which is presented by the speculations of no other ancient writer. We know that he resorted to it as a refuge from the cares and sorrows of life; that he found consolation in adversity; and that, as far as nature could be made to yield to false or imperfect views, his life was an illustration of his maxims, and gave a sanction to the opinions he advocated. Standing alone in the midst of desolation, with the graves of his friends around him, and the ruins of his country beneath his feet, with no light to cheer him but the stars that glimmered coldly and feebly in the night of paganism, his great spirit is still borne up and sustained by its own innate energies; he hears a voice that whispers of immortality, and a happiness beyond the reach of mortal cares and woes. He penetrates the mystery of life, and discovers that its toils and troubles are to end in eternal joy. He recognises in Nature the universal mind which is God; and he discovers in his own soul, the image and likeness of this all-pervading spirit. The bow of promise is traced before him in the firmament, and the glorious harmony of revolving worlds bursts upon his ravished

ear.

To all, then, to whom the study of man is interesting, who would fathom the depths of the soul, who would comprehend its native, unaided energies, these writings will never cease to preserve their value. As models of beautiful composition, they are unrivalled in the works of all antiquity; and they are inspired by a spirit of eloquence, fervor, and majestic philosophy, which may read many a solemn and impressive lesson, even to the favored disciple of a better Teacher.

Before proceeding to examine the philosophy and religion of Cicero, we wish to portray a few of the most remarkable features of the prevailing Grecian systems, to which his attention was directed, and which may be supposed to have exerted an influence in forming his views. It will not be necessary, in doing this, to enter into a minute examination of the various theories of the Academy, the Garden, and the Porch. There are to be found in all the ancient systems, a few prevailing and important principles, which it is our object to trace; and in which they have a general resemblance.

The great object of all ancient philosophy, was happiness; and the means by which all the various systems sought to attain this end, was by alleviating, or conquering the sufferings which await our mortal career. In these general points, they

greatly resemble each other. The Epicurean sought happiness by the power of enduring and despising pain, not less than the Stoic. The Platonist blended the philosophy of both; with the Epicurean, he agreed that all pleasure is not to be contemned; with the Stoic, he allowed that virtue is the greatest good.

The first great point of resemblance between these different systems, the first pervading principle which we discover in all, is, that they use their efforts to reconcile great inconsistencies. The fact that man alone, of all created things, is made susceptible of sorrow, was a riddle that none could read aright. To those who denied the immortality of the soul, it was a mystery wholly impenetrable. To the Platonist, it afforded an argument in favor of a future existence; but this belief, though it gave him consolation, still did not explain the wonder. "Why," he still asked, "is man born to sorrow?"

In truth, the life of man appeared to the pagan world, only a cruel mockery. Endowed with capacities to suffer, and visited with bitter afflictions, his very existence was tragedy. Fate, stern, relentless fate hung over him, and beset his pathway. His soul was filled with longings, that were never to be gratified, and rent with passions, that could never be laid to sleep. He was surrounded by objects of happiness and enjoyment, which did but contrast with his own misery. All nature seemed to rejoice, while he alone was wretched. The sounds that met his ear on every side, the gay carol of the birds, the sportive hum of insects, the gentle murmur of the trees and the rivulets, the roar of the torrent, and the joyous gamboling of the floods, all served but to warn him, that he alone was laden with sorrow. Encompassed with the emblems of eternity, he felt with unutterable anguish, that he, the lord of all, was mortal. On every side, he was reminded of his own frail and comparatively transient existence; the rocks and the everlasting hills, the rivers, that flowed on for countless ages, the ceaseless rolling of the illimitable and fathomless ocean, the unwearied motion of the heavens, the never-dying lustre of the sun and stars, seemed only to deride his span of existence. Why then was man created only to suffer and to die?

To triumph over the sorrows and afflictions of this mortal career, to make life a season of enjoyment, to concentrate in the present state of being, that happiness, which, by man's

very nature, belongs only to a future life, was the great end of all ancient philosophy; and herein consisted the impossibility which it attempted to achieve. In reasoning upon the present existence, as man's ultimate destiny, and in regarding it otherwise than as a preparation for immortality, the ancient systems undertook to reconcile inconsistencies, which could never be overcome.

And

To accomplish the great end of making life endurable, and, if possible, happy, it was necessary to crush, root out, and destroy many of the qualities innate in the soul. here we find another great feature pervading all the ancient systems. To bear sorrow, they endeavoured not to cheer the mind by the assurance that its strength and purity were to be attained and increased through trials, but by conquering those propensities which render it susceptible of suffering. The loss of friends was a bitter evil, and the philosophy of Greece, therefore, bade us bury the memory of their love with them in the grave. The dread of death is an instinctive sentiment; and the Epicurean would persuade us to conquer it, by the belief that total insensibility succeeds dissolution. Even the acute mind of Socrates failed to discover, or dared not confess, that the idea of annihilation is utterly abhorrent to the soul. In short, to enable man to find the happiness for which he was destined by nature, this philosophy sought to narrow and confine the spirit to a mortal career alone; and to trample upon every emotion, passion, susceptibility, which belonged to a more than finite existence. The throbbings of a love too vast for earth, the affections which revealed a better nature, the tenderness and trust which the world would rebuke and disappoint, the power to sympathize and share in the sorrows of others, the delicacy of soul, which, in the hour of trial, must be sustained by more than human strength, all these were to be conquered, quelled, laid to rest for ever.

