The synthetic power of a language discovers itself in three points in the verb, the conjunction, and the relative pronouns. We can only refer to the first, as an illustration of what has just been said. The verb is unquestionably the most important part of the sentence, because to it alone belongs that power of synthesis by which the sentence is established, we might say created. This part of speech has itself started into life, just as the noun, by an act of synthesis, involving a fusion of the sound indicating relation with that designating the general conception, but only in order that it may exercise the same function towards the whole sentence. In this point of view the other parts are as inorganic matter. The verb is the centre of life and order. The great question, then, in determining the character of a language is, how is this peculiar function expressed by sound? The number of moods, tenses, voices, &c., which the verb possesses, is comparatively unimportant; these are more the externals of language, and languages which possess these in abundance, as the Malay, may have little synthetic vigour. Now, in Sanscrit this organizing power of the verb is distinctly expressed by its grammatical treatment. For, 1st, The verb has nothing in common with the noun; e.g., though verbs may be derived from nouns, the noun in this case is treated like a root, and undergoes considerable alteration. 2d, Since the verb, from its nature, never rests, the language represents it in continual change. The noun represents an object; as such it may enter into relations, but may itself be viewed apart. The verb, on the other hand, represents a momentary passing act; we cannot fix it, or regard it apart from its relations; whilst, therefore, the noun may have a fundamental form first, to which the marks of relation are annexed, the verb cannot exist apart from these, for the infinitive does not partake of the nature of a verb, but is an abstract noun derived from the root. 3d, The vocal unity of the Sanscrit verbal forms is much closer than that of the nominal, and this is expressed symbolically, which is the only adequate mode. When this function of the verb is not properly recognised, it very commonly happens that the lines of demarcation between the noun and the verb are weakened. Then the same word may be used for both parts of speech; any word may, by very slight changes, be turned into a verb; the marks attached to the verb rather point out its own meaning than its function in the sentence; the signs of the moods and tenses wear an independent look; the connexion of the pronoun with the verb is so loose, that the substantive verb must be understood; and, lastly, the forms of the noun and verb are often interchanged. Of all these defects the Malay languages present the most striking examples.

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With all their excellencies Humboldt considers that in some points the Semitic languages have diverged from the true course. "This stock of language," he observes, "manifestly belongs to the inflexional class, indeed, inflexion in its most proper sense, as opposed to significant addition, is here especially indigenous. Looking at them, in respect of the means they employ, we may say, that their organization in strict consistency, artistic simplicity, and ingenious adaptation of the sound to the meaning, is not only second to none, but perhaps superior to all. Yet these tongues have peculiarities which language scarcely allows, and certainly does not demand. They require, at least in their present form, that every root should contain three consonants; and, secondly, the consonants and vowels do not together express the meaning of the word, but the designation of the meaning is assigned to the consonants, the indication of the relation is left to the vowels. The first of these peculiarities lays a constraint upon the construction of words, the second makes it difficult to form inflexions with due regard to the subordination of sounds." Notwithstanding their excellencies, it appears to Humboldt that these languages betray a want of necessary clearness in distinguishing between substantial meaning and formal relation in the minds of the people who speak them.* It is plain, from the second peculiarity above mentioned, that there can be no pronounceable roots in these tongues. Therefore, though the connexion between the two parts of the word is more intimate, and the suitableness of the sounds for the purpose more striking than in any other language, they fail in the highest point. The unity of the word is not obvious enough. For the necessary unity of the word is most plainly felt when the two elements can be recognised separately; this mode is most in harmony with the objects of language and the nature of thought, which demand perpetual distinction and combination.

The effect which a highly organized language may have on the minds of the people who use it can scarcely be over-rated; much as language receives from the mind, let us not forget what it restores to it. The national mind has been acting upon it for ages, and it has thereby assumed a distinct objective existence in constant contact with the mind of every particular generation.

*They stand, for instance, in striking contrast with the Sanscrit, in that the nominal and verbal forms, which imply so intimate an union of meaning and relation, are constructed in a way which reminds one of agglutination, whilst those derived words which imply a material change of meaning, receive a formal expression.

Ewald has remarked that the more intellectual function is assigned to the lighter, more inward, more flexible vowels, the more material function to the sturdier consonants; and Grimm has well said of the difference between these two classes of letters, "the consonant shapes the word, the vowel lights it up and defines it."

The most powerful and the most sensitive, the most penetrating and the most contemplative minds have poured into it their strength and their tenderness, their depth and their inward being; the language has stored up all this, and by its tones awakens the like qualities in the minds of the people of after times. The insight and the feeling of the few have become, in a measure, the inheritance of the many. For, by its very nature, language acts as an absolute barrier to none, is a stay and a guide to most, and is the instrument of thought to all. An evident connexion exists, therefore, between success in the formation of language, and in all other branches of intellectual endeavour. "A happily constructed language," observes Humboldt, "not only adds power to the understanding, but awakens a feeling of the existence of something deeper than what mere dialectics can exhaust, with a desire to fathom it, and a presentiment of a correspondence between the seen and the unseen, the world of sense and the world of spirit." The effect it must have upon the intellect is easily understood. For, consider how much depends here upon the logical arrangement of conceptions, the clearness of their separation, and the definite indication of their relations to one another; these form, indeed, the indispensable foundation of all, even the highest exercises of mind. But how much of this depends upon our language. With a rightly ordered language accurate thought can proceed easily and naturally; the very instrument which it uses almost forces just distinctions and natural connexions upon the mind; whilst inferior languages present actual difficulties for the mind to overcome, or at all events afford it no assistance.

