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melancholy degree, our recent literature. To be natural, is to be antiquated. To use correct and elegant English, is to plod. Hesitancy in respect to the adoption of some newfangled word, is the sure sign of a purist. Such writers as Addison and Swift are not to be mentioned in the ears of

enterprising ” age. The man or the woman, who should be caught reading the Spectator, would be looked upon as smitten with lunacy. In short, there is reason to fear, that our noble old tongue is changing into a dialect for traffickers, magazine-writers, and bedlamites.

One way by which this acknowledged evil may be stayed, is a return to such books as Milton, Dryden and Cowper loved ; to such as breathed their spirit into the best literature of England; to the old historians and poets, that were pondered over, from youth to hoary years, by her noblest divines, philosophers, and statesmen. Eloquence, both secular and sacred, such as the English world has never listened to elsewhere, has flowed from minds that were imbued with classical learning.

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