stands unrivalled in the ancient or modern world; he has no compeers; compared with him, Bacon and Locke were but schoolboys; and some of the last conclusions of our most perfect philosophies seem only to have confirmed the opinions of the great Stagyrite.

Giving up such points as these, there are some who infer the certain progressiveness of our destiny from the invention of the printing press, which multiplies books so rapidly and cheaply that education is put within the reach of all classes of society-making a wonderful difference (I have heard it said) between our and the ancient culture, which, from the paucity of books, was confined to a few rich and learned men. But the entire inference is founded upon a gross mistake the mistake of confounding the condition of Europe during the middle ages with the condition of the ancient Greeks and Romans. The copying of books was as much a trade with these as the printing of them is now: they were sold proportionately as cheap, or cheaper, and were in the hands of the poor not less than the rich. The proof of this is very clear. Thus Juvenal describes them as among the possessions of Codrus, whom he represents as extremely poor, and as constituting a part of his totum nihil.

"Jamque vetus Græcos servabat cista libellos."- Sat. iii. 206.

Sometimes you see passages quoted which seem to indicate an exorbitant price; but, as Arbuthnot has showed, this was for such as were MS. in our sense, i. e. not published, or valuable for the rarity of them. Martial, however, states the cost of the first book of his Epigrams, or perhaps the first and second books, in an ornamented copy, rasum pumice, purpurâque cultum at 5 denarii, which, taking silver as the standard of comparison, is equal to about 3s. 2 d. The price of his second book, which was much

smaller than the first, but amounts to 272 verses, he states to have been 4 sestertii, or "if that were thought too much, 2 sestertii, which," he says, "would leave a profit to the bookseller." Two sestertii were half a denarius, i. e., 3ąd. or 4d. 272 verses of good poetry for 4d.!* Ask the author of Maude, or even any of the "people's poets," if the printing press has beaten that!

With regard, then, to the Greeks, they were unquestionably the finest race of people that ever lived upon the face of the earth. Their personal figure represented nature in its most exquisite forms and development; their æsthetic sensibility and artistic taste were perfect; their enjoyment of the rich fulness of nature, living as they did in the most lovely of countries, under a most glorious sky, was complete. And they cultivated the intellect to the highest point of finish and energy. The Romans, as we have already remarked, possessed none of the Grecian originality-their poetry, their philosophy, their art, they borrowed; and, although the loveliness of Italy was their own, they seem to have possessed none of that delicacy of perception, and none of that power of enjoyment, which belonged to the Greek. Yet they had an invincible will, a capability of endurance, a determinateness of purpose, an indomitable energy, beyond all example. And to this they united a broad comprehension of the principles of law and order in society—a tact, a genius for government, wholly unsurpassed. Hence, from the most early period of their history, they seem to have formed to themselves the idea, not so much of universal conquest for its own sake, as of universal government. This idea they steadily worked out; and how far they realised it every one knows. The Greeks often speculated upon forms of govern

My attention was first drawn to these facts by Norton's "Evidences of the Genuineness of the Gospel." I have since met with abundant confirmations of them.

ment and social laws; but their speculations only resulted in Utopias. The Romans elaborated codes, which still constitute the basis of European, and even of English, civil law.

Now, when we consider all these facts-the character of the civilisation-the comparison it bears in such numerous points with our own-is there any means of escaping from the conclusion, that the fate of each distinct family of the race is to run a shorter or longer course of greatness and glory, and then, ruined by its very prosperity, to fall a prey to less civilised, but more hardy and powerful tribes? If it should be said, as it has been said, there is no danger of this to us, because of our infinite superiority, amongst other safeguards, in martial skill and the arts of war, to all barbarous and half-civilised people, the reply is very obvious; we are not more skilful than were the Romans in comparison with their invaders. If I am then reminded of the advantage of gunpowder, I should simply remark, the Greek fire, an instrument of destruction not less potent, of the composition of which we are now ignorant, did not ultimately save Constantinople from the Turks. Besides, it is not only by being completely subjected to a foreign power that a nation decays. To what foreign power is Spain subjected? Yet for upwards of a century she has been sinking lower and lower. If, then, we were to judge solely by the facts of history, we should be forced to the conclusion we have so often in vain endeavoured to avoid. Although, however, this is the method generally pursued, I think there is another left open to us. It is competent to construct a science, not only upon the law of agreement, but also upon the law of difference. We may not only argue from similar facts that similar effects will follow, but we may also argue from a difference in the facts to a difference in the results.

When, then, we examine the elements of modern society, and compare them with those of any effete civilisation, I

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think there are two (but only two) in which the most striking contrast is presented to everything of the kind we find in the past; which elements may, perhaps, furnish us with some ground to build brighter hopes upon, than otherwise we could have ventured to cherish. The first is our science-the second, our religion.

With regard to the first. Most unquestionably the ancients had a science, in which they felt as much pride as we do in our own. But this science was, for the most part, a mere collection of fancies and baseless speculations, or, if of facts in any measure, facts so fancifully interpreted, that scientifically they were worth no more than fictions. Indeed, if we moderns are right in only giving the name of science to an interpretation of nature, consisting in an accurate induction of facts, a careful collection of the laws, processes, or conditions under which these facts exist, and in the resolution of the less general of these laws and processes into some simple principle, which interprets and accounts for them all; then most unquestionably we must deny the name to that compound of fancies, facts, and follies the Greeks and Latins designated by it. Of course I do not mean by this that the obvious facts of nature were unheeded by them. Mere life, especially civilised life, made observation necessary in a measure. Yet they never rose above the rudest empiricism. Theirs was a science falsely so called. This being granted, then (I must not, and I suppose need not, now stay to prove it,) the question arises, What is there in science to lead to the conclusion that its possession constitutes such a wide difference between us and them, that, notwithstanding their destruction, we may expect progress for ourselves?

First. Science, in the true sense of the word, is necessarily progressive. It is impossible to imagine it should ever be complete, or that men should ever cease to prosecute it. Each step gained is only a means of higher ascent, and the

law of mind compels us, when we have taken that step, to strive to take the next. Nature, practically, is to us infinite, and only by the infinite prolongation of time could a finite race comprehend all her mysteries. But we are now, at last, after centuries of empty speculations, on the right ascent; and every year contributes to the higher development of our nature, by the accession it brings to our knowledge. The method adopted by the ancients rendered progress impossible. Their science was only opinion; opinion divided them into schools. There was no appeal to a higher authority. The triumph of an opinion was only the triumph of a party, depending, for the most part, upon the eloquence of the teacher. Now one set of opinions triumphed, and now another. There was no real advance. Men got weary of it, and gave it up. In the days of Christ, Pyrrhonism and Epicureanism were the only favourite philosophies.

The method, however, of which Lord Bacon was the first great expositor, called now more generally the positive, has entirely changed the character of science. It admits not the intrusion of opinion, excepting as a temporary guide to inquiry. The science of the ancients was almost entirely hypothetical. Positive science only tolerates hypotheses as possible explanations of facts or principles, about which it is worth while to make further enquiries. But until observation, experiment, or direct deduction from facts has proved the hypothesis to be true, it finds no place in scientific faith. When a new class of facts is first presented to the mind, we are moved by the same impulse to find an idea, a principle which explains them, as were the ancients; but the difference is here. They adopted any idea that fancy might suggest-we only look into the processes of nature for the interpretation. To take a very well-known illustration: observation soon proved, even to the earliest shepherds, that the heavenly