spoken word than with the written. There are living poets and prose-writers who have also contributed, by various gifts, to the comprehension of ancient thought and beauty.

Within the last thirty or forty years we have seen, too, the growth of a literature tending to popularize, without vulgarizing, the classics; addressed, that is, not only to scholars, but to cultivated readers generally; such books, for instance, as those of the late Mr. J. A. Symonds and the late Professor Sellar. We have had also a number of good English translations; in the forefront of which stands that beautiful work, a memorial of one whom so many pupils and friends are mourning, through which Professor Jowett has made Plato an English classic.

Thus the literary development of the century has been such as to draw Greek and Latin studies more and more out of scholastic isolation, and to bring them more and more into the general current of intellectual interests. A change, not less significant, has meanwhile been passing over the English p preciation of classical art. This has been, in its larger aspect, merely one branch of a movement dating from about the middle of the century, and tending to raise the level of English education in regard to art of every kind. But special causes have favored the diffusion of an interest in ancient art, and more particularly in that of Greece. Everywhere in the Hellenic lands the soil has been giving up its buried treasures, and revealing monuments hitherto unknown, or known only through books. Athens, Olympia, Mycenæ, Delos, the Troad, Ephesus, Halicarnassus, are only a few of the sites where pregnant discoveries have rewarded the spade. Increased facilities of travel have enabled thousands to become familiar with the scenes of Greek and Roman history, and so to follow with a keener interest the progress of such explorations. England. which had sent forth many of the earlier explorers, among whom Colonel Leake will always hold a place of honor, had for some time fallen behind other nations in such enterprise. Within the first half of this century both France and Germany had established at Athens

permanent centres for the promotion of research. It was not till 1883 that a British School of Archæology was established there; but already it has done a considerable amount of good work; as, for instance, in its most recent undertaking, the excavations at Megalopolis in Arcadia.

For a long time after the revival of ancient literature men were occupied chiefly with the beauty of its form; this is the period to which Erasmus belongs, though he himself was much more than a stylist. Next, study was attracted by the wealth of the subject-matter contained in the classics, and we have the labors of such men as Casaubon. The third stage is that of textual criticism, in which Bentley was a vigorous pioneer. So far, the general characteristic had been the predominance of individual genius. A strong personality arose, a man like one of those just named, and made an epoch. His work was emphatically his own; and he was bound by no rules except such as he might lay down for his own guidance. But, as generations went on, and the literature of these studies grew in volume, students began to feel the need of more agreement on general principles. In the present century the scientific spirit has added the domain of these old studies to its conquests. Within the last fifty years the comparative method has created a science of language. The study of manuscripts, as such, has become the science of palæography; textual criticism is, within certain limits, a science;, so is archæology, or rather it is a group of kindred sciences. All this is excellent; though there are certain tendencies, incidental to this progress, which it is desirable to keep within due bounds. There is some danger, perhaps, lest, under the influence of high specializing, the various departments or sub-departments of classical study should become too much isolated from each other, and the larger view of the humanities should be lost. The other danger is lest the zeal for scientific precision should obscure the nature of the material with which all scholarship has to deal-viz., the creations of the human mind, in language, in literature, or in art. No study, concerned with such material, can attain its high

est aim, unless the purely intellectual spirit of science is controlled by the literary and artistic sense, which is partly moral. To hold the balance between them must always be difficult, and is peculiarly difficult in an age like our own. But the rising generation of scholars, the future guardians of the classical tradition, will perhaps do well to heed these things.

Meanwhile, it is a matter for unqualified rejoicing that the study of antiquity has become wider and more real, and is now capable of satisfying a greater diversity of intellectual appetites. The gain here might be illustrated by a typical case that of Thackeray, who, in his charming Notes of a Journey from Cornhill to Grand Cairo, records his first visit to Athens. He imagines the Greek Muse coming to him in a dream, and asking him if he is not charmed to be there; and he replies to her, "Madam, your company in youth was made so laboriously disagreeable to me that I can't at present reconcile myself to you in age." After an admirable description of the view from the Acropolis, he adds: "Musing over this wonderful scene, perhaps I get some feeble glimpse or idea of that ancient Greek spirit which peopled it with sublime races of heroes and gods; and which I never could get out of a Greek book." Yet Thackeray had been at the famous school which, a little earlier, sent forth Thirlwall and Grote. Under the present methods, there is less danger that a boy of such gifts should have a like experience. Not only are the Greek books made more attractive, but there is an easier access to glimpses of Greek art. It may fairly be said that classical studies are now, on the whole, more efficient in this country than they ever were; they are at many points deeper; they are more comprehensive; and they are more in touch with the literary and artistic interests of the day.

