and the absence of criticism, enable an author to write with spirit and freshness. But, as centuries pass on, this stimulus is taken away; the language by this time has become manageable for its various purposes, and is ready at command. Ideas have found their corresponding expressions; and one word will often convey what once required half a dozen. Roots have been expanded, derivations multiplied, terms invented or adopted. A variety of phrases has been provided, which form a sort of compound words. Separate professions, pursuits, and provinces of literature have gained their conventional terminology. There is an historical, political, social, commercial style. The ear of the nation has become accustomed to useful expressions or combinations of words, which otherwise would sound harsh. Strange metaphors have been naturalized in the ordinary prose, yet cannot be taken as precedents for a similar liberty. Criticism has become an art, and exercises a continual and jealous watch over the free genius of new writers. It is difficult for them to be original in the use of their mother tongue without being singular.

Thus the language has become in a great measure stereotype; as in the case of the human frame, it has expanded to the loss of its elasticity, and can expand no more. Then the general style of educated men, formed by the accumulated improvements of centuries, is far superior perhaps in perfectness to that of any one of those national Classics, who have taught their countrymen to write more clearly, or more elegantly, or more forcibly than themselves. And literary men submit themselves to what they find so well provided for them; or, if impatient of conventionalities, and resolved to shake off a yoke which tames them down to the loss of individuality, they adopt no half measures, but indulge in novelties which offend against the genius of the language, and the true canons of taste. Political causes may co-operate in a revolt of this kind; and, as a nation declines in patriotism, so does its language in purity. It seems to me as if the sententious, epigrammatic style of writing, which set in with Seneca, and is seen at least as late as in the writings of St. Ambrose, is an attempt to escape from the simplicity of Cæsar and the majestic elocution of Cicero; while Tertullian, with more of genius than good sense, relieves himself in the harsh originality of his provincial Latin.

There is another impediment, as time goes on, to the rise of fresh classics in any nation; and that is the effect which foreigners, or foreign literature, will exert upon it. It may happen that a certain language, like Greek, is adopted and used familiarly by educated men in other countries; or again, that educated men, to whom it is native, may abandon it for some other language, as the Romans of the second and third centuries wrote in Greek instead of Latin. The consequence will be, that the language in question will tend to lose its nationality—that is, its distinctive character; it will cease to be idiomatic in the sense in which it once was so; and whatever grace or propriety it may retain, it will be comparatively tame and spiritless; or, on the other hand, it will be corrupted by the admixture of foreign elements.

4.

Such, as I consider, being the fortunes of Classical Literature, viewed generally, I should never be surprised to find that, as regards this hemisphere, for I can prophesy nothing of America, we have well nigh seen the end of English Classics. Certainly, it is in no expectation of Catholics continuing the series here that I speak of the duty and necessity of their cultivating English literature. When I speak of the formation of a Catholic school of writers, I have respect principally to the matter of what is written, and to composition only so far forth as style is necessary to convey and to recommend the matter. I mean a literature which resembles the literature of the day. This is not a day for great writers, but for good writing, and a great deal of it. There never was a time when men wrote so much and so well, and that, without being of any great account themselves. While our literature in this day, especially the periodical, is rich and various, its language is elaborated to a perfection far beyond that of our Classics, by the jealous rivalry, the incessant practice, the mutual influence, of its many writers. In point of mere style, I suppose, many an article in the _Times_ newspaper, or Edinburgh Review, is superior to a preface of Dryden’s, or a Spectator, or a pamphlet of Swift’s, or one of South’s sermons.

