correct. A lively and discriminating writer in the American Review, some time ago, endeavored to lay down a canon for our decision in such cases, viz. that the writer of fiction was to be credited when natural, and he illustrated his position by drawing a comparison between Shakspeare and George Sand. But this is only throwing back the inquiry one step, for what is natural to one man is unnatural to another. This is true in the commonest affairs of life. It is the most natural thing in the world for an Englishman to take his canter of eighteen miles a day: to a Frenchman, who seldom makes his appearance on the outside of a quadruped, such a proceeding would be anything but natural. The English critics cannot begin to agree among themselves whether the "Currer Bell" novels, describing society in a large and well-known portion of their own country, are natural or not; and of two persons, whose age, experience, talent, and reputation, gave them an equal á priori claim to be considered good judges, we have heard the one say of Vanity Fair that it was a libel on human nature, the other that it was a perfectly accurate picture of society. For ourselves, we should say that in the first place, when a writer is a professed satirist, a certain allowance must be made on that account, the number of grains of salt not being susceptible of rule or measure, but to be determined by the reader's judgment and by circumstances; secondly, that the agreement and correspondence of authors is to be examined. If the majority of the fictitious writers in any age of any country, unite in representing a certain state of morals or manners, we should accept their representation subject, only to the above-mentioned allowance, quite as confidently as that of historians, essayists, or even divines. And applying this rule to the case before us, we find that the other Comic poets of Athens, so far as we have remains of them, bear Aristophanes out in the unfavorable picture he draws of Athenian morals.

And now, in connexion with this speculative question, comes up a very important practical one. How far ought we to expose this disgusting picture to our students? In other words, ought our college editions of Aristophanes to be expurgated? Here we come upon delicate ground, for Messrs. Anthon and Felton have taken directly

opposite sides on this question, and it is a perilous thing for a simple layman to put himself between two hostile professors. He is in danger of sharing the fate of Mr. Pickwick, who rushed between the belligerent editors, "just in time to receive the carpet-bag on one side of his person, and the fire-shovel on the other." Still, one must have an opinion, and of the two, we feel compelled to agree with Mr. Felton, though our reasons do not coincide with his; indeed, go much beyond them. We are most deeply impressed with the weight of the maxim, "Maxima debetur pueris reverentia," but by the time. that a young man comes to read Aristophanes, he is usually arrived at an age when he must have some more abiding safeguard than mere innocence of everything unseemly. Nay, we think it not only permissible but absolutely desirable, that the student should read by himself some things that it would not be proper for him to read in the lecture-room. Let no one be shocked, and we will endeavour to explain why.

In the life of every man of liberal tastes and pursuits there is a period, generally coincident, or nearly so, with the culminating point of his education, when he is peculiarly assailable by the temptation of intellectworship. The pleasures of taste and imagination, of the acquisition and the communication of knowledge, are so noble in themselves, and so exalting in their influence, so infinitely above the joys of vulgar dissipation or fashionable frivolity, that he is in danger of making them his trust, and forgetting the existence of something still nobler. He is prone to think too much of intellectual and too little of moral excellence. In the combination of original intellect and artistic development of that intellect, the Greeks have never been equalled; therefore the study of Greek literature is particularly exposed to this danger. Now if we present to a young man only the model beauties of Greek literature, with all that is improper sedulously excluded; if he is to read the First Book of the Republic and the Tenth Satire of Juvenal, and ignore the existence of the Fifth Book and the Sixth Satire, we give him a one-sided view of Heathen virtue, and indirectly suggest and encourage the mischievous delusion, that there may be a high standard of morality without vital religion. But if we give him a peep behind the

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curtain just enough to disgust him if we let him see how the highest standard of intellect united to excellence in art and refinement of manners, is unable, without higher assistance, to save a people from shameless depravity then we give him a most impressive lesson of the necessity of Christianity.

