er operations of the soul. How can I convey to a person ignorant of the meaning of the term to think, unless at the same time I refer him to an actual exhibition of thought in some human agent; or to a picture faithfully delineating its effect upon the countenance; or by seizing the happy moment when he himself is immersed in thought. It will be said, perhaps, that I can give an appropriate definition of it, without resorting to any of these modes of explanation. But the definition itself consists of words, which must originally have derived their meaning from some one of the above mentioned sources. So that the elements of all language must be found either in the actual presence of objects, or in their expression by symbolical signs.

Watch the gradual progress of the infant mind in the acquisition of language, and the truths which have been stated will be abundantly manifest. The first simple words which the child learns, always derive their meaning from the presence of the objects, which they denote. It would never know how to call its mother by this endearing appellation, unless it saw before its eyes the being to whom this name is applied, and also witnessed the actual application of it to her, and not to any other person. And the little phrases, too, which it acquires, must be illustrated in the same manner. "Come here," says the fond parent. This expression is accompanied with a certain expression of the countenance, or beckoning of the hand, or presentation of some alluring plaything; which the child watches with a scrutinizing eye, and thus the phrase being accompanied with a visible set, of what I would call symbolical signs, its import is developed and understood. "You are a naughty child, I am displeased with you," says the dissatisfied mother to the froward daughter. It is the first time that the trembling offender has heard the unwelcome rebuke. She has acquired the meaning of the words "you are" and "child," by having often witnessed herself addressed by these epithets, and also that of the expression, "I am," by noticing that the speaker always applies it to himself. But what does "naughty" mean, and also "displeased;" she refers the first of these epithets to herself, and the last to her parent. She is conscious of her own wrong feelings and conduct; she observes that they produced an expression of displeasure, accompanying the utterance of the phrase, and explaining its import; without this it would be quite unintelligible. "You were a good boy yesterday, and I gave you that whistle;" "were," "yesterday," "gave," "whistle," all these are new words to the child. He begins to cast about for their meaning. He sees his whistle, he knows its name, because the parent points to it. Now the train of thought begins. He has learned what the word "good" means, by having heard himself often called so, when he was conscious of having conducted well. This leads him to re

flect, that his good conduct and the whistle have some connexion with each other. When did this connexion take place? It was when the father smiled, and gave the toy to him; it was by yonder window, while the sun was sinking behind the great oak tree. This must all have happened at a time denoted by the word "yesterday;" and " 'you were" and "gave," must refer to the same time. Thus he has gained some notion, though as yet a very imperfect one, of a few terms which denote past time. But in vain would he have sought for the import of these terms, if the visible pointing of the finger to the whistle had not given him a clue to their meaning, and if a visible assemblage of various existing objects, and the consciousness of that worthy feeling and conduct which procured him the gift, had not been excited in his imagination by the recollection of the transaction of yesterday. Thus it is true, that the elements of language must be found either in the actual presence of objects, or in their expression by symbolical signs. When I speak of the actual presence of objects, I mean to include in this term, not only the various objects which the material world presents to our senses, but also all those states, affections, and operations of the soul, the existence of which we ascertain by our own consciousness, and which may be said to be truly present to the eye of the mind that notices them; and by symbolical signs, I mean, not only pictures or models of objects, or their delineation by appropriate motions of the hands and limbs, and attitudes of the body, but also that mysterious expression of the eye, that countless variation of all the lineaments and features of the human countenance, that palpable beaming forth of the soul through the thousand avenues which its clumsy mansion affords, which alone inform me, that a spirit like my own inhabits another body like my own. Let the truth of these remarks be tried by one of the most difficult instances of the communication to a child of the power and use of language. "God made you," says the pious grandmother to her little fondling. It is a Sabbath morning, and the venerable woman has her Bible before her; as she utters the name of the Holy One, her countenance assumes an air of calm and settled solemnity, and her voice a tone of deep and grave import. Her eye looks, and her finger points, to heaven. The time, the manner, the face, the glance, the motion, all dispose the youthful listener to seriousness, and convince him that whatever is meant by the word " God," a word which we will suppose he now hears for the first time, at least something very important and awe-inspiring must be intended. "Who is God?" he says, with a wistful look. "Why, God made the sun, moon, stars, earth, beasts, birds, fishes, trees, and every thing; he made you.' What new knowledge has the child gained by this explanation? Only, that the word "God" denotes something, or somebody, that has

