A collection of poetical effusions in any one of the dead languages would, we apprehend, considering the present state and prospects of literature, turn out to be, in the gloomiest sense of the word, a grave undertaking. Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and Anglo-Saxon, are truly and really dead, defunct, mute, unspoken.

"Monsieur Malbrook est mort, est mort et interré.”

Hebrew is dead, and no mistake!—the Wandering Jew must have found that out long since. We venture to affirm that Salathiel (who, according to Croly, lurks about the synagogue in St. Alban's Place) has often laughed at the shevas of our modern Rabbim, and at those pothooks "with points" which are hawked about among the learned as copies of the original Hebrew Scriptures. As to the idiom of King Alfred, to say nothing of Queen Boadicea, how few of our literati are conversant therein or cognisant thereof! Kemble, Wright, and Lingard (pauci quos æquus amavit Jupiter), enjoy an undisturbed monopoly of Anglo-Saxon— Greek exhibits but few symptoms of vitality; no Barnes, no Porson, no Wolff, grace these degenerate days: nay, the mitre seems to have acted as an extinguisher on the solitary light of Bloomfield. Oxford hath now nothing in common with the Boooogos but the name, and the groves of Cam have ceased to be those of Academus. Things are not much better on the Continent. While Buonaparte from the rock of St. Helena still threatened Europe, we recollect, in a provincial city of France, a candidate for the office of town-librarian, who was outvoted by an ignorant competitor, and, on inquiry, found that many of the royalist constitu ency, hearing of his being an ardent " Hellenist," had fancied him a very dangerous character indeed. Latin is still the language of the Romish liturgy, and consequently may have some claim to rank, if not as a living tongue, at least as one half-alive: "defunctus adhuc loquitur." Though, in sober truth, if we are to judge from the quality generally met with in that quarter, we should be inclined to say that the tongue of Cicero had long since gone to the dogs.

Weare tempted, however, to try on these "unknown tongues"

the effects of that galvanic process which is known to be so successful in the case of a dead frog. We open the undertaking with a name that may give assurance to our first attempt, and prevent uncharitable folks from applying to our operations the old surgical sarcasm of experimentum in animá vili. The beautiful poem of Vida shall fitly introduce our series, and usher in these " modern instances" of lively composition-lively even in a dead language. It will soon be seen whether Prout can be allowed by the local authorities to carry on the trade of resurrectionist in the Cimetière du Mont Parnasse. If the "subjects he has disinterred" be not found fresh enough for the purposes of critical dissection, still we do not despair; something may be made of the most thin and meagre anatomies, and a good price is occasionally got for a skeleton. The hermit of Watergrasshill never pretended to enjoy the faculty of old Ezekiel-to clothe with substantiai flesh the dry frame-work, the "disjecta membra," the poetical bones scattered over the vale of Tempé; though such miraculous gift might find full scope for its exercise in the Golgotha of Parnassus. And behold, there were very many bones in the open valley, and lo! they were very dry.”– Ezekiel, xxxvii. 2.

We had first decided on calling this new batch of Prout Papers a “modern Latin anthology," but, on reflection, we have discarded that common-place title; the term anthology bearing obvious reference to a still blooming flower-garden, and being far too fresh and gay a conceit for our purpose. Prefixed to a poetic miscellany in any of the living tongues, it might pass, and even be deemed suitable; applied to Latin or Greek, it would be a palpable misnomer. Dried plants, preserved specimens, and shrivelled exotics, may perhaps make up a hortus siccus; but not a garland or a nosegay.

Dead languages have one great advantage, however, over living. These latter are fickle and perpetually changing (like the sex), varium et mutabile: whereas the former, like old family portraits, are fixed in form, feature, and expression. Flesh and blood, confessedly, have not the durability of a marble bust; the parlance of the ancients is effectually petrified. There is nothing "movable" in the "characters" of Greek and Latin phraseology: all is stereo

type. It is pleasant to compose in an idiom of which every word is long since canonised, and has taken its allotted place equally beyond the reach of vulgarism and the fear of vicissitude. Poor Geoffrey Chaucer knows to his cost the miseries attendant on the use of an obsolete vocabulary. Some modern journeyman has found it expedient to dislocate all his joints, under a pretext that his gait was awkward: to rejuvenate the old fellow, it was thought best to take him to pieces on the plan of those Greek children, who boiled their grandfather in a magic cauldron, and, as might be expected, found "death in the pot." Who can now relish Sir Walter Raleigh, or sigh with Sir Philip Sidney, or sing the merry ballads of Sir Thomas More, whose popular poems graced the dawn of metrical composition in England? Alas!

"Every wave that we danced on at morning ebbs from us,
And leaves us at eve on the cold beach alone."