I believe, too, that the classics will keep their place in our system of liberal education. This belief rests on the fact that their true claims are now more generally understood. Critical studies in history, in law, in language, and in various branches of archæology, have brought out the number and complexity of the threads by which modern

civilization is interwoven with the ancient civilizations of Greece and Rome. The Greek mind stands out clearly as the great originating mind of Europe; it has given us not only standards of literature, not only models of art, but ideas which have been fruitful in every field of human thought and life. As Renan says, "Progress will eternally consist in developing what Greece conceived." The positive results of antiquity in special branches of knowledge, such as medicine or natural science, have indeed been absorbed into modern books. But if we desire to study antiquity itself, to see how ideas have been evolved, to understand, in short, the earlier chapters of our own history, then we must needs go to the mental records of our European ancestors. This constitutes the historical claim of the classics. On literary grounds their claim is twofold; first, their intrinsic beauty, and their unexhausted wealth of suggestive thought. As to the latter, let us remember what is so well said by John Stuart Mill: "The discoveries of the ancients in science have been greatly surpassed, and as much of them as is still valuable loses nothing by being incorporated in modern treatises; but what does not so well admit of being transferred bodily, and has been very imperfectly carried off even piecemeal, is the treasure which they accumulated of what may be called the wisdom of life; the rich store of experience of human nature and conduct which the acute and observing mind of those ages, aided in their observations by the greater simplicity of manners and life, consigned to their writings, and most of which retains all its value." Secondly, there is the fact that, either directly or indirectly, they have moulded, or at least helped to inspire, almost all the best writing of the modern world. literature can be appreciated and enjoyed without their help. But the light which they can give adds zest to the enjoyment and depth to the appreciation; and they alone can explain the process of development. On the third claim of the classics, the linguistic, it must suffice barely to touch. It is not necessary to dwell on the cardinal importance of Greek and Latin for the


study of comparative philology and of general grammar. As instruments of mental training, again, they have the advantage of a structure organically distinct from the modern. The very freedom with which the order of words can be varied in a Greek or Latin sentence -a freedom unparalleled in any modern language—increases the value of the exercise in analysis. And when the classical languages are rhetorically, though not quite accurately, described as "dead," that very epithet suggests one of their chief recommendations. In a modern language, living authority can decide questions of usage or idiom; Greek and Latin, in which there is no such resource, make a more exacting demand on the learner's nicety of judgAnd this consideration applies not only in the province of language, but in the whole domain of classical study. It is good to have in our literary education at least one large subject rich in problems which excite curiosity but do not admit of any certain solution. "Probability," as Bishop Butler says, "is the very guide of life;" and for probable reasoning, as distinguished from demonstrative, it would be hard to find a more varied field than is afforded by the classics.

Nearly three centuries ago Bacon spoke of those who "call upon men to sell their books and buy furnaces, for saking Minerva and the Muses as barren virgins, and relying upon Vulcan." He further expresses his opinion that the progress of knowledge has been retarded by a tendency to neglect the general training of the mind--" philosophy and universality," as he terms it-in favor of professional studies. It is no new thing, the question how far and

