University of Virginia Library

V. School of Ancient Languages

In the beginning, the rule was adopted that no student
should be admitted to the School of Ancient Languages
unless, in its professor's judgment, he was qualified to
read the Latin and Greek classics of the advanced grades.
It will be recalled that Jefferson was opposed to any portion
of that professor's time being taken up in drilling a
primary class, and it was partly the hope of devising a
substitute which led him to advocate so earnestly the
establishment of the intermediate district colleges. So
exacting was his standard for this preliminary training,
that Chapman Johnson, his colleague on the Board of

Visitors, protested that he demanded that "the student
should be a better scholar than most of our teachers before
he shall enjoy the benefit of classical instruction in
the University." "Whilst it is certainly proper," he
added, "that the professor of ancient languages should
not teach the elements, and should confine his attention to
the higher aspects,—to critical dissertation on their beauties
and defects, and to illustrations of their history, structure,
genius, and philosophy,—yet care should be taken
not to deprive too many of the benefits of his professorship
by excluding those who lack attainments in the languages."

The only grades of instruction in Latin and Greek
which Jefferson approved, disclose that he had really an
advanced seat of learning in mind, whilst Johnson was
satisfied that the new institution should occupy, in some
of its important courses, the platform of an ordinary college.
The superficiality in preparatory classical training,
during these early years, was so great in the case of many
of the students that the University was compelled to exercise
some of the functions of a mere academy. A rigid
test of admission to the School of Ancient Languages
would have reduced the number of pupils to a very sensible
degree, and its influence would, in consequence, have
been very much contracted. It was to get around this
that an elastic significance was given to the requirement
that those entering should be familiar with the "higher
works" of the Latin and Greek authors,—which was interpreted
as meaning that the pupil had been carried
through the Metamorphosis of Ovid, and the Commentaries
of Cæsar, in the limited curriculum of a secondary
private school, and was, therefore, qualified to be promoted
to the next grade.

There were two influences that prevented the introduction

of such unripe scholars from sinking the reputation of
the chair. The first was general, and also operative
through a protracted series of years: it was the supreme
attention that was paid to the senior classes at the very
time that the junior were not neglected. It was the senior
classes in which the most fertilizing work was done; and
it was this work, and not that of the junior classes, which
gave the school its very high standing. The other influence
was the character for genuineness and thoroughness
which the fruitful and contagious scholarship of
Long stamped upon that school from the hour when its
lecture-room was first thrown open; he was associated
with it during three years only; but he established for it
a vivid tradition of exacting standards, which set a pace
for its conduct that has never slackened throughout its history.
It was not his habit to deliver a formal expository
lecture. Generally at the meeting of his higher classes, he
required one hundred lines from Virgil and Thucydides
to be read, followed by translations from Horace or some
other author, Greek or Latin; or he varied this programme
by examinations in Greek or Latin grammar,—
all answers being submitted in writing. The grammatical
constructions were illustrated by copious references
to different authors. The students were directed
to follow up each reference; and in doing so, they became
familiar, not only with the special constructions which
they verified, but with the general text of the authors
thus used. It was a course of study that called for close
attention and indefatigable labor, "but," says Gessner
Harrison, Long's most distinguished pupil, "it was most
interesting."

Long commanded the respect but not the affection of
all his pupils. He was inclined to show his detestation
of ignorance or shallowness in his classes, not by openly

