Too much depends upon language to neglect it with safety. Our own senses acquaint us only with this little scene immediately around us: we fill but a small space, and occupy but a moment of time, in the world's great drama, and language is to be, as it were the great mirror in which the Universe is to be reflected, and her hidden laws revealed. There, as by enchantment, the events of all time shall be exhibited, and the genius and wisdom of all ages gather together and display their stores, and no less of our language than others; such is the nature of language; formed, as it is from different dialects; embodied in literature, and connected with the events of past ages, the study of its history and philosophy opens a field sufficiently ample for the employment of our powers, and furnishes a means to discipline the mind, while at the same time the greatest amount of real and valuable learning can be most readily obtained. Nothing can be more pleasing than the study of our literature in this light: and when we look upon every thing connected with it, as conspiring to a single object,-its progress and perfection,-it then becomes the nucleus, as it is indeed the mirror of knowledge, around which collect the emanations of genius, and the gems of learning, so that it forms the center of one harmonious and luminous system of thought. When we cast our eye along the golden chain of philosophical analogy, and observe how each additional increase of knowledge can be formed into a bright and shining link, and so lengthen the chain of thought till it extends through all our attainments, the difficulty before remarked is removed, and we are prepared to thrid successfully the mysterious labyrinth of learning. Thus the study of the language in its highest and most appropriate sense, strengthens the intellect, and enlarges the understanding : it is thus that the extent of human knowledge, and the accuracy of human thought proceed in equal steps with the accuracy and the extent of language. When language is considered as the instrument of the mind, it assumes powers subtle and sublime as the mind itself. This spiritual connection imparts power to thought, and imbues it with life and immortality. In the mysterious exercise, of the mind and heart, words are like sunbeams, scintillations of the essence from the fountain of light and thought. The narration of mere facts is not the only office which language performs: it acts in a higher and nobler capacity. While it is confined to narration, or reasoning, it is weak, uncertain and often contradictory. In the incipient stage of our thoughts, they are unconnected with words; they are simply ideals or images. When the form of expression is such that it withdraws the attention from the words to these ideals, and traces the relations that exist among them, it reaches the high recesses of thought and feeling, and language is changed and transfigured by the volatile essence of sentiment. Then its elements appear to be not only the types of material things, but the vital transcripts of mind itself. When language reaches beyond the limits of sensible things, and calls up these ideals, these spiritual creations, it is in itself poetry of the highest cast; it elicits thought and feeling, and combines and reflects beauty, for the world of fancy and feeling is subjected to its dominion: and its combinations are modulated, refined and sublimated so as to embody the infinite emanations of truth and beauty. Language in the hands of a master mind is a wonderful instrument: it is the arm of intellectual power: and accomplishes with the moral world what Archimides proposed to do with the physical: it moves and commands the world of mind. Yet it is neglected and considered a matter of no great importance. This insensibility, however, is proportionate to our familiarity with things, Earth and heaven, and the wonders of celestial scenery no longer call forth those thrilling and mingled emotions of beauty, of grandeur, and glory, which they are calculated to inspire: and so it is with the divine institution of language, and we seem even to forget that it is the receptacle of all beautiful forms and images, while it is more wonderful than the fabled wand of enchantment; and more powerful, to call up the airy forms of fairy land; to wake the fancy, and touch the heart; to sway the passions, calm the tumult of conflicting elements, and control the mind, Our native tongue may not have the grace and melody of the Italian, nor the vivacity of the French, or its powers to express abstract thought; it has not the stately grandeur of the Latin, nor the flexibility of the Greek, yet it has sweeter and dearer associations for us, and it has been enriched from all of these, and it is surpassed by none in nerve, copiousness and sublimity. It is generally supposed that the English language is inferior to those languages whose words admit of inflection: this opinion prevails so generally that our language always suffers by comparison. But it is as unfounded as it is general. The majesty and pomp, even of the Latin, by the frequent occurrence of similar sounds dwindles into sameness and insipidity. It admits of great latitude in the arrangement of words, in the construction of a sentence, but it cannot vary the form of expression. It does not admit of so great a variety of sounds as the English, nor is it capable of such an harmonious diversity of tones. There is a beautiful variety in Latin between the different parts of the same verb: as "amo," "amabam," "amaveram," "amavero," and "amem," which the English translations of them; "I love," "I did love," "I had loved," "I shall have loved" and "I may love," do not possess. But when we compare different verbs with one another, in each of these languages, there is the most striking distinction in favor of the latter. It was impossible for the Latins to form a particular set of inflections for each different word, and the verbs amounting to upwards of four thousand, are reduced to four conjugations, and this must necessarily introduce a greater similarity of sounds into the language than where every particular verb retains its own peculiar sound. Again, alliteration has been scouted from the English; but Cicero's famous poetical line is open to as great an objection from an inherent defect in the sameness of form. "O, fortunatam natam me consule Romam.” The music of such poetry might put one to sleep, but it could never wake the deep and varied emotions of the human heart. Objection is often made also, to the English, because it abounds in monosyllables; but this, if closely considered, will not seem to be a defect, but rather a beauty. In the Latin there are but two expressions for the present of the indicative, viz: "amo," and "Ego amo;"-and these are strictly but one expression, whereas in the English it can be varied almost at pleasure, viz: “I love,” “I do love," "love I do," "love do I." These forms vary from the grave to the gay, from the serious to the ludicrous, and produce a fine effect in works of humor and burlesque. The effect of these forms may be further varied by placing the emphasis on different words. Besides the variety which these various forms display, the monosyllable "do," is often used as an intensive word with great effect, and imparts a force and energy to the expression that cannot be produced by a single word. The following line from Shakspeare's Othello is an example of this kind. "Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! and when I love thee fiot, |