Our writers write so well that there is little to choose between them. What they lack is that individuality, that earnestness, most personal yet most unconscious of self, which is the greatest charm of an author. The very form of the compositions of the day suggests to us their main deficiency. They are anonymous. So was it not in the literature of those nations which we consider the special standard of classical writing; so is it not with our own Classics. The Epic was sung by the voice of the living, present poet. The drama, in its very idea, is poetry in persons. Historians begin, “Herodotus, of Halicarnassus, publishes his researches;” or, “Thucydides, the Athenian, has composed an account of the war.” Pindar is all through his odes a speaker. Plato, Xenophon, and Cicero, throw their philosophical dissertations into the form of a dialogue. Orators and preachers are by their very profession known persons, and the personal is laid down by the Philosopher of antiquity as the source of their greatest persuasiveness. Virgil and Horace are ever bringing into their poetry their own characters and tastes. Dante’s poems furnish a series of events for the chronology of his times. Milton is frequent in allusions to his own history and circumstances. Even when Addison writes anonymously, he writes under a professed character, and that in a great measure his own; he writes in the first person. The “I” of the Spectator, and the “we” of the modern Review or Newspaper, are the respective symbols of the two ages in our literature. Catholics must do as their neighbours; they must be content to serve their generation, to promote the interests of religion, to recommend truth, and to edify their brethren to-day, though their names are to have little weight, and their works are not to last much beyond themselves.

5.

And now having shown what it is that a Catholic University does not think of doing, what it need not do, and what it cannot do, I might go on to trace out in detail what it is that it really might and will encourage and create. But, as such an investigation would neither be difficult to pursue, nor easy to terminate, I prefer to leave the subject at the preliminary point to which I have brought it.

Lecture IV.

Elementary Studies.

It has often been observed that, when the eyes of the infant first open upon the world, the reflected rays of light which strike them from the myriad of surrounding objects present to him no image, but a medley of colours and shadows. They do not form into a whole; they do not rise into foregrounds and melt into distances; they do not divide into groups; they do not coalesce into unities; they do not combine into persons; but each particular hue and tint stands by itself, wedged in amid a thousand others upon the vast and flat mosaic, having no intelligence, and conveying no story, any more than the wrong side of some rich tapestry. The little babe stretches out his arms and fingers, as if to grasp or to fathom the many-coloured vision; and thus he gradually learns the connexion of part with part, separates what moves from what is stationary, watches the coming and going of figures, masters the idea of shape and of perspective, calls in the information conveyed through the other senses to assist him in his mental process, and thus gradually converts a calidoscope into a picture. The first view was the more splendid, the second the more real; the former more poetical, the latter more philosophical. Alas! what are we doing all through life, both as a necessity and as a duty, but unlearning the world’s poetry, and attaining to its prose! This is our education, as boys and as men, in the action of life, and in the closet or library; in our affections, in our aims, in our hopes, and in our memories. And in like manner it is the education of our intellect; I say, that one main portion of intellectual education, of the labours of both school and university, is to remove the original dimness of the mind’s eye; to strengthen and perfect its vision; to enable it to look out into the world right forward, steadily and truly; to give the mind clearness, accuracy, precision; to enable it to use words aright, to understand what it says, to conceive justly what it thinks about, to abstract, compare, analyze, divide, define, and reason, correctly. There is a particular science which takes these matters in hand, and it is called logic; but it is not by logic, certainly not by logic alone, that the faculty I speak of is acquired. The infant does not learn to spell and read the hues upon his retina by any scientific rule; nor does the student learn accuracy of thought by any manual or treatise. The instruction given him, of whatever kind, if it be really instruction, is mainly, or at least pre-eminently, this,—a discipline in accuracy of mind.

Boys are always more or less inaccurate, and too many, or rather the majority, remain boys all their lives. When, for instance, I hear speakers at public meetings declaiming about “large and enlightened views,” or about “freedom of conscience,” or about “the Gospel,” or any other popular subject of the day, I am far from denying that some among them know what they are talking about; but it would be satisfactory, in a particular case, to be sure of the fact; for it seems to me that those household words may stand in a man’s mind for a something or other, very glorious indeed, but very misty, pretty much like the idea of “civilization” which floats before the mental vision of a Turk,—that is, if, when he interrupts his smoking to utter the word, he condescends to reflect whether it has any meaning at all. Again, a critic in a periodical dashes off, perhaps, his praises of a new work, as “talented, original, replete with intense interest, irresistible in argument, and, in the best sense of the word, a very readable book;”—can we really believe that he cares to attach any definite sense to the words of which he is so lavish? nay, that, if he had a habit of attaching sense to them, he could ever bring himself to so prodigal and wholesale an expenditure of them?

