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THE VOICES OF EARTH.

EARTH, with its charms, which, spell-like, bind
To Nature's scenes the poet mind,
By unseen links and viewless ties
Retains me still, when, lingering, dies
Ambition's wasting fire.

Its many voices seem to say-
Come, Child of Earth! and with us stay
In sweet communion--let, once more,
Each hill and valley, stream and shore,
Persuasive tell their joys.

Each lone, wild glen, where birchen trees
So lithely bend to every breeze,
And mirror in the glancing stream
Their shadowy forms, as in a dream,

Breathes gently-" Stay! oh stay!"

Each mountain side, where timid deer
Affrighted run in wild career,
Where clear and strong the mighty wind
Gives spirit to the world-clogged mind,
For me has murmurs deep.

Where forests throw a liquid shade,
Of silence, o'er each leafy glade,
All is unbroken, calm and still,
But slumberous voices of the rill
Wake Music's echoes sweet.

Yes! there, in Nature's dewy hush,
Dim, dream-like forms, oft seem to rush
Beside me, while I thoughtful sleep,
And, in sweet accents, low and deep,

Still whisper-"Stay! oh stay!"

The love-conned page, which I had read,
Lies in my hand, while rests my head
Upon a bank of woodland flowers-
Anemones, in starry showers,

And sorrel's clear green leaf:

And in each slender, thread-hung bell,
Ten thousand voices seem to dwell,
And now they issue from their bowers,
These guardian genii of the flowers,

And murmur-" Stay, oh stay!"

Each upland slope, where, from the grass,
The sheep rise hurried as I pass,
And wistful, gazing, doubting stand,
Then seek another pasture land,

Has spells of peace for me.

Where waves, like prairie-horses, sweep
Across the blue and boundless deep,
And break, in glory, on the shore,
With cannon sound and measured roar,
A solemn voice is near.

Yes! woods and waters, seas and air—
Oh, lovely are ye! bright and fair!
And Music's spell has made her own
Of each low sound, each tender tone

Which breathes through Nature's frame.

Then, can I leave without regret
Earth's many charms, unfelt as yet,
And to the Future, dim and vast,
Be swept along-a snow-flake past-
To float unseen for ever:

Oh! can I leave the sunny gleams
Which light our mountains and our streams,
And to that Future, unexplored,

Be guided by a flaming sword,

Which keeps the Way of Life.

Yes! for afar I see the light
Of Revelation, clear and bright;
And Love's deep voice assurance gives-
"Soul! know that thy Redeemer lives
For ever and for ever!"

Yet would I pass from Earth away
With the last flush of evening's ray,
When Summer's purple tints are thrown
O'er each fair scene I call my own,
And which will still be dear.

When golden clouds are sailing by
Amid the depths of June's rich sky,
And in the air there seems to float
A bird's glad sound, a flute-like note,
Which thrills-a mystic spell.

When yellow sunflowers turn their
To where their orb in glory dies;
When waterlilies sink to rest,

eyes,

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THE PHILOSOPHY OF LANGUAGE.

THE object of language is to give an outward expression to the internal conceptions of the mind in such a form as that they shall be intelligible to those with whom we associate; or to serve the solitary thinker as a register of the ideas which have passed through his mind, and thus to aid him in his future researches, by affording an easy method of recalling the generalizations which he has already formed. It furnishes, by means of words, an external projection to thoughts which must otherwise have remained within the secret chambers of the mind, unknown to all except their original possessor; and it gives a community of intelligence to all the nations of the earth, by establishing a communication between man and man, and laying open the stores of universal knowledge for the apprehension and appropriation of every individual. Viewed in this light, the importance of language has never been denied, but has always been the more acknowledged as the advantages which are derived from social intercourse have been more felt and appreciated. It is only, however, when we contrast the privileges which are enjoyed by the large majority of the human family with the unfortunate position of the deaf and dumb, that we can form an adequate notion of the immense superiority which is conferred upon us by the gift of language, Were man deprived of its use, though he would undoubtedly retain all his faculties unimpaired, yet, in their exercise he would feel himself narrowed within the compass of his individuality, without any enlarged notions of benevolence towards his fellowman, except what might be inspired by the instincts of his animal nature. Though his eye would give him a knowledge of the external world, though his consciousness I would tell of the existence of a mind within him, and reveal to him much of the depths of his spiritual being, and though in these two facts there lie the elements of all knowledge, yet from the want of intercourse he would be prevented from extending his sphere of information beyond concrete phenomena or the simplest generalizations, and whatever be the amount of knowledge he had acquired, it would be confined to his own breast, and generation after generation would be com

