iv
ing of the slavonian language, dismisses it as ἀτεχνῶς βαρβαρος; and the συλα βηνοι returned the compliment by attaching to the words Cžud (foreigner), or Wlach (gaul), all the associations of contempt.
There are many pharisees in literature as well as in religion, wrapped up in the garments of self-idolatry, and making their very deficiencies the ground of their highest complacency. There are many blind wanderers through unbounded fields of instruction, who can discover nothing but nakedness—nothing but barrenness around them. Fertility itself offers no attractions to them—how much less can they understand the power of that benign principle which makes the waters gush forth, fresh, pure, and sparkling, from the very rocks of the desert.
If one purpose more than another has been ever present to my mind, in the attempts I have made to glean some stalks among the foreign harvests of literature, it has been, to extend the circle of benevolence and of generous affections. I know, for instance, how strong, how ancient, the antipathies between the slavonian and teutonic races, and some
