THE man of genuine taste and feeling must always look upon his native language with the deepest interest. He has felt its influence at every period of his life, and must own himself indebted to it for much of what he is, as regards both capacity and culture. In childhood it lay around him, at first the strangest among a thousand marvels, then by slow degrees unfolding itself to his comprehension, next aiding him in his rude efforts to make known his childish wants and feelings-at all times growing with him and in him, until at length it has come to be, as it were, a part of his nature, shapes his thoughts, registers his knowledge, and lends to each idea within him the outward form and body, by which alone it becomes visible to others. It is associated with recollections of his early years, the best and happiest of his life, when his mind, rejoicing in its own activity, caught eagerly at each new object, and received impressions never to be effaced. Its words bring back the scenes of his past life; they reanimate the forms of departed friends; they recall the occasions, when differently marshaled, they fell upon his ear, with tidings of the most joyful, or the most solemn import. What wonder, then, that other languages, however rich, various, and musical, seem to him in comparison cold and unmeaning? He may dwell for years in a strange land, and learn to speak a new idiom fluently and well; but whenever, as in dreaming or delirium, the fancy and the passions break loose from the iron bondage of the will, the mind flies back to its first love, and again he hears and utters the sounds which have long been strangers to both tongue and ear.

But there are special reasons why we, whose native language is the English, should cherish it with peculiar pride and fondness. It is a badge of lofty birth, by which we claim descent, not from titled fools or princely ruffians, but from the bold, free, Saxon race-"a race born to be, in no land, hewers of wood or drawers of water,"-surpassed it may be by others in grace, quickness, and dexterity-surpassed by none in honesty, earnestness, and fearless independence. It stands connected with ennobling historical associations. The ancient Roman might extol his language, as the chosen organ of conquest and of empire, which had spoken in terms of irresistible authority to a subject world. Ours is a nobler boast. In English accents tyranny has heard its death-knell, and oppressed humanity hailed with joy the voice of the deliverer. But apart from these external advantages, the language which we speak challenges high admiration for its intrinsic excellence. It possesses an exceedingly rich and copious vocabulary; and as it draws its resources at once from the Saxon and the Latin, it combines the simple fidelity of the one, with the polish and cultivation of the other. Without being remarkably distinguished for either subtlety or precision, and although certainly deficient in ease and lightness, it is nevertheless a language of extraordinary capabilities, energetic, grave, and manly, admirably fitted for the exhibition of practical truth, and eminently a language of business and business men. It is, perhaps, adapted rather to the wants of the statesman, and orator, and historian, than to those of the poet; though as regards the expression of intense feeling, and the use of sublime imagery, it leaves the latter very little to desire. The highest praise which we can bestow upon it, is to say that it is worthy of the literature which it contains —a literature such, that if we were to exchange it for the extant treasures of any other tongue, however much we might gain in particular departments, it can scarcely be doubted that we must be losers on the whole.

It is the way with some, when they get hold of a good thing, to mix up with it so much extravagance and folly, that the whole affair becomes ridiculous. If we consider attentively those pets, so cherished by their owners, and so laughed at by all the world beside, known under the familiar name of hobbies, we shall find in general that they contain something just and true, though concealed under a rubbish heap of overlying absurdity. For example, the attainment and preservation of a pure English style, is in itself a commendable object of pursuit, but when taken up by a certain class of critics, it becomes a genuine hobby. The people to whom we refer, are always exhibiting a restless and anxious solicitude, lest the

language should receive some detriment. A new word or a new phrase fills them with alarm. As the old Romans made no distinction between "hostis" and "peregrinus ;" so they, in judging of words, look upon every stranger as an enemy, either an open foe or an insidious spy. In examining a recent publication, they fall diligently to work, weighing every syllable and letter, placing such as have full weight on this side, and such as are too light on that: after which they tie them up in separate parcels, labeled respectively, "Authorized" and "Unauthorized," to serve, when occasion offers, as the materials of some prospective review. But as regards the standard by which every literary effort must be tried, there exists among them a difference of opinion. In general they are great sticklers for authority; they warn us against the errors and transgressions of the age, and bid us to return to the old models, to the writings of Shakspeare, Spenser, Milton, Dryden, Addison, and Jonson. Now there are some who appear to have overlooked the fact, that the language of these writers is not in every particular the same, and who would therefore have us follow them all at once; which, in the order of time, we can do well enough; but in what other way the feat is possible, is by no means easy to make out. Others confine themselves to the usage of some single author. Thus Charles James Fox, in composing his history of England, took it for a rule to use no word which could not be found in Dryden. At first view we are amazed, when we see so singular an example of servility in literature, proceeding from one whose public career was an incessant struggle for freedom, both in opinion and in practice. But, on second thought, we have no difficulty in understanding how the man of active life should distrust his own judgment on matters purely literary, and should wish to shield himself from attack by taking refuge behind the ægis of superior authority. Others would have us use only those words and idioms in which standard writers concur-a very inconvenient rule, to say the least, since it requires you not merely to read the works of every standard writer, but, what is harder, to remember them. Others again refer us to the best authors of our own time, thus making present usage the ultimate appeal; a principle, which although in the main unquestionably just, may yet, if pressed too far, and taken without the modifications suggested by a thorough examination of the subject, become the source of considerable mischief.

