Lectures on Language, as Particularly Connected with English Grammar.

We resume the consideration of Adjectives. The importance of this class of words in the expression of our thoughts, is my excuse for bestowing upon it so much labor. Had words always been used according to their primitive meaning, there would be little danger of being misunderstood. But the fact long known, "Verba mutanter"—words change—has been the prolific source of much of the diversity of opinion, asperity of feeling, and apparent misconstruction of other's sentiments, which has disturbed society, and disgraced mankind. I have, in a former lecture, alluded to this point, and call it up in this place to prepare your minds to understand what is to be said on the secondary use of words in the character of adjectives.

I have already spoken of adjectives in general, as derived from nouns and verbs, and was somewhat particular upon the class sometimes called prepositions, which describe one thing by its relation to another, produced by some action which has placed them in such relation. We will now pass to examine a little more minutely into the character and use of certain adjectives, and the manner of their derivation.

We commence with those derived from nouns, both common and proper, which are somewhat peculiar in their character. I wish you distinctly to bear in mind the use of adjectives. They are words added to nouns to define or describe them.

Many words which name things, are used as adjectives, with out change; as, ox beef, beef cattle, paper books, straw hats, bonnet paper. Others admit of change, or addition; as, national character, a merciful (mercy-ful) man, a gloomy prospect, a famous horse, a golden ball. The syllables which are added, are parts of words, which are at first compounded with them, till, by frequency of use, they are incorporated into the same word. "A merciful man" is one who is full of mercy. A golden ball is one made of gold. This word is sometimes used without change; as, a gold ring.

A numerous portion of these words take the syllable ly, contracted from like, which is still retained in many words; as, Judas-like, lady-like, gentleman-like. These two last words, are of late, occasionally used as other words, ladyly, gentlemanly; but the last more frequently than the former. She behaved very ladily, or ladylike; and his appearance was quite gentlemanly. But to say ladily appearance, does not yet sound quite soft enough; but it is incorrect only because it is uncommon. Godly and godlike are both in use, and equally correct, with a nice shade of difference in meaning.

All grammarians have found a difficulty in the word like, which they were unable to unravel. They could never account for its use in expressing a relation between two objectives. They forgot that to be like, one thing must be likened to another, and that it was the very meaning of this word to express such likeness. John looks like his brother. The looks, the countenance, or appearance of John, are likened to his brother's looks or appearance. "This machine is more like the pattern than any I have seen." Here the adjective like takes the comparative degree, as it is called, to show a nearer resemblance than has been before observed between the things compared. "He has a statesman-like appearance." I like this apple, because it agrees with my taste; it has qualities like my notion of what is palateable." In every situation the word is used to express likeness between two things. It describes one thing by its likeness to another.

Many adjectives are formed from proper nouns by adding an apostrophe and the letter s, except when the word ends in s, in which case the final s is usually omitted for the sake of euphony. This, however, was not generally adopted by old writers. It is not observed in the earliest translations of the Bible into the english language. It is now in common practice. Thus, Montgomery's monument in front of St. Paul's church; Washington's funeral; Shay's rebelion; England's bitterest foes; Hamlet's father's ghost; Peter's wife's mother; Todd's, Walker's, Johnson's dictionary; Winchell's Watts' hymns; Pond's Murray's grammar. No body would suppose that the "relation of property or possession" was expressed in these cases, as our grammar books tell us, but that the terms employed are used to define certain objects, about which we are speaking. They possess the true character and use of adjectives, and as such let them be regarded. It must be as false as frivolous to say that Montgomery, who nobly fell at the siege of Quebec, owns the monument erected over his remains, which were conveyed to New-York many years after his death; or that St. Paul owns or possesses the church beneath which they were deposited; that Hamlet owned his father, and his father his ghost; that Todd owns Walker, and Walker owns Johnson, and Johnson his dictionary which may have had a hundred owners, and never been the property of its author, but printed fifty years after his death. These words, I repeat, are merely definitive terms, and like others serve to point out or specify particular objects which may thus be better known.

Words, however, in common use form adjectives the same as other words; as, Russia iron, China ships, India silks, Vermont cheese, Orange county butter, New-York flour, Carolina potatoes. Morocco leather was first manufactured in a city of Africa called by that name, but it is now made in almost every town in our country. The same may be said of Leghorn hats, Russia binding, French shoes, and China ware. Although made in our own country we still retain the words, morocco, leghorn, russia, french, and china, to define the fashion, kind, or quality of articles to which we allude. Much china ware is made in Liverpool, which, to distinguish it from the real, is called liverpool china. Many french shoes are made in Lynn, and many Roxbury russets, Newton pippins, and Rhode-Island greenings, grow in Vermont.

It may not be improper here to notice the adjectives derived from pronouns, which retain so much of their character as relates to the persons who employ them. These are my, thy, his, her, its, our, your, their, whose. This is my book, that is your pen, this is his knife, and that is her letter. Some of these, like other words, vary their ending when standing alone; as, two apples are yours, three hers, six theirs, five ours, and the rest mine. His does not alter in popular use. Hence the reason why you hear it so often, in common conversation, when standing without the noun expressed, pronounced as if written hisen. The word other, and some others, come under the same remark. When the nouns specified are expressed, they take the regular termination; as, give me these Baldwin apples, and a few others—a few other apples.