exercised great power. "But who is God, this powerful God? "Why, he sees you, he feeds you, he protects you, he is above the blue sky, and he governs all things." Now the child is referred to certain actions of God, which are denoted by the very terms which have been before used to denote certain actions of its earthly parent, and the residence of this God is described, by pointing to the visible concave of the heavens. The eye of the child has just seen symbolical signs which accompanied the expression of the phrase, "God made you," and its imagination now fastens on the various objects which have been referred to in the explanation of the phrase, which objects have heretofore been actually presented to its observation. And what notion does it now, by these helps, begin to form of God? It probably conceives that God must be some mighty and good man, seated above the sky, who, with a skill vastly superior to what it has seen a mechanic employ, though by some similar process, made all things, and made itself, and, with a watchfulness like that of its father, takes care of all the people in the village. "Does God eat?" 66 No, my child, he has no body." "Then he has no eyes?" "God is a spirit." Amazement confounds the young disciple. "No body! A spirit! How is this? What is a spirit? Did I ever see a spirit?" The matron, too, is confounded. How is this little thing to be taught the nature of that something, which it has perplexed all the philosophers to describe, about whose essence a thousand disputes have arisen, and a thousand volumes been written. "My child, speak to that doll of your sister, does it answer you?" "No, grandmother, it has no tongue, it cannot talk." "Well, then, speak to the dog, he has a tongue." Yes; but he does not understand me." "Why does he not understand you?" "He does not think what I say." "Can you think what I say to you?" "Oh, yes; only I cannot think what a spirit is; I am trying to think what it is, but I cannot; grandmother, do show me a spirit; where shall I go to see one?" "My child, look at me; see, I will tell my hand to go to my head; there, it moves; what makes it move?" " Why, you want to have it move." "Did you ever want to have your hand move?" "Oh, yes; a great many times." "Did your hand always move when you wanted to have it?" "Yes; only once I could not move it when my arm was in great pain, last winter." "Did you want to have it move then? "I did; I thought it should move, but it would not." "You thought it should move; that thought is your spirit; God thought that the world should be made, and it was made. Where is your father?" "He has gone to see my little brother in the chamber, who is sick." "Is your father a tall man?" "No; he is very short." "Is his hair grey?" "No; it is quite black." "No; but I can think how he looks." "That thinking is your spirit, and God can think what you say, and what

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you do." "Throw that picture into the fire." "Ah! no; it will be burnt up." "Why do you think it will be burnt up? That knowing is your spirit, and God knows all things." "Here is your little brother; do you love him?" "Yes; because he is a good boy." "That loving is your spirit; and God loves all good people."

Thus the child begins to have some notions of the meaning of the word "spirit;" but these notions are all derived from the consciousness, which it has of the operations and affections of its own spirit. So that it is a great mistake, to suppose, that language, in itself considered, ever conveys any new simple ideas to the mind. It may excite new combinations of thought, emotions, or purposes, but the elements, which compose these combinations, must be previously known, either by the actual observation of external objects, through the medium of the senses, or by the actual consciousness of the internal operations, emotions, and affections of the soul; and it matters not, whether this language consists of audible signs addressed to the ear, or of visible signs presented to the eye. Both are alike unmeaning, without the aid of observation, on the one hand, and of consciousness on the other.

We are apt to attribute a sort of magical power to speech, as if the articulate sounds of the human voice were in themselves sufficient to convey the import of the language which is uttered. This, no doubt, arises from the difficulty of recalling to our minds any recollection of the process, through which we had to pass in childhood, in order to acquire the meaning of the words and phrases which were at first addressed to us. A careful observer, however, may readily perceive this process in the gradual progress which a child makes in its acquaintance with language. The sounds addressed to its ear, excepting so far as the tones of the voice are naturally expressive of some emotion of pleasure or pain in the person who utters them, are quite unintelligible, unless accompanied with a simultaneous explanation, derived from the presence of some object pointed at, or some expression of the eye and countenance, or some motion of the limbs and body, or some movements in nature or art, or, in short, some assemblage of visible circumstances, which serve to illustrate the connexion which the language has with the occasion on which it is used.

(To be continued.)

ORIGINAL POETRY.

A FANCY-PIECE.

I FOUND thee, where the woods were wild, And weeds and thorns had round thee grown; No hunter's foot, no wandering child,

Had met thee, thou wert all so lone.

Above the cypress and the yew

Had wreathed around their funeral shade,
And the still wind, that faintly blew,
A sound, like that of sorrow, made.
And ever, as it o'er thee swept,
Low-breathing melodies were heard,
As if a mourner sobbed and wept,
Or nightly sang the widowed bird.

And now, as fitfully the blast
Shook the tossed branches overhead,
A voice like that of terror passed,
And like a midnight vision fled.

And then again a mingled tone

Of all sweet echoes met my ear,

Sweet as, when storms are overblown,

The warm South wind comes stealing near;

Sweet as the closing breath of Even,
When wet with dews her pinions fall,
And, like a messenger of heaven,
Night comes, and whispers peace to all.

I took thee from thy sylvan haunt,
And, brought thee to the cultured plain,
And saw thee flourish, like a plant
Nursed by the dews and kindly rain.

And there was music round thee still,
And it was sweet-O! sweeter far;
Like voices echoed from the hill,
When Love has lit his trembling star :

Or like the fluttering airs in May,
Stealing among the musky flowers,
And bearing mingled sweets away
From pansied beds and orange bowers: