pestilent u was inserted in honor, favor, error, and in countless analogous cases. The simple directness of Saxon spelling was lost. The word tongue will serve as an instance. Doubtless the pronunciation of this word has never undergone the least change; but our Saxon ancestors spelled it tung, just as it is sounded. Later it had a final e, and at length, after Norman scribes had bewitched it, it appeared as we now see it. A twist was given to every word capable of variation. On the other hand, the same influences softened the harshness of Saxon gutturals, so that the silent letters in fought, sought, and the like are now only mute evidences of a barbarous utterance heard no more.

In due time the English people had their revenge upon the Norman element, especially in the obliteration of the original accent of words derived through that medium. The appellatives remain, but with anglicized spelling and accent; so that the unskilled reader hardly recognizes the concluding word of the line,

And bathéd every vein in swiche licour',

as his homely acquaintance "liquor." Mange survived as vulgar "munch;" the servant valet as the rascal "varlet;" cœur méchant as the crabbed "curmudgeon;" and quelques choses were contemptuously termed "kickshaws." Every scholar will be able to add many similar examples.

To recapitulate, we find in our language, —

1. A complete groundwork of Anglo-Saxon; no other element complete.

2. An influx of words derived from Latin directly or through the French, mostly mangled by vicious spelling, and by the loss of original accent.

3. A change in the spelling of many Saxon words and a softening of original roughness in pronunciation.

4 A coalescing of the conflicting elements after centuries of resistance, and continual additions from classic languages.

The difference between the English of to-day and that of five or six centuries ago is so great that many persons are led to believe

that there may have been an epoch of sudden change-a catastrophe like those which we were once told had happened to the earth in its development; but, as enlightened science assures us that the forces at work upon the crust of our planet are as active in the present as in the remotest geological eras, so it seems likely that our language is undergoing changes in the number, power, and significance of its words, as great and as decisive as were experienced in any part of its history. He who stands by a glacier for the first time regards the mass of glittering ice as immovable, as eternal as the mountain it buttresses. But the patient observer knows that the huge volume of ice is in motion, and that ages hence the grinding of the rocks and the furrowing of the soil underneath will bear witness to its slow but resistless course. Such deep scratches and furrows are seen in every part of our literary history. Our poetry, our science, our sermons, even our familiar talk, show the marks made by the imperceptible but mighty movement of that speech which symbolizes the progressive thought of our race.

merce

These changes are not due in any great degree to the influence of authors, no matter how popular they may be. No poet, historian, or essayist is equal to the task of ingrafting half a dozen new words that shall really thrive and endure on our old English stock. As in the beginning, we must look to the development of the arts, trade, commerce, and philosophy for the new words that come to us as strangers, are first made welcome by necessity, and then become our own by naturalization. To give instances would be to recount the history of the various modern sciences, and of the influence of comon civilization. Every navigator and explorer, — every inventor, chemist, and naturalist, — every investigator into first causes, whether in the material world, or in the interior sphere of thought, must in a measure coin new symbols for new facts and new theories, and so make a new vocabulary to express his ideas. The English of two hundred years ago is a wonderful arsenal; it would seem to be ample for the poet or historian, the novelist or essayist; but neither Tyndall, Agassiz, Darwin, nor Huxley -- neither Hamilton, Mill, Spencer, nor Peirce-could be restricted for a single page to the vocabulary that served Milton so well.

The nomenclature of a science becomes a part of ordinary speech when that science becomes popular. From the study of mathematics we have derived terms that are now familiar and no longer exclusively technical, such as tangent and radius. With the general diffusion of geological knowledge we have such words as alluvial, strata, and fossil. The last is, in fact, so thoroughly domesticated that it has acquired a secondary, slang sense. Optical science has made us familiar with polarization of light, spectroscopic and prismatic experiments. From chemists we have learned the vital significance of oxygen and the multifarious uses of carbon. And phrenology, though it may be denied the rank of an exact science, has furnished us with many convenient forms of expression which could not now be spared, such as temperaments, and the familiar names of organs corresponding to special mental traits.