how best we can combine education, the bringing out of the faculties, with instruction, the imparting of valuable knowledge. Modern life, so complex, so restless, and so competitive, naturally tends to insist first upon instruction; but, as no progress of science can enable men to think faster, a sound economy of educational time depends on the same principles as ever. Classical studies serve to inform the mind, in the proper sense of that word; they serve to mould and to train it; but they also instruct; and the uses of the knowledge which they can give are manifold. They cannot, indeed, create the literary faculty, though they seldom fail to improve it where it exists; nor can they humanize characters that resist their charm, though, where that power finds entrance, they vindicate their title to be called the humanities. In any reasonable scheme of liberal education, studies such as these deserve to retain their place. As Mr. Freeman, one of their stanchest defenders, once said, let them be " the objects of a reasonable homage," not " of an exclusive superstition." Nothing, I believe, would tend more to confirm the position of classical studies in this country than a deeper and more systematic study of modern languages and literatures. Every addition to the clearness with which we see the continuity of literary tradition in Europe must add force to the words which Dante addresses to the shade of Virgil," Tu se' lo mio maestro e'l mio autore;" for the relation of modern to ancient literature is that of a disciple who renounces no part of his originality or his independence when he acknowledges his debt to a master and a guide.-New Review.


SOCIALISTS and others who, not unjustly, complain of the present unequal distribution of wealth sometimes appear to think that the capitalist could be extinguished if they could only have their own way. At the same time, they call him by a great many ugly names-swinNEW SERIES.-VOL. LIX., No. 1.


dler, robber, tiger, shark, wolf, beast of prey generally. Let us take the beastof-prey title. Does not that at once suggest a difficulty in the way of clearing off the capitalist?

We, or rather our ancestors, have managed to rid these islands of beasts


of prey. Wolves were probably the last to go, but they are gone, and our chapter concerning snakes" could at no time have been a long one. The prize set upon the caput lupinum proved sufficient for its purpose. But you cannot treat the capitalist so. Public opinion will not let you legalize the shooting of him, and even if it did, there are other obstacles to his extermination.

You cannot, for instance, always chalk your capitalist on the back. Es pecially when he is young. The wolf's cub spoke for itself. There was no mistaking it, or what it would do if allowed to grow up. And so you dispatched it there and then, forwarding the work of clearance by the disappearance of it and its possible posterity. There is nothing, however, in the baby capitalist to indicate that in his mature years he will be a devourer of "surplus value;" and thus your powers of dispatch, supposing you had them, would be seriously hampered at the outset.

The capitalist "beast of prey," accordingly, seems likely to hold his ground and act after his kind. And that is a distinct and permanent kind. Capitalist and laborer are fixed and separate types of being, as much so as poet and pugilist, or, if you like, as horse and tiger. If you anatomize their heads, you will find that they have entirely different qualities and conformation of brain, and if you went far enough back into evolutionary history, you might be able to show how the original differentiation arose. Possibly, if you could go into the evolutionary history of the future you might find the one type merged in the other. But you cannot make this excursion. At best, the coalescence supposed must be so remote that it is not worth considering. The two phases of human nature are two and inconvertible, and for practical ends that inconvertibility is of incalculable moment.

Perfect logical definitions of capitalist and laborer, that shall avoid crossing and the other fallacies of the schoolmen, are perhaps impossible. But neither are they practically necessary. A few salient points of the psychological distinction are enough.

For one thing, the capitalist is a being of vaster cupidity than the labor


He grasps at the objective. He wants to possess all he sees, and his desires are really bounded only by the resources of the planet. The self-made millionaire wants to be a billionaire, and so on ad infinitum. On the other hand, the man who is essentially a laborer has not this passion for possession. He can guide a plough, make an engine, paint a picture, impersonate a character, write a poem. That is about all he is fit for, but where he is fit he finds a sufficing happiness in exercising his ability.

Of course, this general distinction must be taken with qualifications. I do not say that the concrete capitalist is an incarnate greed and nothing more, or that the laborer or worker of real life has absolutely no lust of possession. You occasionally meet capitalists of artistic, scientific, philosophic, humanitarian sympathies. In the ranks of labor you encounter capitalists in disguise, men who are workers because fortune forbids them to be possessors, but whose governing desire is to possess, and who often rise-if it be rising-into great capitalists. I do not suppose that laborers of this kind do the best work. Men that paint, write, construct machines, merely or mainly to make a fortune or even a living, are not usually the men who enrich the world with beauty, wisdom, or invention.