quarreling with the delinquents, but by quiet sarcasms that
cut deep into the gristle of their conceit. No one, however,
who was honestly concerned about his work, and
endeavored to prepare for it with zeal and intelligence,
was ever the victim of a severe reprimand, or even mild
rebuke from him. Long was fully in harmony with Jefferson's
thoughtful view, that the history and geography
of a people should be studied simultaneously with its
language. History, geography, language,—each formed
a vital link in his comprehensive exposition of the two
great courses embraced in his professorship. His capacity
as a teacher was not confined to the instruction of
University classes,—he drew up, at General Cocke's
request, a plan for the education of Cocke's youngest son
in the ancient languages, which brings out in the clearest
light his practical insight into his calling down to the
rudiments, as well as the thoughtful philosophy of his
scholarship. The course which he was anxious for this
boy to study was the one which he urged as necessary to
the right preparation of every Virginian pupil who expected
to enter the University after leaving the private
school. How small was the knowledge of the Grecian
tongue possessed by some of those who were admitted
to his lowest class, was revealed in his statement that a
youth who had read two books of Xenophon, with a
teacher's assistance, in the manner which he had recommended
for General Cocke's son, and had afterwards
mastered the remaining books of that author, without
such assistance, "would know more Greek than nine-tenths
of the students who came to the University."

Gessner Harrison, Long's successor, caught his first
inspiration from Long's example. In 1830, he divided
the students in the Greek course into two classes. The
first comprised those who were able to show a thorough

familiarity with Xenophon's Anabasis when they entered
the University. The members of this class were, towards
the end of the session, advanced to a play of Euripides,
and, at the same time, grounded in metre and
prosody. In the meanwhile, they had been required to
study the formation and composition of words. The text
of each was illustrated by a running commentary on the
literature, arts, manners, customs, politics, and commerce
of that period; and also by the geographical divisions
which then existed. The second class was composed of
the students who had passed the examinations of the first
year, or had entered the University equipped to pursue
the highest course in the language. They began with
Herodotus, went on to a play of Euripides or Aeschylus,
and ended with the epic of the Iliad, and the dramas of
Sophocles and Aristophanes. The fundamental qualities
of these great writers; the differences in style which
distinguished each from the rest; and the light thrown
upon their text by contemporary history, literature, and
geography,—all were presented with care and thoroughness.

But Harrison was not satisfied with the work that was
done in his lecture-room. Not many authors could be
adequately treated within so limited a time. He aimed
to inspire his pupils with such a thirsty taste for the language
that they would ardently continue its study in their
dormitories by following out parallel courses of reading
in Thucydides, Plato, and the Athenian Orators, which
he had recommended, and which he himself undertook for
his own recreation. One who knew him in life[5] relates
that, among his vivid recollections of this venerated
teacher, was that of seeing him stretched at length on a
sofa as deeply absorbed in a Greek classic as some young

lady might be in the last sensational novel from the circulating
library.

His scheme of instruction in Latin followed exactly
the same line in general as it did in Greek. The division
here was in two classes also. The initial study of the first
class was confined to the satires of Horace and Juvenal, a
play of Terence, and certain Epistles of Cicero. In the
meanwhile, tuition was given in prosody and metre, and
also a full description of the history, literature, religion,
civic and domestic institutions of the Roman people. The
course of the second class embraced the Epistles of Horace
and the De Arta Poetica, the Georgics of Virgil, the plays
of Terence or Plautus, the Annals of Tacitus and the
Orations of Cicero. The students of this class were made
familiar with the resources of the Roman Empire, its
colonial system, its military and civic establishments, its
arts, antiquities, commerce, and geographical divisions.
There was also, for their improvement, an exhaustive exposition
of the principles of the language. In the School
of Latin, as in that of Greek, they were urged and inspired
to push their investigations beyond the normal tasks
of the classroom; and with that in view, specific courses
of reading were recommended to them in such authors as
Cicero, Livy, Lucretius, and Plautus, and in the Epigrams
of Martial. A written translation of the text assigned
from day to day was expected of all; and, occasionally,
this translation had to be turned back into the original
tongue. Harrison correctly looked upon this to be as
useful an exercise in teaching the English language as in
teaching the Latin or Greek; and the benefit which he
thus conferred on his students was one of the most fruitful
that sprang from his memorable career as an instructor.

