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of the cases stands a rigorous scrutiny, and they are not relied upon as the main justification of the continuance of classics. A new line of defense is opened up that was not at all present to the minds of sixteenth-century scholars. We are told of numerous indirect and secondary advantages of cultivating language in general and the classic languages in particular, which make the acquisition a rewarding labor, even without one particle of the primary use. But for these secondary advantages, languages could have no claim to appear, with such enormous values, in the Civil Service scheme.

My purpose requires me to advert to these alleged secondary uses of language—not, however, for the purpose of counter-arguing them, but rather to indicate what seems to me the true mode of bringing them to the proof.

The most usual phraseology for describing the indirect benefit of languages is that they supply a training to the powers of the mind; that, if not information, they are culture; that they react upon our mastery of our own language, and so on. It is quite necessary, however, to find terms more definite and tangible than the slippery words "culture" and "training;" we must know in precise language what particular powers or aptitudes are increased by the study of a foreign language. Nevertheless, the conclusions set forth in this paper do not require me to work out an exhaustive review of these advantages. It is enough to give as many as will serve for examples.

Now, it must be freely admitted, as a possible case, that a practice introduced, in the first instance, for a particular purpose, may be found applicable to many other purposes; so much so that, ceasing to be employed for the original use, this practice may be kept up for the sake of the after-uses. For example, clothing was no doubt primarily contrived for warmth; but it is not now confined to that—decoration or ornament, distinction of sexes, ranks, and offices, modesty—are also attained by means of clothes. This example is a suggestive one. We have only to suppose ourselves migrating to some African climate, where clothing for warmth is absolutely dispensed with. We should not on that account adopt literal nudity—we should still desire to maintain those other advantages. The artistic decoration of the person would continue to be thought of; and, as no amount of painting and tattooing, with strings of beads superadded, would answer to our ideal of personal elegance, we should have recourse to some light, filmy textures, that would allow the displays of drapery, colors, and design, and show off the poetry of motion; we should also indicate the personal differences that we were accustomed to show by vesture. But now comes the point of the moral: we should not maintain our close, heavy fabrics, our great-coats, shawls, and cloaks. These would cease with the need for them. Perhaps the first emigrants could keep up the prejudice for their warm things, but not so their successors.