But neither do I say that the man whose happiness lies in his work does. not want to live by it, or to become independent through it. The true worker does so, however, not merely from the instinct of self-preservation, but also to escape that influence of care and prudential outlook which so often warp and mar good work. Nor do I say that the real laborer always finds pleasure in his work. The good mechanic throws down his hammer and goes on strike. The poet complains that the Muse's sons are born to cold neglect, and penury and scorn, and proceeds to curse his gift and probably the day of his birth. But this is because other considerations, such as anger at being exploited, come into play and cause the sense of injustice to neutralize the delight in work.

In fairness to the capitalist, too, I must say that he is not always a shopkeeper or a miser. The very vastness

of his longings often saves them so far from vulgarity. The motive that guides many of our Titanic capitalists would be incorrectly designated if we merely called it greed. There is more in it of a greater and purer impulse. It is delight in the large, in the magnificent, in the adaptation of gigantic means to corresponding ends. That ought not to be confounded with close-fistedness and the accumulation of halfpence. The epigram about one murder making a villain but a million a hero, contains a truth not meant by its maker. Size redeems from the petty and the mean. Still, all this does not obliterate the radical distinction between capitalist and laborer. With much mutual overlapping, capitalist and laborer are, in point of motive, two utterly contrasted creatures the one anxious to get the world under his thumb for the pleasure of having it there, the other to exercise his special energy upon the world for the pleasure of contemplating the result capitalist seeking merely to annex, laborer mainly to transfigure, Na


A second distinction between the two lies in the capitalist's capacity for using his brother men as his tools. This is a remarkable faculty, possessed in perfection by comparatively few. It includes the being able with ease and constancy of thought and feeling to detach the attributive "brother" from the expression" brother man," and to regard the remainder as indicating simply a useful member of the mammalian order of Bimana, like Equus caballus, or Canis familiaris, which are so serviceable in dragging portions of the world into the possession of their owner. When the brother" is thus contemplated as an implement, the fact that he is a brother is apt to slip out of view, especially the view of one bent on employing the implement for purposes of acquisition.

When this view of the brother as a human implement has been reached, it is not difficult for the capitalist to take the next step necessary to constitute his position. For he must be able to say to a multitude of fellow-creatures, identical with himself in every anthropological characteristic, "It is the right thing that you should dwell in hovels, but that I should dwell in a palace that

you should wear fustian and corduroy, and live on herrings and potatoes, but that I should be clothed in purple and fine linen and fare sumptuously every day." Once a keen annexionist has faced the position from this point of view, he may go far in capturing large segments of the world. If he falters he will never do much good as a capitalist.

The genuine laborer, on the other hand, be he poet or ploughman, the man with the merely artistic or artisan faculty and temperament, is not equal to this, and hence remains a laborer all through. This impotence seems inseparable from the worker type of character. Perhaps it is because he has not the necessary cupidity, the requisite complement of the overmastering lust of possession. Anyhow, I believe it to be the fact that he cannot get the brother-man sentiment out of his heart. If he does, it is because he is either a disguised capitalist or an undeveloped criminal. Take the average poet, boiler-maker or able seaman. How many of them will you get to say to a fellow poet, boiler-maker or able seaman,

Let me have all the good things, and be you thankful if you get as much as keeps body and soul together"? I am sure the words would stick in most of their throats.

Here, again, I wish to guard myself against painting the capitalist blacker than he is. I do not accuse him of allround inhumanity. On the contrary, I gladly acknowledge that many capitalists, especially those of Titanic dimensions, are, outside the sphere of their relations to their "hands,' men of large and generous sentiments, ready to succor inisfortune in their own circle, liberal supporters of ameliorative public movements in the abstract, lavish patrons of art and learning or what seems to them to be so, tender and compassionate toward individual misery obtruded on their notice. But place them in relation to man considered as a necessary instrument in carrying out their design of capturing the world, and all this vanishes. The instrument must be obtained and retained at the cheapest rate, while, and expressly in order that, the wielder of it may luxuriate in possession and enjoyment.

Not that every capitalist thinks it

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