In 1836, the two classes of the Latin and Greek languages

respectively came to be designated as senior and
junior as more representative of their real character.
Hebrew formed a part of this important school; but the
demand for tuition in it seems never to have been sufficient
to call together even a small number of pupils.
Although Harrison had been so recently trained by one
of the most competent of English classical scholars, he
soon fell under the influence of the German method expounded
in the first part of Bopp's epochal grammar, issued
in 1833, a copy of which he received from Long.
Bopp compared the Sanscrit language with the languages,
not only of Ancient Europe, but of Modern. He was the
pioneer in that illuminating field of research. Harrison
was young enough to be susceptible to the spirit of innovation;
and he seems to have seized upon Bopp's ideas
with the most intelligent eagerness. He introduced comparative
etymology into his courses at a time when it
was held in small esteem in the other institutions of
England and America, and when it was neglected even
in Germany itself. In spite of the fact that the burden
of his professorial tasks left him but slim leisure for
gathering original data, he was able, by his own gleanings,
to collect enough to form the basis of his excellent
Latin Grammar. This book was given by an American
student to Curtius, the most celebrated master of comparative
etymology then alive. Curtius read it. "This
is a good book," he said, when returning it, "an excellent
book for the time it appeared."

Harrison's manner of studying classical syntax has
been pronounced by capable scholars to be, for its day,
of very striking originality. He rejected the deductive
method of the German school and adopted the inductive.
Having garnered and analyzed a mass of facts, he drew
from them definite principles which appeared to comprehend

them all; and using these principles like a chemical
test, sought, through them, to offer a satisfactory explanation
of such facts as subsequently fell under his
notice. His enthusiasm in this work of exposition is
illustrated by an anecdote that was told of him. A
friend, who was as keenly interested as himself in philology,
dropped in to dinner. When Harrison entered
the room, he was so bursting with his last discovery,
that he could scarcely stop long enough to thank the
Lord for the meal. "I think I have found it, sir," he
exclaimed, "I am about sure I have got the true explanation
of meta in the sense of after."

We are indebted to Dr. John A. Broadus, one of his
pupils, for a graphic description of his style as a lecturer:
"He had not a ready command of expression, and his
first statements of an idea were often partial, involved,
and obscure. But he perfectly knew,—a thing not very
common,—when he had, and when he had not, made
himself clear. He would, by variety of expression
searching for the right word or phrase, approach the
thought from different directions, gradually closing in till
he seized it; and when he reached his final expression, it
was vigorous, clear, and complete. Then he would watch
his audience with lively interest, and if he saw many
clouded faces, would repeat his process with all manner
of illustrations and iterations, till at last the greater part
of them could see clearly."[6] It was not very often that
he,—who never joked with his class, though pleasantly
familiar with them,—indulged in that form of pedagogical
oratory which the collegians somewhat irreverently,
but quite picturesquely, spoke of as "curling." But on

one occasion, he allowed himself to be so warmed up
by his interest in his subject as to rise to a remarkable
height of moving utterance. A student among those
present who was listening, slowly turned his head and
sarcastically winked at his neighbor. The Doctor observed
the act, and abruptly stopped in the full career of
his discourse. In the midst of an appalling silence, he
then said, "Gentlemen, while I was trying in my poor
way to set forth a historical fact, my effort provoked derision
from one gentleman. I am sorry that I failed to
awaken his interest, and secure his respect." The delinquent,
so soon as the class was dismissed, offered a full
apology.

But Harrison, as we have stated, was not often disposed
to imitate his colleague, William B. Rogers, distinguished
far and wide for vivid eloquence in the classroom.
So unceasing was the labor imposed upon him
by the duties of his double professorship, piled up on
those of the chairmanship, which he so long occupied,
that he was occasionally rather somnolent in giving his
customary instruction. On a certain day, he was lecturing
to his Latin class, and there was a sudden halt in
the current of his exposition,—the professor had
dropped asleep,—but opening his eyes with a start, he
excused himself to his pupils for his drowsiness, and, refreshed,
resumed his subject with his normal vigor.