To a short-sighted person, colours run together and intermix, outlines disappear, blues and reds and yellows become russets or browns, the lamps or candles of an illumination spread into an unmeaning glare, or dissolve into a milky way. He takes up an eye-glass, and the mist clears up; every image stands out distinct, and the rays of light fall back upon their centres. It is this haziness of intellectual vision which is the malady of all classes of men by nature, of those who read and write and compose, quite as well as of those who cannot,—of all who have not had a really good education. Those who cannot either read or write may, nevertheless, be in the number of those who have remedied and got rid of it; those who can, are too often still under its power. It is an acquisition quite separate from miscellaneous information, or knowledge of books. This is a large subject, which might be pursued at great length, and of which here I shall but attempt one or two illustrations.

§ 1.

Grammar.

1.

One of the subjects especially interesting to all persons who, from any point of view, as officials or as students, are regarding a University course, is that of the Entrance Examination. Now a principal subject introduced into this examination will be “the elements of Latin and Greek Grammar.” “Grammar” in the middle ages was often used as almost synonymous with “literature,” and a Grammarian was a “Professor literarum.” This is the sense of the word in which a youth of an inaccurate mind delights. He rejoices to profess all the classics, and to learn none of them. On the other hand, by “Grammar” is now more commonly meant, as Johnson defines it, “the art of using _words_ properly,” and it “comprises four parts—Orthography, Etymology, Syntax, and Prosody.” Grammar, in this sense, is the scientific analysis of language, and to be conversant with it, as regards a particular language, is to be able to understand the meaning and force of that language when thrown into sentences and paragraphs.

Thus the word is used when the “elements of Latin and Greek Grammar” are spoken of as subjects of our Entrance Examination; not, that is, the elements of Latin and Greek literature, as if a youth were intended to have a smattering of the classical writers in general, and were to be able to give an opinion about the eloquence of Demosthenes and Cicero, the value of Livy, or the existence of Homer; or need have read half a dozen Greek and Latin authors, and portions of a dozen others:—though of course it would be much to his credit if he had done so; only, such proficiency is not to be expected, and cannot be required, of him:—but we mean the structure and characteristics of the Latin and Greek languages, or an examination of his scholarship. That is, an examination in order to ascertain whether he knows Etymology and Syntax, the two principal departments of the science of language,—whether he understands how the separate portions of a sentence hang together, how they form a whole, how each has its own place in the government of it, what are the peculiarities of construction or the idiomatic expressions in it proper to the language in which it is written, what is the precise meaning of its terms, and what the history of their formation.

All this will be best arrived at by trying how far he can frame a possible, or analyze a given sentence. To translate an English sentence into Latin is to _frame_ a sentence, and is the best test whether or not a student knows the difference of Latin from English construction; to construe and parse is to _analyze_ a sentence, and is an evidence of the easier attainment of knowing what Latin construction is in itself. And this is the sense of the word “Grammar” which our inaccurate student detests, and this is the sense of the word which every sensible tutor will maintain. His maxim is, “a little, but well;” that is, really know what you say you know: know what you know and what you do not know; get one thing well before you go on to a second; try to ascertain what your words mean; when you read a sentence, picture it before your mind as a whole, take in the truth or information contained in it, express it in your own words, and, if it be important, commit it to the faithful memory. Again, compare one idea with another; adjust truths and facts; form them into one whole, or notice the obstacles which occur in doing so. This is the way to make progress; this is the way to arrive at results; not to swallow knowledge, but (according to the figure sometimes used) to masticate and digest it.

2.

