rafat." We want the usage of Arabic authors, and not the Arabic definitions of Arabic lexicons.

While Freytag is complete enough for Arabic literature in its infancy, and in its palmy state under the Caliphs, whose splendid patronage fostered it into a maturity as brilliant as it was short-lived, it omits many words and many significations of words, which actually occur in the Arabic documents we have occasion to read, merely because they are not classical. The literary world is not ready for a classical Arabic lexicon. Nor will it ever be, till, for Christian purposes, it needs authors to write in that language. Now, all are tyros. And no matter if a word has been coined or corrupted by Copt or Turk, Persian or Indian, wé need to know its meaning more than we need to know that it or its meaning is unclassical. The colloquial and commercial terms, the ungrammatical forms, and improper significations, which are found in Castell and Richardson, ought not to have been despised. Rich additions also might have been made from the recent French and Arabic lexicons of Berggren and Bocthor, of these important Turkish and Mogrebbin corruptions, and, from the Calcutta "Camus," of those which have originated in Persia and India.

Freytag has generally omitted proper names, and perhaps rightly. But, till we can have a new "Bibliothèque Orientale," combining the matter of D'Herbelot with that of Assemann, and giving Arabic and Syriac names in Arabic and Syriac letters, there will be an inconvenience from the omission of proper names. At any rate, Freytag ought to have inserted all names of places, which are taken as surnames. This he could have done from Assoiuti's "Dictionary of Surnames," a manuscript of which was near him. He ought also to have inserted all names of persons and places on which proverbs or phrases are founded. Here the "Notes on Meidani" would have aided him.

Though the work is now somewhat rich in technical terms, yet it might well have abounded in them much more. The author seems to have been discouraged in this branch of his work, because he found that the technical, and particularly the botanical, terms of Forskäl and Niebuhr were confined to a particular region, or were not to be trusted on account of their false orthography. This, however, ought to have been expected, and, instead of discouraging, should have impelled

the author of the lexicon to gird up his energies for a triumph over the difficulty. Every language, which is diffused over an extended surface, is subject to this inconvenience. Look at our own. In Boston, a horse is called a horse; in Delaware and Maryland, a crittur; in Virginia, a hoss; and further south, a beast. In New England, the leafy envelope of an ear of Indian corn is called the husk, in Virginia the shuck; while the spike, on which it grows, is called in the north the cob, and in the south the husk. Instead of omitting words on this account, Freytag should have given them, with some convenient mark to indicate their locale. For such a work he had help enough in the Travels of Shaw, Seetzen, Burckhardt, and others, and particularly in the dictionaries of Berggren and Bocthor.

Freytag's etymologies are often questionable, except where they had passed under the observation of previous scholars. As this part of the work needed a philosophical mind more than extensive Oriental reading, it needed not to be overlooked. A defect kindred with this is found in the arrangement of the significations, without any steady regard to their historical relations, or to sound philosophical principles.

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Professor Freytag seems to have been too impatient in preparing his work, to make it that enduring monument to his memory which it might have been. He asks us in the simplicity of his heart, "Nonne timendum enim, — si tardior moras facerem, ne alius quis simile quid edendo præveniret?" True. But delay enough to have made the work tolerably complete, might have secured patronage for it in future ages. Now, it must soon be superseded by a better. Nevertheless, till a better is offered, this deserves our commendation for this one reason, if for no other; namely, that it meets, in a respectable way, the pressing demand for an Arabic lexicon of some sort; and that, for a third of the sum which Golius would cost, it gives us the substance of that great work, with some real improvements. In this country, this grace of cheapness will not fail to be estimated; for while we, as a people, are neither poor nor very penurious, our commercial spirit, which in some seems to occupy the place of a soul, is not above being soothed by a good bargain.

The value of this work, in short, is real; its faults, though great, are mostly negative. Therefore let it be bought

and used, and diligently put to its work in the advancement of Arabic learning in these western ends of the earth.

With regard to the Nepos of Freytag, the abridgment of his lexicon, we may, in closing, inake a single remark. Abridgments are bad in their best estate. If a work is abridged by its author, it is usually a monster. Every thing else is apt to be so curtailed, as to give prominence to his pets, his awkward hobbies. I it is abridged by another, he process is commonly that of d'stillation, in which the spirit or essence is distilled out. The architect must plan his work at first, either large or small. He must lay his kee for a ship or a boat, and finish accordingly. A razeed thing can never be better than a deformity. But if one will perpetrate an abridgment, he is surely bound to his reader and to his bookseller, to explain on what principles the curtailment is made, else we will not buy, or so much as borrow it, lest we be deceived in our dependence on it. This, Freytag has not done in his abridgment. We find rots with unbroken masses of derivatives, or with important conjugations left out; and we know not why. The reason may have been a good one; but, as we know it not, we cannot trust the work. It may have been prepared for certain chrestomathies, or courses of Arabic reading; but, as we are ignorant what it was designed to be used for, we can use it, with satisfaction, for nothing. Accordingly, for a work at once small, cheap, and convenient, we still cleave to Wilmet with which we know we can read the Koran, which is fundamental in Arabic scholarship, Hariri, the great and only epic poet, the Homer of the Desert, and the life of Timui, one of the most delightful Arabic histories.