a

Another, and by far the most active, agency is to be found in the influence of newspapers. For the bulk of mankind the daily press stands in the place of school and library, guiding opinion and forming taste as well as furnishing news. The necessities of a daily issue forbid any very careful elaboration of sentences; still it must be admitted that the principal journals in our chief cities often contain leading articles that are admirable specimens of style; and, in the aggregate, the literary ability of the press greatly exceeds that which is more deliberately expended upon books. But a small part of any journal, however, is either written or very carefully revised by the editor. The bulk of all we read is written by reporters, class created by the needs of our age, -a marvellous class. What the cavalry is to the commanding general, — namely, eyes and ears, that and much more is the corps of reporters to the editor-in-chief. They search for the materials for a "sensation" by an inevitable instinct. They have no fear of Addison or Irving before their eyes. For all occasions they have a stock of euphuistic phrases that would beggar Sir Percie Shafton' in the attempt at imitation. Facts are always accomplished, ordinary events are embellished by "words of learned length and thundering sound." To these omnipresent, 1 See The Monastery, by Sir Walter Scott.

b

sharp-eyed, mercurial, facile gentlemen we owe the invention of some desirable words, such as "telegram," and a great variety of base coinages which we are shocked at, until we learn to endure, and at length to forget, the crime of their existence. One by one, such words as the scholar knows to be unnecessary, and at variance with wise analogy, creep into reputable company, and finally receive their accolade from some tolerant authority. But the principal mischief done by these vedettes of the newspaper army is in the injury to the general standard of taste by the use of words of superlative significance on ordinary occasions, and so taking all contrasts of color out of our speech. Fire is "the devouring element," and its result "a conflagration." One does not lose a pocket-book, but is "relieved" of it. A chance fight is "a mêlée;" a dance is "a Terpsichorean festival;”" a season of smooth and solid snow is "a carnival of sleighing;" a negro is "a XVth amendment ;" an unchaste woman is "a social evil;" a forgery or larceny in a bank is "a financial irregularity; " every person successful in politics, and those lifted by accident into fame or infamy, are "interviewed." The corruption does not affect language only; when the gossip about some great financial scoundrel, whose collected crimes, if duly distributed, would send a thousand poor men to prison for life, is "itemized" in a tone of raillery, as though honor and truth were only phrases, and the robbery of widows and orphans by the tricks which law, unfortunately, cannot punish, were a jesting matter, it is not too much to say that the wrong that is done to our noble language is only paralleled by the insidious injury wrought upon public morals.

The current of thought has turned our attention somewhat from the original end in view. Let us return to the subject of style as affected by the two principal sources of our language. It is commonly said that the best writers use the most Saxon words, and the student is often cautioned against the habit of using those of Latin origin. But the more rational advice is to use the words that best express our thoughts. The scholar that knows the precise meaning of words, and their associations in the pages of the best writers, will rarely err in this respect. If he is writing of home affairs and

humble life, his own good sense will teach him to avoid the stately and high-sounding words that should be reserved for occasions of ceremony. Nor will he detract from the significance of a public festival by reporting it in colloquial style. The importance of good judgment and good taste in the choice of words can be seen in the grotesque and profane effect produced by the narration of sacred historical events in the vulgar phrases used by the uneducated. In the drama of Saul, by Voltaire, one of the wittiest productions of this scoffing author, the comic effects in a great measure lie in the audacious translation of the grave scriptural style into the homely vernacular. A contrary effect, and equally amusing, is produced by relating commonplace things in a learned or antiquated style, as Shenstone has done in The Schoolmistress.

In critical writings the use of foreign terms and of words derived from the classic languages is not a blemish, unless the habit is carried to the extreme. Music, for example, has a nomenclature of its own, mainly of Italian origin, and it would be impossible to express a discriminating judgment upon a composition, or upon its performance, without using many Italian and some French terms. It must be admitted, however, that the way these terms are employed by half-educated writers reminds us of the satire in Hudibras :

"A Babylonish dialect

Which learned pedants much affect;

It was a party colored dress

Of patched and pyebald languages;

'Twas English cut on Greek and Latin,

Like fustian heretofore on satin."

Writers upon art, likewise, having a similar necessity, are prone to the over use of technical terms, so that their sentences often read very much like a jargon of intentional nonsense.

The

Poets are allowed a certain license; but even in poetry there must be a delicate judgment and a wise parsimony as to ornament. fatal necessities of rhyme and of metre often drive the unskilled into using words wrested from their proper significance, and placed in unfitting company. This must be taken with a large allowance,