pelled to learn the same lessons by the same painful experience, without any progressive advancement in intellectual learning, or in the discovery of new social advantages. In such a condition the natural wickedness of the human heart would find for its development a field broad and large, with few of the fences which now restrain it from overstepping its destined limits. The passions would rage with a fury knowing scarcely any abatement. The social affections, which constitute an essential part of human nature, would be stunted in their growth by the predominance of the merely brutal instincts, and the emotions which, when rightly regulated, furnish so large a part of our pleasure, would remain a hidden thing in the secrets of our being, as the monotonous tenor of our life would afford few occasions for their exercise. If thus bereft of speech, man would live through the brief span of life allotted to him without friends to assist him in his difficulties; and though his natural desire after knowledge might carry him on for a little while in the investigation of truth, he would soon relax his exertions; for there would be no voice of kindness to support him, and no friendly sympathies to relieve the tediousness of the pursuit. Indolence would prevail over the energies of both the body and mind; and he would be content to lounge away his time in sloth and idleness, save only when roused into activity by the recurring wants of his corporeal nature. But a merciful Providence has not left man without the use of speech, so pecessary to the full enjoyment of his intellectual faculties, though now and then instances occur which show how weak he would have been, notwithstanding the possession of reason, if the means of intercommunication had been withheld from him. The bestowal of language has enabled him fully to gratify the wants of his being, and has made him feel that he is not alone in the universe, but is connected by many tender ties and associations with his fellows; and in seasons of difficulty and distress he knows that there are sympathetic feelings to which he can appeal for relief or protection. By the use of speech the information which has been acquired by one individual is

transmitted to another, and by him again to a third, until what was originally accumulated by one party has become the common property of all; and it is thus that we are able to apply to present emergencies the experience of the past, without the unnecessary toil of undergoing the same sorrows, temptations, and trials; and by the constant additions which are being made of present experience to the accumulated treasures of the past, the stores of human knowledge are becoming indefinitely enlarged, so that no bounds can be set to the advancement of the human race in intellectual, in social, or in moral greatness.

The primary object of all linguistic investigation is to ascertain the connection which subsists between thought and language, to trace, amid the seemingly endless varieties of tongues which are spoken over the world, the laws which have reflected their development, and to discover in the midst of constant fluctuations a basis of original unity. But it is only within the last hundred years that the induction of facts has been substituted for empty, high-sounding theories, and that any convincing results have been obtained. The short period which has elapsed since the first systematic cultivation of philology, has not been sufficient to admit a thorough investigation into the structure and formation of all existing languages and dialects; but though much still remains to be done, not a little has been already accomplished. Philologists have advanced at least so far as to arrange all languages under a few leading divisions, and have proved that there is a real bond of connection between each family. With respect to the class of languages with which Europeans are more immediately interested, they have determined their derivation from one primary source, and the laws which have operated in producing the va ious changes by which they are distinguished from each other; and from a comparison of the Indo-European class of languages with other families they have been able to go a step further, and infer, what was the great object of all their investigations, the primitive unity of language, and, to a certain extent, they have succeeded in tracing the causes which have led to their gradual separation. Their inquiries throughout have been much facilitated by simultaneous investigations in psychology and physiology, which have, each in its own way, arrived at the same result,

that, under all circumstances, human nature in both its constituents of soul and body, is the same, and that all men are brethren, whatever be the colour of their skin or their inequality in mental culture; and though there are great characteristic differences in both the corporeal and intellectual organization of the different families, philosophers now almost unanimously admit that they are such as can be explained by natural causes, without any necessity of resorting to the supposition against which our feelings instinctively revolt, that the distinctions of race are inherent and essential, and existed from the beginning. An enlightened investigation has proved that all men enjoy corporeal and intellectual faculties, the same in kind though not in degree. Philology then comes in with its investigations, and finding that language has everywhere been given as the necessary adjunct of reason, and has among all nations similarities in form and in vocabulary, it feels itself authorised in coming to a conclusion which harmonizes with the results of the other kindred sciences, that language has had but one original, from which it has insensibly deviated, not by caprice, but by fixed and regular principles.

