of instruction for the individual writer.  This last may certainly learn of the ancients, better than anywhere else, three things which it is vitally important for him to know:—­the all-importance of the choice of a subject; the necessity of accurate construction; and the subordinate character of expression.  He will learn from them how unspeakably superior is the effect of the one moral impression left by a great action treated as a whole, to the effect produced by the most striking single thought or by the happiest image.  As he penetrates into the spirit of the great classical works, as he becomes gradually aware of their intense significance, their noble simplicity, and their calm pathos, he will be convinced that it is this effect, unity and profoundness of moral impression, at which the ancient poets aimed; that it is this which constitutes the grandeur of their works, and which makes them immortal.  He will desire to direct his own efforts towards producing the same effect.  Above all, he will deliver himself from the jargon of modern criticism, and escape the danger of producing poetical works conceived in the spirit of the passing time, and which partake of its transitoriness.

The present age makes great claims upon us:  we owe it service, it will not be satisfied without our admiration.  I know not how it is, but their commerce with the ancients appears to me to produce, in those who constantly practise it, a steadying and composing effect upon their judgment, not of literary works only, but of men and events in general.  They are like persons who have had a very weighty and impressive experience; they are more truly than others under the empire of facts, and more independent of the language current among those with whom they live.  They wish neither to applaud nor to revile their age:  they wish to know what it is, what it can give them, and whether this is what they want.  What they want, they know very well; they want to educe and cultivate what is best and noblest in themselves:  they know, too, that this is no easy task—­[Greek:  Chalepon] as Pittacus[18] said,[Greek:  Chalepon esthlonemmenai]—­and they ask themselves sincerely whether their age and its literature can assist them in the attempt.  If they are endeavoring to practise any art, they remember the plain and simple proceedings of the old artists, who attained their grand results by penetrating themselves with some noble and significant action, not by inflating themselves with a belief in the preeminent importance and greatness of their own times.  They do not talk of their mission, nor of interpreting their age, nor of the coming poet; all this, they know, is the mere delirium of vanity; their business is not to praise their age, but to afford to the men who live in it the highest pleasure which they are capable of feeling.  If asked to afford this by means of subjects drawn from the age itself, they ask what special fitness the present age has for supplying them.  They are told that