To illustrate what I mean, I proceed to take an instance. I will draw the sketch of a candidate for entrance, deficient to a great extent. I shall put him below _par_, and not such as it is likely that a respectable school would turn out, with a view of clearly bringing before the reader, by the contrast, what a student ought _not_ to be, or what is meant by _inaccuracy_. And, in order to simplify the case to the utmost, I shall take, as he will perceive as I proceed, one _single word_ as a sort of text, and show how that one word, even by itself, affords matter for a sufficient examination of a youth in grammar, history, and geography. I set off thus:—

_Tutor._ Mr. Brown, I believe? sit down. _Candidate._ Yes.

_T._ What are the Latin and Greek books you propose to be examined in? _C._ Homer, Lucian, Demosthenes, Xenophon, Virgil, Horace, Statius, Juvenal, Cicero, Analecta, and Matthiæ.

_T._ No; I mean what are the books I am to examine you in? _C. is silent._

_T._ The two books, one Latin and one Greek: don’t flurry yourself. _C._ Oh, … Xenophon and Virgil.

_T._ Xenophon and Virgil. Very well; what part of Xenophon? _C. is silent._

_T._ What work of Xenophon? _C._ Xenophon.

_T._ Xenophon wrote many works. Do you know the names of any of them? _C._ I … Xenophon … Xenophon.

_T._ Is it the _Anabasis_ you take up? _C._ (_with surprise_) O yes; the Anabasis.

_T._ Well, Xenophon’s Anabasis; now what is the meaning of the word _anabasis_? _C. is silent._

_T._ You know very well; take your time, and don’t be alarmed. Anabasis means … _C._ An ascent.

_T._ Very right; it means an ascent. Now how comes it to mean an ascent? What is it derived from? _C._ It comes from … (_a pause_). _Anabasis_ … it _is_ the nominative.

_T._ Quite right: but what part of speech is it? _C._ A noun,—a noun substantive.

_T._ Very well; a noun substantive, now what is the verb that _anabasis_ is derived from? _C. is silent._

_T._ From the verb ἀναβαίνω, isn’t it? from ἀναβαίνω. _C._ Yes.

_T._ Just so. Now, what does ἀναβαίνω mean? _C._ To go up, to ascend.

_T._ Very well; and which part of the word means _to go_, and which part _up_? _C._ ἀνά is _up_, and βαίνω _go_.

_T._ βαίνω to go, yes; now, βάσις? What does βάσις mean? _C._ A going.

_T._ That is right; and ἀνά-βασις? _C._ A going up.

_T._ Now what is a going _down_? _C. is silent_.

_T._ What is down? … Κατά … don’t you recollect? Κατά. _C._ Κατά.

_T._ Well, then, what is a going _down_? Cat .. cat … _C._ Cat.…

_T._ Cata … _C._ Cata.…

_T._ Catabasis. _C._ Oh, of course, catabasis.

_T._ Now tell me what is the future of βαίνω? _C._ (_thinks_) βανῶ.

_T._ No, no; think again; you know better than that. _C._ (_objects_) Φαίνω, Φανῶ?

_T._ Certainly, Φανῶ is the future of Φαίνω; but βαίνω is, you know, an irregular verb. _C._ Oh, I recollect, βήσω.

_T._ Well, that is much better; but you are not quite right yet; βήσομαι. _C._ Oh, of course,.

_T._ βήσομαι. Now do you mean to say that βήσομαι _comes from_ βαίνω? _C. is silent._

_T._ For instance: τύψω comes from τύπτω by a change of letters; does βήσομαιin any similar way come from βαίνω? _C._ It is an irregular verb.

_T._ What do you mean by an irregular verb? does it form tenses anyhow and by caprice? _C._ It does not go according to the paradigm.

_T._ Yes, but how do you account for this? _C. is silent_.

_T._ Are its tenses formed from several roots? _C. is silent. T. is silent; then he changes the subject._

_T._ Well, now you say _Anabasis_ means an _ascent_. _Who_ ascended? _C._ The Greeks, Xenophon.