In order, however, that a language may be really helpful, it must occupy, so to speak, a central position. Particular excellencies may no doubt tend to cultivate particular sides of the intellect, but the real merits of a language must be estimated by the harmonious and comprehensive nature of its influence. Those only are truly elevating which accompany the mind helpfully and encouragingly in every direction. The birth of such a language as this forms an epoch in the history of humanity; the possession of such a language as this marks out a nation for the accomplishment of great things, is a kind of prophecy of future eminence, both because it is an evidence of the vigour of the national mind, and a powerful instrument of progress. Such a nation may be long depressed, but in its language it inherits a vehicle for high thoughts, a lever, so to speak, by which it may remove obstacles on its onward march, when the impulse is once given. Moreover, because such a language has a living principle in it, it may undergo manifold changes, and yet retain its original form and vigorous character. The Romanic tongues

Causes of the Loss of Inflexions.

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afford an excellent example of the way in which the formative principle cleaves to the nobler languages in their disorganization and reconstitution. The grammatical characters of the Latin were shattered, but the form of the language remained, and the characters were therefore re-constructed out of materials which the old language afforded.*

But how are we to reconcile what has been said about the permanence and fruitfulness of the inflexional character, with the fact, that inflexions are always more abundant in the earliest ages of a language, and gradually decrease as time advances? Let us hear Humboldt :

"Is it not strange, that the conservative principle should be that which is sacrificed? The wearing down of inflexions is an undeniable fact. That inward sense which determines the language of a nation at one time allows them to drop off unnoticed, at another time intentionally gets rid of them; and it is more correct to view the phenomenon in this light, than to attribute the effect to time alone. It makes, e.g., more liberal concession to euphony, and avoids an accumulation of significant parts, where one is sufficient to preserve the form from being confounded with others." "If my observation does not deceive me, these vocal changes attributed to time take place much less in the ruder than in the more civilized languages, and this is very easily explained. Of all the influences that act upon language the most active is the human mind itself, and it is from its most lively action that language experiences the greatest alterations. It is just what we should expect from the progress of the national mind, and its increasing confidence in the stability of its inward views, that it should exercise less watchful care over the modifica. tion of outward sounds. As the mind becomes more conscious of its maturity it handles with more boldness its own combinations, and casts away the bridges which language has constructed for the understanding. With this temper, an imperfect appreciation of that poetic charm which resides in sound may often be associated. Poetry itself, in this case, adopts more inward ways, in which it may lay aside the outward advantage with less risk. It is therefore by the transition from a more sensuous to a more intellectual tone of mind that language is here transformed. But the originating influences may not have been of so noble a character. Coarse organs of

speech, and an ear little susceptible by nature, and unimproved by exercise in music, may lay the foundation for indifference to the euphonic elements in language. In the same way a predominant practical tendency may introduce abbreviations, omissions of relational words, and ellipses of all kinds, because, when to be understood is the only object, every thing which does not directly tend to this end is despised." "But, in general, we may observe that the relation of

* A short but comprehensive account of the rise of the Romanic languages will be found in Bunsen's linguistic treatise before referred to, pages 274, 275. VOL. XVI. NO. XXXI.

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the national mind to the language is altogether different when the latter is in the fermentation of its first formation, and when already constructed it is serving the purposes of daily life. In that early stage the elements of the language are recognised in their very root, and stand out distinctly before the mind, which is engaged in their combination; and she then takes pleasure in the construction of this instrument of her future triumphs, and lets nothing fall to the ground which is associated with any shade of feeling. In after times, comprehensibility becomes a more prominent object, the significance of the elements of words is obscured, and the very customariness of usage makes the mind less careful about the details of construction and the exact preservation of sound. The imagination, which delighted in the felicitous connexion of the marks of meaning with a resounding peal of syllables, gives way to the understanding, which consults its convenience, and resolves the inflexions into auxiliary verbs and prepositions. No doubt this analytical method diminishes the exertion required of the understanding, and even in some cases increases the determinateness of the meaning; but from the use of these auxiliary grammatical words the inflexions are more easily dispensed with, and lose their importance as regards the formation of language, so that in particular parts genuine inflexional languages come to resemble those which belong to an entirely different stock and adopt a different principle of formation."

Of this process our own language affords a striking example; at the same time, it shews that though a language may be scanty in its technical arrangements, it may be a mighty instrument of human thought, and be perfectly adapted to all the purposes of social and political life.

We have now traced the formation of language by mankind in various phases; we have noted the excellencies and defects of different languages, and have endeavoured to trace them to their cause in the physical and mental constitution of the various nations; we have likewise mentioned some of the alterations which the inflexional languages undergo, as the fortunes of nations change, and their practical life becomes more engrossing. We have reserved to the end the mention of a language, perhaps the most remarkable of all, belonging to a nation of historic importance, civilized for ages, and possessing a literature which stretches back for thousands of years-the Chinese. We have done so, because it stands at the opposite pole of language to that at which the inflexional languages are found, and forms a most striking contrast in its means, objects, and requirements, to those of the modern languages already mentioned. For instead of assisting the understanding as much as possible, it keeps it upon the constant stretch; instead of multiplying the means of formal distinction, it almost entirely neglects them.

First, as regards the means used to express conceptions, its