But it is time to come to the play which stands at the head of our article, lest we should be suspected of having lost sight of it altogether. The Birds is the sixth in chronological order of the extant Aristophanic camedies. It was exhibited during the second campaign in Sicily, and has been generally supposed to ridicule the Athenian projects of universal dominion, particularly as then manifested in the Sicilian expedition; an opinion from which we see no stringent reason for dissenting, although Prof. Felton doubts it, and Müller somewhat generally describes the piece as "a satire on Athenian folly and credulity, on that building of castles in the air, and that dreaming expectation of a life of luxury and ease, to which the Athenian people gave themselves up in the mass." The play is opened by the appearance ot two old Athenians, Pisthetærus and Euelpides (Persuader and Good-hope), the former a plausible and visionary demagogue, the latter a sort of Sancho Panza to him. Disgusted with the li tigiousness and fickleness of their countrymen, and not thinking it likely that they shall much better themselves in any other part of Greece (observe how Aristophanes, with all his abuse of his compatriots, is intensely native when it comes to making comparisons), they have resolved to travel away from men altogether, and accordingly, under guidance of a raven and jackdaw (or jay), are going in quest of the country of the birds and the court of King Epops (the Hoopoe), who was formerly a man, Tereus of Thrace, and connected by marriage with the Athenians. They have come pretty much to the world's end without finding any signs of the king or of his courtiers and are pathetically lamenting (as many a stupid young man about town might do) that "they want to go to the devil and can't find the way." At length the road terminates in a rocky barrier, at which, being unable to advance further, they knock. A servant of the Hoopoe makes his appearance, and is induced to summon his master, to whom the travellers communicate their design,

and also a great scheme which they have on hand for the aggrandizement of the birds. King Hoopoe, much struck with the project, desires his consort, the nightingale, to assist him in calling his subjects to council. This nightingale was a celebrated female flute-player, and a delightful solo from her was added to the magnificent lyric which Epops sings here. Down came the birds, one after another, κλαγγηδον προκαθίζοντες, like their fellows in Homer, all sorts, sizes, and colors, and a funny sight they must have been on the stage. But great is their rage and consternation as they become aware of two mortal men, the sight of whom is necessarily associated in their minds with ideas of traps and cages, plucking and roasting. Forthwith they resolve to do justice on the intruders after the fashion in vogue south of Mason and Dixon's Line, tearing them to pieces first, and hearing what they have to say afterwards. But the old gentlemen have not lived in Athens so long or travelled so far for nothing; they have a fair appreciation of their rights, and a proper resolution to maintain them. Their baggage and kitchen equipage are converted into a rampart, their spits into spears, &c., and so formidable a front do they present, that the birds are brought to parley. Pisthetærus seizes the favorable moment, and makes them a speech. He explains to them that the feathered race were originally prior in age and superior in rank, not only to men, but even to the gods; that this position is still their right, though they have heen unjustly deprived of it, and that it is in their power to recover it. (All these points are supported by most comical and ingenious arguments, a capital burlesque on such as usually go down with a popular audience.) As a means of doing so he proposes that they shall build a city in the air, thus cutting off the communication between gods and men, and equally preventing the fat savor of sacrifices from going up to heaven, and the gay celestials from coming down to visit the ladies to whom they are attentive on earth, while the birds are to assume the place of gods to men, which they can do at a much cheaper rate than the present deities. The oration is completely successful, the strangers are at once received into full favor, and, after singing a magnificent parabasis, which is a half serious and half burlesque synopsis of the

ancient cosmogony and theogony, the birds go off, under superintendence of Euelpides, to build the fortifications, while Pisthetærus remains to sacrifice for the welfare of the new city, Cuckoocloudland. The sacrifice, which is to the various birds instead of the various gods, is interrupted by the arrival of sundry pettifogging officials, informers, reformers, and other nuisances, who are very summarily disposed of, being in most instances kicked out headlong -a most commendable precedent for disposing of such people and then comes in a messenger-bird, in great haste and flutter, with the astounding intelligence that the fortifications are completed, at which Pisthetærus himself is taken aback. But soon another messenger arrives, announcing that some one from heaven is trespassing in the city. It proves to be Iris. How she has flown through the walls does not exactly appear, but where the whole piece is a gigantic lie, it is not well to be too particular about slight inconsistencies. However, Pisthetærus bullies her back by sheer force of slang, after the usual manner of demagogues, and at the same time the herald who had been despatched to the lower world returns with the report that all the Athenians have gone bird-mad. Some more emigrants and visitors are disposed of, and then enters Prometheus disguised and concealed under an umbrella. He has come down on the sly to betray the starving and desperate condition of the gods, and his information is soon verified by the appearance of an embassy from heaven, consisting of Neptune, Hercules, and a certain barbarian divinity, one of the Triballi. The terms demanded by Pisthetærus are sufficiently exacting, no less than that Jupiter shall give up to the birds the sovereignty of the world, and to himself his favorite queen (not his wife, whom the Thunderer might have been too glad to get rid of) in marriage. Neptune is for going back re infectâ, but the premier of Cuckoocloudland, with an eye to the wellknown love of good cheer which characterizes the stage Hercules, has a savory banquet in preparation. The son of Alcmene is overcome by the order, he bullies the Triballian (who cannot speak plain Greek, and is altogether a very slow specimen of a divinity) into voting with him, the treaty is concluded, and the play ends with a grand apotheosis of Pisthetærus and his bride. It was put on the stage