_T._ Very well: Xenophon and the Greeks; the Greeks ascended. To what did they ascend? _C._ Against the Persian king: they ascended to fight the Persian king.

_T._ That is right … an ascent; but I thought we called it a _de_scent when a foreign army carried war into a country? _C. is silent._

_T._ Don’t we talk of a descent of barbarians? _C._ Yes.

_T._ Why then are the Greeks said to go _up_? _C._ They went up to fight the Persian king.

_T._ Yes; but why _up_ … why not _down_? _C._ They came down afterwards, when they retreated back to Greece.

_T._ Perfectly right; they did … but could you give no reason why they are said to go _up_ to Persia, not _down_? _C._ They went _up_ to Persia.

_T._ Why do you not say they went _down? C. pauses, then_ … They went _down_ to Persia.

_T._ You have misunderstood me.

_A silence._

_T._ _Why_ do you not say _down_? _C._ I do … _down_.

_T._ You have got confused; you know very well. _C._ I understood you to ask why I did not say “they went _down_.”

_A silence on both sides._

_T._ Have you come up to Dublin or down? _C._I came up.

_T._ Why do you call it coming _up_? _C. thinks, then smiles, then_ … We _always_ call it coming up to Dublin.

_T._ Well, but you always have a _reason_ for what you do … what is your reason here? _C. is silent._

_T._ Come, come, Mr. Brown, I won’t believe you don’t know; I am sure you have a very good reason for saying you go up to Dublin, not _down_. _C. thinks, then_ … It is the capital.

_T._ Very well; now was Persia the capital? _C._ Yes.

_T._ Well … no … not exactly … explain yourself; was Persia a city? _C._ A country.

_T._ That is right; well, but did you ever hear of Susa? _Now_, why did they speak of going _up_ to Persia? _C. is silent._

_T._ Because it was the seat of government; that was one reason. Persia was the seat of government; they went up because it was the seat of government. _C._ Because it was the seat of government.

_T._ Now where did they go up from? _C._ From Greece.

_T._ But where did this army assemble? whence did it set out? _C. is silent._

_T._ It is mentioned in the first book; where did the troops _rendezvous_? _C. is silent._

_T._ Open your book; now turn to Book I., chapter ii.; now tell me. _C._ Oh, at Sardis.

_T._ Very right: at Sardis; now where was Sardis? _C._ In Asia Minor?… no … it’s an island … _a pause, then_ … Sardinia.

_T._ In Asia Minor; the army set out from Asia Minor, and went on towards Persia; and therefore it is said to go _up_—because … _C. is silent._

_T._ Because … Persia … _C._ Because Persia …

_T._ Of course; because Persia held a sovereignty over Asia Minor. _C._ Yes.

_T._ Now do you know how and when Persia came to conquer and gain possession of Asia Minor? _C. is silent._

_T._ Was Persia in possession of many countries? _C. is silent._

_T._ Was Persia at the head of an empire? _C. is silent._

_T._ Who was Xerxes? _C._ Oh, Xerxes … yes … Xerxes; he invaded Greece; he flogged the sea.

_T._ Right; he flogged the sea: what sea? _C. is silent_.

_T._ Have you read any history of Persia?… what history? _C._ Grote, and Mitford.

_T._ Well, now, Mr. Brown, you can name some other reason why the Greeks spoke of going up to Persia? Do we talk of going _up_ or _down_ from the sea-coast? _C._ Up.

_T._ That is right; well, going from Asia Minor, would you go from the sea, or towards it? _C._ From.

_T._ What countries would you pass, going from the coast of Asia Minor to Persia? … mention any of them. _C. is silent._

_T._ What do you mean by Asia _Minor_?… why called Minor?… how does it lie? _C. is silent._

Etc., etc.

3.

