imperative mood would alone indicate beyond mistake the Grecian vivacity and impatience.

In the same way one might take any other language, and comparing it with the national peculiarities, test the truth of the observation from which we set out. But it is enough for the present purpose to have said upon this point just so much.

It cannot fail to strike the mind of him who compares our popular writings of the last century with those of the present, that a marked alteration of phrase and style has taken place, and that in some respects the change has been for the worse-though not in all; for although the goodly fabric of our language may have been disfigured in some parts-although its mouldings and carvings have been here and there effaced-yet its foundations have been strengthened and widened, and its height and breadth extended. To be aware of losses or deficiences is the first step towards repairing them, and, however it may wound our vanity, will go some way towards correcting the evil.

We wi'l, therefore, remark what a deep impression has been made upon our tongue by that restless love of innovation, that wanton building up and throwing down, which so strongly distinguishes the present age. A flood of new words of all sorts and sizes has been poured in upon us. Each popular writer has thought himself privileged to coin at his own mint. New York and Paris have alike furnished us with a strange and barbarous phraseology. In our day of heat and excitement, each author must put forth something new and startling, be it never so uncouth and monstrous, or he will fail to satisfy the over-stimulated appetite of the public.

Aude aliquid brevibus, Gyaris aut carcere dignum,
Si vis esse aliquid."

And so our popular writing has become deeply infected with that burning fever which is tossing to and fro the political and commercial world. The quiet and graceful phrase of another Addison would now-a-days gain an author few admirers. His calm eloquence would be too flat and dull for these times of turmoil. Men cannot now endure that air of meditative repose, that still dignity, which is the greatest charm of some of the finest writers of antiquity. It is true that two of our greatest poets, Wordsworth and Rogers, have not yielded to the popular taste; but it is because they have laboured for immortality: and we may hail it a. sure sign of a most happy poctical revolution, that the authors of this elegant school are rising more and more into favour. We may well rejoice that our day has seen a Wordsworth among poets, and a Chantrey among sculptorsbut we cannot find a second Addison among prose-writers. It is lamentable to see authors, who might write well enough in a plain and easy way, swelling out into an awkward turgidity by an affectation of strength and nervousness. Men who have no remarkable fervour or energy of mind must yet mimic what is beyond their nature; and, if they cannot present striking or original thoughts, they feel bound to make amends by pointed or singular diction. The most vivid and forcible words in our language are thus dragged into the most frequent use; and it is easy to foresee that they will soon fail to convey the full ideas for which they were first intended. If the movement

still go forward in this direction, we shall soon want words strong enough to express any extraordinary emotion. Already our single superlative is too weak to perform its proper office, and when all our expedients for strengthening it are worn out, we shall be forced to import a supply of double ones from beyond the Bay of Biscay. This perpetual flux of our language is feelingly lamented by Waller:

"But who can hope his line shall long
Last in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new envy prevails,
And as that dies our language fails.
Poets that lasting marble seek
Must carve in Latin or in Greek :

We write in sand, our language grows,

And, like the tide, our work o'erflows."

We cannot, however, expect any language to remain for long in the same state; new words must be ever rising into use, and old ones sinking into oblivion. We would fain, if it were possible, seize the language in the beauty and vigour of its prime, and fix it so for ever. But the grace of youth and the strength of maturity are not abiding things; old age and decay must, after a while, come upon the sprightliest and the noblest. Yet our care may prolong the period of its manhood, and make its decline more decorous and dignified. We may, perhaps, be able to better it in its weaker points, or remove unseemly excrescences, or lend it some new grace or ornament. We may do something to prevent the bringing in of what is displeasing, or the losing of what is chaste and elegant.

It were to be wished that the English language had been treated with greater consideration of its natural turn and bias. The true Englishman is Saxon in his tempers, and habits, and prejudices; his soul can cherish a deep fellow-feeling with the Teutonic character, but finds little tendency to associate itself with the Roman. And hence it is clear, that the continual process of Latinisation, which our tongue has for ages past been undergoing, has been a violence done to the genius of the nation. In a due degree this process would have been healthful, but it has gone to a deplorable excess. These Latin aliens have thrust out our ancient household words, and seated themselves in their places. And here is our great loss; for these foreign intruders, though they speak more melodiously to the ear, do not speak so stirringly to the heart; they cannot be so deeply and so fully felt, they have not that strong hold upon the attention, or that instant entrance into the soul.