ART. VIII. The Life and Times of the Rev. GEORGE WHITEFIELD, M. A. BY ROBERT PHILIP.

One

WHITEFIELD has enjoyed a traditional reputation in some respects, no doubt, resembling that of a great player; and, as he has left nothing behind him, in theology or literature, to

justify his celebrity as a preacher, it has seemed that he was to remain a traditional wonder of pulpit acting, and nothing more. He was to have that popular, but not wholly desirable kind of fame, which is perpetuated by anecdotes, pointed sayings, and ingenious and amusing exaggerations. We might read, that Hume thought it well worth one's while to go twenty miles out of his way to hear him; and that Dr. Franklin, on one occasion, instead of listening to the sermon, walked from street to street in the neighbourhood, to make some exceedingly characteristic calculations of the reach of his voice. His pathos and thunders were proverbial. There was something picturesque in his preaching to thousands under the open sky, and turning every incident and object to his purpose. There was something romantic in his adventurous itinerancy on an errand of love to human beings. Surely here was material enough for stories and descriptions of the wonderful preacher.

Whitefield had evidently made a deep impression on the imaginations of the men of his day; for, in every account they gave of his preaching, there was a distinct image of the man, of his look, his action, his fervor; and some particular point was remembered, that he had made in his discourse. It seemed as if there was, every time, some new effect or uncommon incident, to fix the sermon in every memory, to be transmitted to at least one generation. We remember hearing two of our public men describe Whitefield many years ago. They were then aged, and disposed to value the solid more than the showy. They were of ripe years and judgment when they heard him, and, though of strong passions, yet good masters of themselves and disposed to see the whole of things. And the imagination of the one was filled. with his preaching a farewell sermon on Boston Common at sunrise, and investing the new-born day with a glory the eye had never seen; it became a religious memorial. The other dwelt upon the flight of the dove towards heaven, and gave Whitefield's action as his soul seemed to follow the waving of its wings. They had probably forgotten much of the doctrine, but the image was fixed for ever.

But what can narrative and description do to give us an idea of a great speaker? If fond himself of contemplating renowned and useful examples, that are never to perish, he may think it a hard fate, that so much power must cease for

ever with himself, that the subtile essence of oratory, its life and virtue, are as evanescent as a beautiful cloud or a grand thunder-peal. Roscius has a classical immortality, but it is only a name to be called and given. He is celebrated by those whom we venerate, and thus has a sort of life, and yet it is nothing. The Hermit of the Crusades has a better hold upon us; for, though we cannot conceive his eloquence, yet we know that it set the heart of Catholic and chivalrous Europe on fire, and drove countless multitudes upon expeditions that have left their mark on all ages since. We may read descriptions of pictures, buildings, and statues, and, if we have an eye or mind for such things, we may obtain distinct, and perhaps just ideas. But how is the orator to be brought before us? How is the ear to gather the lost note that thrilled living masses, and made them as one man? This music cannot be written and reproduced through ages. How is the look, the movement, or even the attitude of passionate or graphic eloquence to be preserved in words? Cardinal Maury has described Massillon. From another writer we have an elaborate account of Lord Brougham's manner. It is no matter that their descriptions are exaggerated. This may be necessary for true effect. The colossal need not be monstrous. But it is observable, that each has painted a scene rather than an individual, and given us a good idea of a result, while all the painful minuteness of description was intended, and we think in vain, to acquaint us with the means. It must always be so. The best descriptions will fail of what we most want.

Without pursuing this familiar topic, we repeat, that Whitefield may be thought to have died with his voice. And why lament it? He had his day of glory. He had the pleasure of ceaseless activity. He had his battles and victories. He drew all eyes and ears to himself. He was not shut up in the theatre of a city, like Garrick, but sent forth his voice over the earth, day and night, in the wilderness and in the streets, amidst the blasphemies of sailors and the howling of the ocean storm,-in old, populous England, and along the scattered settlements of the new world. It is enough to have made such a stir in his own time. It need not be regretted, that a day like his has past, and that he has not left us one great sermon.

But this very obvious view of Whitefield's case is also a