Dr. Maginn, in his younger days, deeply pondering on the fleeting nature of the beauties of modern compositions, and the frail and transitory essence of all living forms of speech, had a notion of rescuing these charming things from inevitable decay, and announced himself to the public as a poetical EMBALMER. He printed a proposal for wrapping up in the imperishable folds of Greek and Latin, with sundry spices of his own, the songs and ballads of these islands; which, in a few centuries, will be unintelligible to posterity. He had already commenced operating on "Black-eyed Susan," and had cleverly disembowelled "Alley Croaker;" both of which made excellent classic mummies. Wapping Old Stairs," in his Latin translation, seemed to be the veritable Gradus ad Parnassum; and his Greek version of ""Twas in Trafalgar Bay " beat all Eschylus ever sung about Salamis. What became of the project, and why the doctor gave it up, we cannot tell he is an unaccountable character. But while we regret this embalming plan should have been abandoned, we are free to confess that, in our opinion, "Old King Cole," in Hebrew, was his best effort. It was equal to Solomon in all his glory.

These prolegomena have led us in a somewhat zigzag path far away from our starting-point, which, on looking back.

we find to be Jerome Vida's poem of the "Silkworm." From a memorandum in the chest, we learn that Prout was induced to undertake this translation in the year 1825, when 400,000 mulberry-trees were planted on the Kingston estates by what was called "the Irish Silk Company," with a view to "better the condition of the peasantry in the south of Ireland." That scheme, somewhat similar to the lottery humbug lately got up by Messrs. Bish and O'Connell, produced in its day what is sought to be again effected by designing scoundrels now-it created a temporary mystification, and stayed off the ENACTMENT OF POOR-LAWS for the season. Prout early discovered the hollow treachery of all these projects, and locked up his MS. in disgust. He seems, however, to have reperused the poem shortly before his death; but the recollection of so many previous attempts at delusion, and the persevering profligacy with which the dismal farce is renewed, seems to have so strongly roused his indignant energies, that, if we decipher right the crossings in red letters on the last page, the aged clergyman, deeming it an act of virtue to feel intense hatred for the whole of the selfish crew that thrives on Irish starvation, has laid his dying curse on the heads, individually and collectively, of Lord Limerick, Spring Rice, and Daniel O'Connell.

OLIVER YORKE.

Watergrasshill, May 1825.

WHEN at the revival of letters the beauties of ancient literature burst on the modern mind, and revealed a new world to the human intellect, the first impulse of all who had the luck to be initiated in the mysteries of classic taste, was to model their thoughts and expressions on these newly-discovered originals, and, like Saul among the prophets, to catch with the very language of inspiration a more exalted range of feelings and a strain of loftier sentiment. The literati of Europe conversed in Latin, and corresponded in Greek. It had not yet entered into their heads, that the rude materials of Italian, French, and English, might be wrought up into forms of as exquisite perfection as they

then possessed in the remnants of classic eloquence and poetry. They despaired of making a silken purse out of a sow's ear. The example of Dante and Petrarch had not emboldened them; the latter, indeed, always considered his Latin poem, written on the second Punic war, and entitled "Africa," as much more likely to ensure him permanent renown than his sonnets or canzoni; and the former had to struggle with his own misgivings long and seriously ere he decided on not trusting his Commedia to the custody of Latin. Ariosto has left two volumes of Latin poetry. It was deemed a hazardous experiment to embark intellectual capital on the mere security of a vulgar tongue; and to sink the riches of the mind in so depreciated a concern was thought a most unprofitable investment. Hence genius was expended on what appeared the more solid speculation, and none but Greek and Latin scripta were "quoted" in the market of literature. All this "paper" has wofully fallen in value: I see little prospect of its ever again looking up.

Lord Bacon and Leibnitz, Newton, Grotius, and Milton, long after modern languages had become well-established as vehicles of valuable thought, still adhered to the safer side, and thus secured to their writings European perusal. An Universal Language, a General Pacification, and a Common Agreement among Christian sects, were three favourite day-dreams of Leibnitz; but, alas! each of these projects seems as far as ever removed from any prospect of realization. Latin, however, may, in some sense, be considered the idiom most universally spread throughout the republic of letters. The Roman empire and the Roman church, by a combined effort, have brought this result; and Virgil seems to have a prophetic vision of both these majestic agents actively engaged in the dissemination of his poetry, when he promises immortality to Nisus and Euryalus:

"Fortunati ambo! si quid mea carmina possunt
Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet ævo
Dum domus Enea capitoli immobile saxum

Accolet, imperiumque Pater Romanus habebit."

If by domus Enea he mean the dynasty of the Cæsars, the Pater Romanus must allude to the popes; and Leo the Tenth was probably in his mind's eye when he made this. vaticination.