Language, even in its first origin, appears to have come forth fully formed, replete with the richest and most significant vocabulary, with an almost redundant fulness of expression, and capable of giving utterance in the most fitting manner to the creative genius which animated nations when yet in their infancy. It could not, as some theorists have imagined, have begun with the merely animal cries and various instinctive exclamations of joy or grief, of passion or of desire, and have thence gradually grown up to the height of grammatical order, and to a perfect capability to unfold the loftiest imaginations and the most profound trains of reasoning. Against such a theory there lies the fatal objection, that the farther we are able to ascend the stream of languages, the more full and complete they are found to be in their grammatical structure, and that the earliest languages have the most complicated form, are the most rich in inflection and inversion; but as they become cultivated, they lose the variety and significancy of their terminations, and their power of composition and derivation.

This important fact is decisive as to

the theory of a gradual process of formation, derived from the analogy of our purely animal nature. We believe that language had a far higher origin; that it is inherent in our very constitution, and was bestowed upon man at his creation by God, for the purpose of affording full development to his rational faculties and his social desires. We do not mean to say that God gave to man a language composed of a certain number of words, with a complete terminology; but that He endowed him with the form or pattern of language, which he might fill up as necessity required; that He gave him a type upon which he might mould his thoughts, so that they might be communicable to others.

It is vain to think to discover what was the original language of mankind. The knowledge of it could serve little purpose, beyond the gratifying of a prying curiosity. Philology has a higher object in view than the ascertainment of any individual speech, however ancient or curious. It has to discover in the existing dialects of nations the prototype of them all-the pattern after which they have been formed. This can be done only by a searching investigation into the varieties of language as existing at present, and a careful comparison of one family with another. The collection of the necessary facts is laborious; the generalising of them is attended with still more difficulty: but, as the end of all philosophy is the discovery of forms, and this can be done only by an induction of concrete instances, the laboriousness of diligent research must be undergone, if we would hope to succeed in reducing language to a scientific form; and we have no doubt that the reward will be as ample as has attended the similar prosecution of physical science.

But, if we admit the primeval unity of language, the question then naturally occurs- -How does it happen that one tongue should have branched out into such innumerable varieties, apparently so far removed from each other? In answering this question, it must be borne in mind that everything which permanently affects either the body or the mind must affect language in an equal degree, for its essence consists in expressing mental conceptions through corporeal organs. The primary cause is to be attributed to differences in intellectual development and culture; but, even where the mental qualities of two nations might be on a par, the differences

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in their manners and customs, in their climate, in the physical characteristics of the countries which they inhabit, and in the degree of their civilization, must be accounted sufficiently active agencies to produce the original variations of dialect. When once mutations have been introduced, they will be perpetuated by tradition; and they will have a natural tendency to increase in number and variety as the organs of the people become habituated to them, until external circumstances intervene to stop the progress of further innovations.

There are, however, principles in active operation which tend to produce the opposite effect, and to prevent human speech from degenerating from its original pattern except by determinate laws. Among the chief of these may be mentioned the essential requisite of language, in all its stages, that it should admit of no changes which would destroy its intelligibility with those who have been accustomed to speak it. The consequence of this law is, that changes can be produced only by slow degrees and at distant intervals. Were any class of men to attempt to remodel a language according to their own preconceived notions of propriety, their efforts would be met with general ridicule and contempt; for, though they might form a system of sounds which would be mutually intelligible to themselves, yet, in their intercourse with others, they would have to use the speech of the majority, while the latter would be under no necessity to make themselves acquainted with their jargon, and, in a short time, the ambitious innovators would find that all such attempts must be futile. The acquiescence of a large portion of the community is absolutely necessary before any changes can become component parts of a language and no such acquiescence can be obtained unless the proposed changes be founded upon the habits and necessities of the people, for there is a constant tendency in human nature to abide by past institutions and customs, and to admit of changes only when actually forced upon it.

In addition to this requisite of general intelligibility, the preservation of the original forms of speech in all dialects may be traced to the essential unity of human nature. The mind of man is everywhere composed of the same faculties, with similar thoughts, emotions, and desires; and his bodily organs are evidently moulded after a fixed type, which, though it admits

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