I have drawn out this specimen at the risk of wearying the reader; but I have wished to bring out clearly what it really is which an Entrance Examination should aim at and require in its students. This young man had read the Anabasis, and had some general idea what the word meant; but he had no accurate knowledge how the word came to have its meaning, or of the history and geography implied in it. This being the case, it was useless, or rather hurtful, for a boy like him to amuse himself with running through Grote’s many volumes, or to cast his eye over Matthiæ’s minute criticisms. Indeed, this seems to have been Mr. Brown’s stumbling-block; he began by saying that he had read Demosthenes, Virgil, Juvenal, and I do not know how many other authors. Nothing is more common in an age like this, when books abound, than to fancy that the gratification of a love of reading is real study. Of course there are youths who shrink even from story books, and cannot be coaxed into getting through a tale of romance. Such Mr. Brown was not; but there are others, and I suppose he was in their number, who certainly have a taste for reading, but in whom it is little more than the result of mental restlessness and curiosity. Such minds cannot fix their gaze on one object for two seconds together; the very impulse which leads them to read at all, leads them to read on, and never to stay or hang over any one idea. The pleasurable excitement of reading what is new is their motive principle; and the imagination that they are doing something, and the boyish vanity which accompanies it, are their reward. Such youths often profess to like poetry, or to like history or biography; they are fond of lectures on certain of the physical sciences; or they may possibly have a real and true taste for natural history or other cognate subjects;—and so far they may be regarded with satisfaction; but on the other hand they profess that they do not like logic, they do not like algebra, they have no taste for mathematics; which only means that they do not like application, they do not like attention, they shrink from the effort and labour of thinking, and the process of true intellectual gymnastics. The consequence will be that, when they grow up, they may, if it so happen, be agreeable in conversation, they may be well informed in this or that department of knowledge, they may be what is called literary; but they will have no consistency, steadiness, or perseverance; they will not be able to make a telling speech, or to write a good letter, or to fling in debate a smart antagonist, unless so far as, now and then, mother-wit supplies a sudden capacity, which cannot be ordinarily counted on. They cannot state an argument or a question, or take a clear survey of a whole transaction, or give sensible and appropriate advice under difficulties, or do any of those things which inspire confidence and gain influence, which raise a man in life, and make him useful to his religion or his country.

* * * * *

And now, having instanced what I mean by the _want_ of accuracy, and stated the results in which I think it issues, I proceed to sketch, by way of contrast, an examination which displays a student, who, whatever may be his proficiency, at least knows what he is about, and has tried to master what he has read. I am far from saying that every candidate for admission must come up to its standard:—

_T._ I think you have named Cicero’s Letters ad Familiares, Mr. Black? Open, if you please, at Book xi., Epistle 29, and begin reading.

_C. reads._ Cicero Appio salutem. Dubitanti mihi (quod scit Atticus noster), de hoc toto consilio profectionis, quod in utramque partem in mentem multa veniebant, magnum pondus accessit ad tollendam dubitationem, judicium et consilium tuum. Nam et scripsisti aperte, quid tibi videretur; et Atticus ad me sermonem tuum pertulit. Semper judicavi, in te, et in capiendo consilio prudentiam summam esse, et in dando fidem; maximeque sum expertus, cùm, initio civilis belli, per literas te consuluissem quid mihi faciendum esse censeres; eundumne ad Pompeium an manendum in Italiâ.

_T._ Very well, stop there; Now construe. _C._ Cicero Appio salutem.… _Cicero greets Appius._

_T. __“__Greets Appius.__”_ True; but it sounds stiff in English, doesn’t it? What is the real English of it? _C._ “My _dear_ Appius?”…

_T._ That will do; go on. _C._ Dubitanti mihi, quod scit Atticus noster, _While I was hesitating, as our friend Atticus knows_.…

_T._ That is right. _C._ De hoc toto consilio profectionis, _about the whole plan … entire project_ … de hoc toto consilio profectionis … _on the subject of my proposed journey … on my proposed journey altogether_.

_T._ Never mind; go on; any of them will do. _C._ Quod in utramque partem in mentem multa veniebant, _inasmuch as many considerations both for and against it came into my mind_, magnum pondus accessit ad tollendam dubitationem, _it came with great force to remove my hesitation_.