If we consider the manner in which words affect the mind, we shall observe that it is—either, firstly, by the associations which their sound (considered as music) calls together; or secondly, by the picture which they present immediately to the imagination. And as to the first point we may remark, that it were not well for a language to possess only sweet sounds, for then it would be proper to convey no ideas but those connected with grace and beauty-nor would it have equal aptness for expressing the sublime, or for uttering the nobler and more energetic passions of the soul. It is, therefore, clearly an advantage to possess words of every sound, the smooth and rough, the soft and harsh, the rapid and slow, the slender and the broad.

Here then, the commingling of dissimilar elements in our tongue is a plain benefit, and we have not so much to complain that new words have been brought in, as that old ones have been put out. But if we refer to our second point, we may at once see how greatly the Teutonic element there excels the Latin. To an Englishman, the picture conveyed by a word of the Anglo-Saxon is far more vivid and complete than that conveyed by a Latin denizen. And why? Because Anglo-Saxon words were formed for Anglo-Saxons; and he is an Anglo-Saxon. It was in these he learned his first lispings; and they bring back again to him associations of the earliest pastrecall him to the "happiness" of his childhood, and brighter and sweeter thoughts come over him than the most animated prospects of human "felicity" could afford. He had something more real and more joyful than felicity-it has no name but “happiness."

What exotic words could have given the touching thoughts conveyed by this simple verse of Wordsworth :

"We'll talk of sunshine and of song,

And summer days when we were young,
Sweet childish days, that were as long
As twenty days are now."

A word of Latin origin represents an isolated idea by arbitrary usage; its derivation and primary meaning are not self-evident, but are known only by study and reflection. But your Saxon word at the first sound reaches the understanding, and its derivation and connections are intuitively apprehended. If the soul is to be roused from its every-day dulness, the passions enkindled, or the attention kept awake and lively, we shall generally find Saxon words present themselves for use. What could be more rousing than the closing line of the famous stanza of Burns

"Lay the proud usurpers low,

Tyrants fall in every foe,

Liberty's in every blow,

FORWARD! LET US DO OR DIE!"

If smooth and easy sounds were the only essentials of a fine language, if it were the only aim of poetry and oratory to

then we might be glad to throw away every remnant of Anglo-Saxon speech; but, as it is, we have in this single line such a trumpet-blast as no Roman poet has ever sung. Well do our old Saxon words match our old Saxon blood. The Englishman partakes more of the laconic gravity of the Spartan than of the garrulous levity of the Athenian. He proceeds to action with a quiet yet resistless forcelike a broad and deep river, which, though calm and still, brooks no barrier. He has not leisure nor languor enough to trill forth the soft summer's-day words of the Italian, nor enough of light-hearted loquacity to prattle the refined trivialities of the Frenchman.

"We will not lavish hours in wordy periods,

As do the Romans, ere they dare to fight."

We do not, however, mean for a moment to disparage the softer part of our language, or insinuate that it is inconsistent with our native

manliness. All that is tender and refined may have a place in the manliest bosom; the eye that glances fiercest in the battle may drop tears of pity at a scene of sorrow. And why may not soft tones be uttered by him who possesses a sensitive heart? Such tones are the music of conversation, and when issuing from the gentle lips of an Englishwoman they are indeed " a heavenly descant."

I love the light of Mary's eye,

I love her tender fluttering sigh,

But most of all I love her lip's strange melody.

J. T-, P. C. Camb.

THE DREAM.

