writers or account of them can give you the least idea of their spirit, is bound to maintain, on the same principle, that it would be impossible to convey the smallest real taste of this joke out of English into Latin or Greek; while every real scholar knows that the thing is very possible.

On the other side, the bigoted no-scholar is bound to insist, that the stupid version of the joke is quite as good as the original, or at any rate supplies us with all that is really wanted of it; that the word “situation" is as good as the word "pickle ;" and that, therefore, no utility is lost sight of, no real information. It is true, the whole joke is lost, the whole spirit of the thing; but that is no matter. As to confining the notion of utility to matters of information, useful in the ordinary sense of the word, however important, we will not waste our room upon it at this time of day, after all which has been said and understood to the contrary. The more we really know of any thing, languages included, the more, as it has been finely said, do we "discipline" our "humanity;" that is, teach our common nature to know what others have thought, felt, and known before us, and so enable our modesty and information to keep pace with each other.

It will not be supposed by the reflecting reader, that we mean to compare the sufficiency of a translation in the above instance with its being all that might be wanted in others; or that the spirit and peculiar fragrance (so to speak) of such poetry as Shakespeare's could be transferred through a Greek medium, without losing any thing by the way; unless a Shakespeare

himself were the operator, or even then. Undoubtedly the peculiarity of the medium itself, the vessel, will make a difference. All that we mean to say is, that some real taste of the essence of ancient genius, far better than what is afforded by the specimens. generally on sale, can be given by means of great care and lovingness; and that those who are so insanely learned, as to take the vessel itself for the whole merit of the contents, have no taste of it at all.

CRICKET.

And Exercise in general. (Written in May.)

HE fine, hard, flat, verdant floors are now preparing in the cricket - grounds for this

It

manly and graceful game; and the village greens (where they can) are no less getting ready, though not quite so perfect. No matter for that. A true cricketer is not the man to be put out by a trifle. He serves an apprenticeship to Patience after her handsomest fashion. Henry the Fourth wished a time might arrive in France, when every man should have a pullet in his kettle. We should like to see a time when every man played at cricket, and had a sound sleep after it, and health, work, and leisure. would be a pretty world, if we all had something to do, just to make leisure the pleasanter; and green merry England were sprinkled all over, "of afternoons," with gallant fellows in white sleeves, who threshed the earth and air of their cricket-grounds into a crop of health and spirits; after which they should read, laugh, love, and be honorable and happy beings, bringing God's work to its perfection, and suiting the divine creation they live in.

But to speak in this manner is to mix serious things with mirthful. Well, and what true joy does not?

Joy, if you did but know him thoroughly, is a very serious fellow, on occasion; and knows that happiness is a very solid thing, and is zealous for Nature's honor and glory. The power to be grave is the proper foundation for levity itself to rejoice on. You must have floor for your dancing, — good solid earth on which to bother your cricket-balls.

The spring is monstrously said to be a sickly time of the year! Yes, for the sickly; or rather (not to speak irreverently of sickness which cannot be helped) for those who have suffered themselves to become so for want of stirring their bloods, and preparing for the general movement in Nature's merry veins. People stop in-doors, and render themselves liable to all "the skyey influences;" and then, out of the same thoughtless effeminacy of self-indulgence, they expose themselves to the catching of colds and fevers, and the beautiful spring is blamed, and "fine Mays make fat churchyards." The Gypsies, we will be bound, have no such proverbs. The cricketer has none such. He is a sensible, hearty fellow,- too wise not to take proper precautions; but, above all, too wise not to take the best of all precautions; which is, to take care of his health, and be stirring. Nature is stirring, and so is he. Nature is healthy, and so is he. Nature, in a hundred thousand parts to a fraction, is made up of air and fields and country, and out of doors, and a strong teeming earth, and a good-natured sky; and so is the strong heart of the cricketer.

Do we, then, blame any of the sick, even those who are "blamable"? Not we; we blame nobody: what is the use of it? Besides, we don't like to be

blamed ourselves, especially when we are in the wrong. We like to be coaxed, and called sensible, and to have people wonder good-naturedly (not spitefully) how people so very shrewd can do any thing erroneous; and then we love them, and wish to be led right by people so very intelligent, and know no bounds to our wish to please them. So the measure which we like ourselves we would fain deal out to others. You may do it without any insincerity, if the patient have but one good or sensible quality, or one sweet drop in his heart, from which comfort is to be squeezed into the cup of advice. And who has not this? But it may be said, it is not to be found. No? Then the eyesight is very bad, or the patient is not to be mended, a case luckily as rare as it is melancholy, and to be looked upon as a madness. The best step to be taken in that instance is to give him as little advice, and see that he does as little harm, as possible. For all reasonable care is to be taken of the comfort even of those who give none. They are a part of the human race.

As to our sickly friends before mentioned, all we shall say to them is, what was said by an abrupt but benevolent friend of ours to the startled ears of a fine

lady,- "Get out!"

Well, I never!" exclaimed the lady.

The reader knows the perfection of meaning implied by that imperfect sentence, "Well, I never!" However, the lady was not only a fine lady, but a shrewd woman: so she "got out," and was a goer out afterwards, and lived happily enough to benefit others by her example.