_T._ What do you mean by “accessit”? _C._ It means _it contributed to turn the scale_; accessit, _it was an addition to one side_.

_T._ Well, it may mean so, but the words run, ad tollendam dubitationem. _C._ It was a great … it was a powerful help towards removing my hesitation … no … _this was a powerful help, viz., your judgment and advice_.

_T._ Well, what is the construction of “pondus” and “judicium”? _C. Your advice came as a great weight_.

_T._ Very well, go on. _C._ Nam et scripsisti aperte quid tibi videretur; _for you distinctly wrote your opinion_.

_T._ Now, what is the force of “nam”? _C. pauses; then_, It refers to “accessit” … it is an explanation of the fact, that Appius’s opinion was a help.

_T._ “Et”; you omitted “et” … “et scripsisti.” _C._ It is one of two “ets”; et scripsisti, et Atticus.

_T._ Well, but why don’t you construe it? _C._ Et scripsisti, _you both distinctly_.…

_T._ No; tell me, _why_ did you leave it out? had you a reason? _C._ I thought it was only the Latin style, to dress the sentence, to make it antithetical; and was not English.

_T._ Very good, still, you can express it; try. _C. Also_, with the second clause?

_T._ That is right, go on. _C._ Nam et, _for you distinctly stated in writing your opinion_, et Atticus ad me sermonem tuum pertulit, _and Aticus too sent me word of what you said,… of what you said to him in conversation_.

_T._ “Pertulit.” _C._ It means that Atticus conveyed on to Cicero the conversation he had with Appius.

_T. Who_ was Atticus? _C. is silent._

_T._ Who was Atticus? _C._ I didn’t think it came into the examination.…

_T._ Well, I didn’t say it did: but still you can tell me who Atticus was. _C._ A great friend of Cicero’s.

_T._ Did he take much part in politics? _C._ No.

_T._ What were his opinions? _C._ He was an Epicurean.

_T._ What was an Epicurean? _C. is silent, then_, Epicureans lived for themselves.

_T._ You are answering very well, sir; proceed. _C._ Semper judicavi, _I have ever considered_, in te, et in capiendo consilio prudentiam summam esse, et in dando fidem; _that your wisdom was of the highest order_ … _that you had the greatest wisdom … that nothing could exceed the wisdom of your resolves, or the honesty of your advice_.

_T._ “Fidem.” _C._ It means _faithfulness to the person asking_ … maximeque sum expertus, _and I had a great proof of it_.…

_T._ _Great_; why don’t you say _greatest_? “maxime” is superlative. _C._ The Latins use the superlative, when they only mean the positive.

_T._ You mean, when English uses the positive; can you give me an instance of what you mean? _C._ Cicero always speaks of others as amplissimi, optimi, doctissimi, clarissimi.

_T._ Do they ever use the comparative for the positive? _C. thinks, then_, Certior factus sum.

_T._ Well, perhaps; however, here, “maxime” may mean _special_, may it not? _C. And I had a special proof of it_, cùm, initio civilis belli, per literas te consuluissem, _when, on the commencement of the civil war, I had written to ask your advice_, quid mihi faciendum esse censeres, _what you thought I ought to do_, eundumne ad Pompeium, an manendum in Italiâ, _to go to Pompey, or to remain in Italy_.

_T._ Very well, now stop. Dubitanti mini, quod scit Atticus noster. You construed quod, _as_. _C._ I meant the relative _as_.

_T._ Is _as_ a relative? _C. As_ is used in English for the relative, as when we say _such as_ for _those who_.

_T._ Well, but why do you use it here? What is the antecedent to “quod”? _C._ The sentence Dubitanti mihi, etc.

_T._ Still, construe “quod” literally. _C. A thing which._

_T._ Where is _a thing?_ _C._ It is understood.

_T._ Well, but put it in. _C._ Illud quod.