The different systems agreed in another important point; they refused to acknowledge the gods which were worshipped by the mass of the people. Here, undoubtedly, they accomplished some good. They put an end to superstition, as far as they had any influence, and to those degrading rites which even the tasteful mythology of Greece ordained; and in this respect, they no doubt gave freedom to the mind, and enabled it to rise above the uninstructed and uninitiated herd. But in doing away the religious systems that prevailed, they struck a

death-blow at one of the noblest instincts of the soul, its power and propensity to worship and adore. The Epicurean and the Stoic taught the doctrine that either there were no gods, or none to whom worship was due; and the disciples of Plato, though taught to look up to the Universal Mind as an object of imitation, do not seem to have comprehended the feeling of devotion or gratitude towards the Supreme Power. And herein the ancient philosophy seems to us to have done the deepest wrong to our nature; for if there is one instinct more fully developed, more universally apparent, more deeply rooted than all others, it is the impulse to prayer and adoration. The most benighted and barbarous ignorance cannot stifle it, the most advanced civilization does but aid and promote it.

Such were some of the leading features which pervaded all the philosophy of Greece. That the doctrines of Plato went far beyond all others in their approach to the truth, and their fitness to meet the wants of the mind, there can be no doubt. He distinctly expresses his belief in the immortality of the soul, making this, indeed, the leading feature of his philosophy. His idea of the Deity was pure, rational, and exalted; and his views of life, in many respects, extremely just.

In matters of doctrine, Cicero did not advance beyond Plato. Yet we should be unwilling to call him a mere disciple of the Grecian sage, for we cannot help feeling, that, had Socrates and Plato never lived, he would have arrived at nearly the same conclusions. His belief in immortality, which he declares in so many noble passages in all his works, his vast comprehension of God, his unconquerable love of duty and virtue, seem the promptings of a divine instinct, rather than the blind adoption of another man's principles. Much regret has been expressed, that instead of discussing the systems of other philosophers, he did not direct his efforts to the establishment of a philosophy of his own. But we cannot feel this regret. On the contrary, we rejoice that he has added his testimony in favor of those doctrines, which seem to us the nearest approach that unaided man can make to Christianity. With unerring and elevated perception, he gathers from the philosophy of Greece all that it contained of truth and beauty, and power to assuage grief, or to cheer the spirit in its efforts. But, at the same time, there was a strength of sentiment, which utterly refused to yield to the blighting and crushing

He could not,

influences that the ancient systems exerted. with the Stoic, trample upon those finer principles of the soul, which are nearest akin to a divine nature. He could not, with the Epicurean, yield himself up to a life of selfish enjoyment, for there was a nobleness in his nature, which whispered to him, that he could find no happiness where duty and honor were not the leading motives. He could not, with Plato, hold that reason alone was divine; because he felt within him those affections and yearnings, and that depth and intensity of sentiment, which were above reason, and which more loudly vindicated their immortality. He embraced the speculative doctrines of Plato, as far as his keen instinct discovered truth in them; but his spirit was ever soaring beyond the walls that encompassed it, and seeking for something that was more consoling, more responsive to its wants, than he could find in the lore of all antiquity. And herein we discover one of the great causes of that sadness which marks almost his whole history. Happy indeed would it have been, if he could have rooted out and destroyed that extreme delicacy and sensitiveness, which form so distinguishing a trait in his character. His frantic grief, and his unmanly lamentations, during his exile, would then have been restrained and overcome; and his mourning at the death of his daughter would not have refused comfort. But he had not acquired this selfcommand. He possessed all the tenderness of feeling, all the sympathy and strong affection which are kept alive in the heart of the true Christian; but he wanted that support and consolation which the Christian receives from his religion. The letter addressed to him by his friend Sulpicius, on the death of his daughter, is one of the most celebrated and admirable specimens of ancient practical philosophy that has come down to us. One passage, which has been particularly admired, we cite entire.

"On my return out of Asia, as I was sailing from Æginatowards Megara, I amused myself with contemplating the circumjacent countries. Behind me lay Ægina, before me Megara; on my right I saw the Piræus, and on my left, Corinth. These cities, once so flourishing and magnificent, now presented nothing to my view, but a sad spectacle of desolation. Alas! I said to myself, shall such a short-lived creature as man com plain, when one of his species falls, either by the hand of violence, or by the common course of nature; whilst in this nar