Thus we see that the purists are not in all respects agreed among themselves; they unite, however, in keeping up a perpetual din about "purity," "corruption," "dangerous innovations," "violated analogies," &c., &c., until our heads ache and

our ears are stunned with the uproar. The hapless cur, tired of bearing about the jingling burden which naughty urchins have fastened to his tail, at length turns desperately round to ascertain by ocular inspection the nature of the foe who hangs so close upon his rear. Even so may we, after long confusion and bewilderment, address ourselves in earnest to the inquiry, whence the outcry which has perplexed us hitherto? what are its ground and origin, its meaning and its tendency?

Obviously there are reasons which make it desirable that a nation's language should be uniform throughout all the divisions of its territory, and uniform also through successive historical periods. The contemporaneous existence of several different dialects precludes free communication and close adherence between the members of the body politic, perpetuates local partialities and enmities, and fosters a dangerous separation of feeling and of action on questions of general interest. Nor is it less prejudicial to literary culture. That every dialect should have it own cultivation and its own writers, is commonly impossible, and if possible, would be anything but advantageous. To this remark one exception must be made to suit the case of such a people as the Greeks, gifted with so rare a sense of art, that regardless of provincial rivalries and prepossessions, they brought all their dialects into the common stock, employing each in that department of composition, to which, by its peculiarities, it was best adapted. We can easily believe, that if our poets, English as well as Scottish, had used the Scottish dialect, the Doric of our tongue, in lyrical and pastoral poetry, our literature would have been the better for it. But who can suppose that any advantage would have followed, if Hume and Robertson, Scott and Baillie, Wilson and Macaulay, had chosen their own rude northern speech in preference to the cultivated idiom of the Southron? It is clearly desirable that the literary men of a country should unite their efforts to rear the fabric of a national literature. But a multiplicity of dialects renders such a union less probable in the first instance, and less widely useful, when actually formed. For the chosen idiom, be it which you will, is of necessity a stranger to great numbers of the people, many of whom, prejudiced against it, or averse from the labor of acquiring it, will not read at all, while many others will but imperfectly comprehend what they do read. The consequences are much the same, if the literature of a country, or any considerable part of it, is contained in an obsolete dialect: it might almost as well be in a foreign language. In either case, you cannot understand it without an effort which few are willing to put forth; and when you have with toil and weariness made out the meaning, the impression on your mind

is much less clear and strong than that made by the words of your own vernacular idiom. It may be questioned, even, whether the case of an antiquated writer in our own language, is not worse for us than that of a foreign author. The style of the former strikes us at first as awkward and rustic; nor is it always easy by subsequent study to overcome this first impression. When we take up a French or German work, we are driven to seek the help of grammar and lexicon, without which we are unable at the outset to decipher any meaning. We thus fall into the habit of critical reading, and learn to master everything as we proceed. But if the work in hand be written in our own language, we are too apt to look upon a dictionary as superfluous, and while we know enough to make out our author's general drift, are therewithal content; the exact form of his thought and the nice shading of his expression being allowed to pass unheeded. How few, among the countless readers of Shakspeare, have any clear understanding or just appreciation of some of his finest passages? No one can doubt that the great authors of the Elizabethan age would produce a far more powerful impression on the reading public, if their works could be rendered into the current language of the day.

It is plain that we cannot claim for our mother-tongue that character of immutability, which, according to the Romanists, appertains to their mother-church. If, as some appear to be persuaded, every change in the language implies corruption and degeneracy, it must have grown by this time wofully degenerate and corrupt; for it has been changing for centuries, and, so far as we can see, is changing still, "varium ac mutabile semper." If we go back to Anglo-Saxon times, the antiquaries assure us of a marked diversity between the styles of an earlier and a later period. The natural progress of society, the introduction of a new religion, the establishment of altered political relations, must of themselves have made the language of Edward the Confessor different from that of Hengist and Horsa. But beside the operation of these causes, we may trace the influence of the conquered Briton, and the victorious Dane. At length we see a complete revolution in words as well as things, wrought by the permanent conquest of the Normans. Slowly, but surely, the languages of the victors and the vanquished join in friendly union, and modern English stands revealed on the page of Chaucer. But even here we have not escaped from the dominion of change. The editions of our earliest poet furnish, in the glossaries by which they are accompanied, the means of estimating how much has since been taken from, how much added to his "well of pure English