_T._ Is that right? what is the common phrase? _C. is silent._

_T._ Did you ever see “illud quod” in that position? is it the phrase? _C. is silent._

_T._ It is commonly “id quod,” isn’t it? id quod. _C._ Oh, I recollect, id quod.

_T._ Well, which is more common, “quod,” or “id quod,” when the sentence is the antecedent? _C._ I think “id quod.”

_T._ At least it is far more distinct; yes, I think it is more common. What could you put instead of it? _C._ Quod quidem.

_T._ Now, dubitanti mihi; what is “mihi” governed by? _C._ Accessit.

_T._ No; hardly. _C. is silent._

_T._ Does “accessit” govern the dative? _C._ I thought it did.

_T._ Well, it may; but would Cicero use the dative after it? what is the more common practice with words of motion? Do you say, Venit mihi, _he came to me_? _C._ No, Venit ad me;—I recollect.

_T._ That is right; venit ad me. Now, for instance, “incumbo:” what case does “incumbo” govern? _C._ Incumbite remis?

_T._ Where is that? in Cicero? _C._ No, in Virgil. Cicero uses “in”; I recollect, incumbere in opus … ad opus.

_T._ Well, then, _is_ this “mihi” governed by “accessit”? _what_ comes after accessit? _C._ I see; it is, accessit ad tollendam dubitationem.

_T._ That is right; but then, what after all do you do with “mihi”? how is it governed? _C. is silent._

_T._ How is “mihi” governed, if it does not come after “accessit”? _C. pauses, then_, “Mihi” … “mihi” is often used so; and “tibi” and “sibi”: I mean “suo sibi gladio hunc jugulo”; … “venit mihi in mentem”; that is, _it came into my mind_; and so, “accessit mihi ad tollendam,” etc.

_T._ That is very right. _C._ I recollect somewhere in Horace, vellunt tibi barbam.

Etc., etc.

4.

And now, my patient reader, I suspect you have had enough of me on this subject; and the best I can expect from you is, that you will say: “His first pages had some amusement in them, but he is dullish towards the end.” Perhaps so; but then you must kindly bear in mind that the latter part is about a steady careful youth, and the earlier part is not; and that goodness, exactness, and diligence, and the correct and the unexceptionable, though vastly more desirable than their contraries in fact, are not near so entertaining in fiction.

§ 2.

Composition.

1.

I am able to present the reader by anticipation with the correspondence which will pass between Mr. Brown’s father and Mr. White, the tutor, on the subject of Mr. Brown’s examination for entrance at the University. And, in doing so, let me state the reason why I dwell on what many will think an extreme case, or even a caricature. I do so, because what may be called exaggeration is often the best means of _bringing out_ certain faults of the mind which do indeed exist commonly, if not in that degree. If a master in carriage and deportment wishes to carry home to one of his boys that he slouches, he will caricature the boy himself, by way of impressing on the boy’s intellect a sort of abstract and typical representation of the ungraceful habit which he wishes corrected. When we once have the simple and perfect ideas of things in our minds, we refer the particular and partial manifestations of them to these types; we recognize what they are, good or bad, as we never did before, and we have a guide set up within us to direct our course by. So it is with principles of taste, good breeding, or of conventional fashion; so it is in the fine arts, in painting, or in music. We cannot even understand the criticism passed on these subjects until we have set up for ourselves the ideal standard of what is admirable and what is absurd.

So is it with the cultivation and discipline of the mind, it a handsomer place than I thought for—really a respectable town. But it is sadly behind the world in many things. Think of its having no Social Science, not even a National Gallery or British Museum! nor have they any high art here: some good public buildings, but very pagan. The bay is a fine thing.

“I called with your letter on Mr. Black, who introduced me to the professors, some of whom, judging by their skulls, are clever men.

“There is a lot here for examination, and an Exhibition is to be given to the best. I should like to get it. Young Black,—you saw him once,—is one of them; I knew him at school; he is a large fellow now, though younger than I am. If he be the best of them, I shall not be much afraid.