I had a dream :-I stood within a Hall

Of ancient splendour, robed in richest light;

Soft music fell upon mine ear; the air

Grew fragrant, as though heavenly spring had breathed
Her sweetest odours; round the proud walls hung

The captured banner, rent by war and time,

The polished lance, the battered shield, the helm
Whose plume had waved to shouts of victory.
There too ancestral portraits frowned aloft,
O'er the gay groups beneath. On, on they swept,
That glorious throng! "The beautiful-the brave"
Were there; they met at length to smile
O'er dangers past-to picture joys to come!
No heart beat thick with care-no low'ring fear
Shed its pale hues o'er beauty's blushing cheek,
All, all was life and joy! Enthroned apart
Sat the young hero of the night; his brow
The freshest laurels wreathed-his keen, dark eye
Now flashed with triumph, now with softer light
Beamed on the lovely partner of his fame,
She with the sunny hair and radiant eyes,
That nestled by his side. They did not speak,
The tear-drop told her joy-his the proud smile
The flashing glance and mantling cheek proclaimed.
All gazed upon them wondering-every tongue
Lingered upon their praise. Here stood a knot
Of veterans with scarred brows and scanty locks
That every thin breath waved-heroes of fields
Won ere his childish years—but yet their talk
Was of his prowess, not their own-his deeds
Whose lion heart had forced victorious way
Through danger's fiercest phalanx-he so young
And yet so wise-so young and yet so brave!
And here, within a kind recess, whose shade
Preserved them from the glare and strangers' smiles,
Two lovers sat, and they too spake of Him
And Her, that fairest maiden. Often too
Their eyes would wander from each others light
To gaze on them, and they would tell how firm,
Though strong temptation oft beset their path,

Their faith had been, and draw from thence bright thoughts,
And trust each other more, and deck with smiles
A fairy home, crowning Futurity

With sunny garlands sweet with Hope's young flowers
Then came the rush of music-then the strain
Of minstrel poet lofty echoes woke

In every heart. Once more the warrior trod
The battle field, and heard the chieftain's cry,
And followed to the triumph! How they gazed
On that wild minstrel as he swept the chords,
And wove their names into his song, and hid
War's shame 'neath glory's mantle; how they gazed
And clutched ideal swords and smote in air.
Then softer melodies arose, the din

Of warlike passions ceased-the mazy dance
Was threaded by the young and fair; the old
Looked on, but not in envy-not in scorn-
The spirit of their youth came back again
And taught their lips a smile; perchance one sigh
For some loved partner known on earth no more
Would rise unbidden-but it was a sigh
That lent that smile more sweetness, as the flower
Bowed by the rain a fresher fragrance yields
When the bright smiling of the faithful sun,
Chases its tears away! The hours fled on.
I stood as one enchanted: "This, " I cried,
"This, this is life and glory! let the pale
And passionless ascetic shun a world
He hates because he knows not, or, if knows,
Slanders in envy; let him still dream on
Of fairer homes, and pass night's sullen hours
In toilsome meditation o'er the page

Of antique lore, to prate when morning dawns
Of vanity-earth's nothingness-and veil
The joys of youth beneath death's murky pall!
His be the ceaseless prayer-the glass of sand-
The 'dwelling 'mid the tombs ;' mine be the smile
That wreathes love's ruby lip-mine be the home
Where joyous hearts make music-mine the grave
Where valour sleeps-and mine the honoured name
That glory writes on adamantine scrolls-
A watchword for posterity!" O fool!
E'en as the last sound of my frantic wish
Ruffled the balmy air, a sudden stream
Of fearful light around the lofty walls
Dashed irresistible! All earth-born fires
Yielded their borrowed flames and died at once-
Quenched in a moment by the mightier blaze
Of that supreme effulgence-then a peal
Of thunder, awful as the massive roar

Of maddened ocean when o'er splintered rocks
It rushes down some black and craggy gulf,
In ceaseless wrath, shook the affrighted earth.
Prostrate I fell! A darkness terrible

Spread its black wings abroad-cold, fetid dews
Fell thick about me. Fear, with icy chains
Bound my faint limbs-a dizziness oppressed

My throbbing brain-strange fires flashed 'mid the gloom
Wreathing fantastic forms-ice seemed to twine
About my heart-I felt life's current freeze,
And shrieked and strove to rise; Echo returned
That shriek in scorn, and a cold, heavy hand