ow him, will be able to promote
the interests of Eloquence, or to establish her former glory. It is a
lost cause. Before the vices, which have been so ably described, had
spread a general infection, all true oratory was at an end. The
revolutions in our government, and the violence of the times, began
the mischief, and, in the end, gave the fatal blow.

12. Nor are we to wonder at this event. In the course of human affairs
there is no stability, nothing secure or permanent. It is with our
minds as with our bodies: the latter, as soon as they have attained
their full growth, and seem to flourish in the vigour of health,
begin, from that moment, to feel the gradual approaches of decay. Our
intellectual powers proceed in the same manner; they gain strength by
degrees, they arrive at maturity, and, when they can no longer
improve, they languish, droop, and fade away. This is the law of
nature, to which every age, and every nation, of which we have any
historical records, have been obliged to submit. There is besides
another general law, hard perhaps, but wonderfully ordained, and it is
this: nature, whose operations are always simple and uniform, never
suffers in any age or country, more than one great example of
perfection in the kind [a]. This was the case in Greece, that prolific
parent of genius and of science. She had but one Homer, one Plato, one
Demosthenes. The same has happened at Rome: Virgil stands at the head
of his art, and Cicero is still unrivalled. During a space of seven
hundred years our ancestors were struggling to reach the summit of
perfection: Cicero at length arose; he thundered forth his immortal
energy, and nature was satisfied with the wonder she had made. The
force of genius could go no further. A new road to fame was to be
found. We aimed at wit, and gay conceit, and glittering sentences. The
change, indeed, was great; but it naturally followed the new form of
government. Genius died with public liberty.

13. We find that the discourse of men always conforms to the temper of
the times. Among savage nations [a] language is never copious. A few
words serve the purpose of barbarians, and those are always uncouth
and harsh, without the artifice of connection; short, abrupt, and
nervous. In a state of polished society, where a single ruler sways
the sceptre, the powers of the mind take a softer tone, and language
grows more refined. But affectation follows, and precision gives way
to delicacy. T