'Do you suppose that the text is generally as Æschylus left it?' 'It had become much corrupted and interpolated; but the labors of our great critics have probably nearly restored it to its original purity. Many of the manuscript copies were evidently erroneous. The great German scholars have made many conjectural emendations, of unspeakable value. Indeed, hardly any department of philological criticism has been cultivated with more zeal, and more astonishing results, than that of _conjectural emendation_.' 'But do you not suppose that Æschylus would object to some of the improved readings, if he could see them?' 'Oh! you now call to mind a dream which I had last night. If I were a believer in dreams, it would make me quite discouraged; and as it is, my mind has been rather gloomy this morning. I dreamed that as I was studying the 'Prometheus,' all at once Æschylus himself made his appearance. How, or whence, I did not seem to inquire; but in some way, (for you know dreams are incoherent and unaccountable,) I knew it to be Æschylus. His appearance was noble and imposing. He was past the middle age; his hair was 'of a sable-silver,' about midway in its progress toward the whiteness of old age, and fell carelessly over his elevated and strongly-marked forehead. His features were strong and almost severe, and his complexion brown and hardy. His whole appearance was not that of the pale scholar, nor of the well-fed nobleman, but of the man of action and exposure--strongly constituted, and sternly disciplined in the world. I told him I was studying his dramas. He seemed astonished. 'I supposed,' said he, 'they had perished long ago, or had been laid aside as specimens of the early and untrained efforts of the mind. I wrote them with labor indeed, but I wrote them for my own age, and did not dream that they would occupy the attention of posterity. You certainly must have those which are much better.' I then told him of our labors in the perusal of his writings, and our delight in them. In order to convince him of the reality of such efforts, and of their success, I opened before him the commentaries of our first scholars. He seemed amazed. 'Can it be,' he replied, 'that so much explanation is necessary?' My hearers never complained of obscurity.' 'But,' replied I, 'we live in a distant age, and speak a different language; in order, therefore, to see and feel the beauties of your writings, much explanation is necessary.'