There is a class of small words which from the frequency of their use have, like pronouns, lost their primitive character, and are now preserved only as adjectives. Let us examine a few of them by endeavoring to ferret out their true meaning and application in the expression of ideas. We will begin with the old articles, a, an, and the, by testing the truth and propriety of the duty commonly assigned to them in our grammars.

The standard grammar asserts that "an article is a word prefixed to substantives, to point them out, and to show how far their signification extends; as, "a garden, an eagle, the woman." Skepticism in grammar is no crime, so we will not hesitate to call in question the correctness of this "best of all grammars beyond all comparison." Let us consider the very examples given. They were doubtless the best that could be found. Does a "point out" the garden, or "show how far its signification extends?" It does neither of these things. It may name "any" garden, and it certainly does not define whether it is a great or a small one. It simply determines that one garden is the subject of remark. All else is to be determined by the word garden.

We are told there are two articles, the one indefinite, the other definite—a is the former, and the the latter. I shall leave it with you to reconcile the apparent contradiction of an indefinite article which "is used in a vague sense, to point out the signification of another word." But I challenge teachers to make their pupils comprehend such a jargon, if they can do it themselves. But it is as good sense as we find in many of the popular grammars of the day.

Again, Murray says "a becomes an before a vowel or silent h;" and so say all his simplifying satellites after him. Is such the fact? Is he right? He is, I most unqualifiedly admit, with this little correction, the addition of a single word—he is right wrong! Instead of a becoming an, the reverse is the fact. The word is derived directly from the same word which still stands as our first numeral. It was a short time since written ane, as any one may see by consulting all old books. By and by it dropped the e, and afterwards, for the sake of euphony, in certain cases, the n, so that now it stands a single letter. You all have lived long enough to have noticed the changes in the word. Formerly we said an union, an holiday, an universalist, an unitarian, &c., expressions which are now rarely heard. We now say a union, &c. This single instance proves that arbitrary rules of grammar have little to do in the regulation of language. Its barriers are of sand, soon removed. It will not be said that this is an unimportant mistake, for, if an error, it is pernicious, and if a grammarian knows enough to say that a becomes an, he ought to know that he tells a falsehood, and that an becomes a under certain circumstances. Mr. Murray gives the following example to illustrate the use of a. "Give me a book; that is, any book." How can the learner understand such a rule? How will it apply? Let us try it. "A man has a wife;" that is, any man has any wife. I have a hat; that is, any hat. A farmer has a farm—any farmer has any farm. A merchant in Boston has a beautiful piece of broadcloth—any merchant in Boston has any beautiful piece of broadcloth. A certain king of Europe decreed a protestant to be burned—any king of Europe decreed any protestant to be burned. How ridiculous are the rules we have learned and taught to others, to enable them to "speak and write with propriety." No wonder we never understood grammar, if so at variance with truth and every day's experience. The rules of grammar as usually taught can never be observed in practice. Hence it is called a dry study. In every thing else we learn something that we can understand, which will answer some good purpose in the affairs of life. But this branch of science is among the things which have been tediously learned to no purpose. No good account can be given of its advantages.

The, we are told, "is called the definite article, because it ascertains what particular thing or things are meant." A most unfortunate definition, and quite as erroneous as the former. Let us try it. The stars shine, the lion roars, the camel is a beast of burden, the deer is good for food, the wind blows, the clouds appear, the Indians are abused. What is there in these examples, which "ascertain what particular thing or things are meant?" They are expressions as indefinite as we can imagine.

On the other hand, should I say a star shines, a lion roars, an Indian is abused, a wind blows, a cloud appears, you would understand me to allude very definitely to one "particular" object, as separate and distinguished from others of its kind.

But what is the wonderful peculiarity in the meaning and use of these two little words that makes them so unlike every thing else, as to demand a separate "part of speech?" You may be surprised when I tell you that there are other words in our language derived from the same source and possessed of the same meaning; but such is the fact, as will soon appear. Let us ask for the etymology of these important words. A signifies one, never more, never less. In this respect it is always definite. It is sometimes applied to a single thing, sometimes to a whole class of things, to a [one] man, or to a [one] hundred men. It may be traced thro other languages, ancient and modern, with little modification in spelling; Greek eis, ein; Latin unus; Armoric unan; Spanish and Italian uno; Portuguese hum; French un; German ein; Danish een, en; Dutch een; Swedish en; Saxon, an, aen, one—from which ours is directly derived—old English ane; and more modernly one, an, a. In all languages it defines a thing to be one, a united or congregated whole, and the word one may always be substituted without affecting the sense. From it is derived our word once, which signifies oned, united, joined, as we shall see when we come to speak of "contractions." In some languages a is styled an article, in others it is not. The Latin, for instance, has no article, and the Greek has no indefinite. But all languages have words which are like ours, pure adjectives, employed to specify certain things. The argument drawn from the fact that some other languages have articles, and therefore ours should, is fallacious. The Latin, which was surpassed for beauty of style or power in deliverance by few, if any others, never suffered from the lack of articles. Nor is there any reason why we should honor two small adjectives with that high rank to the exclusion of others quite as worthy.

The is always used as a definitive word, tho it is the least definite of the defining adjectives. In fact when we desire to "ascertain particularly what thing is meant," we select some more definite word. "Give me the books." Which? "Those with red covers, that in calf, and this in Russia binding." The nations are at peace. What nations? Those which were at war. You perceive how we employ words which are more definite, that is, better understood, to "point out" the object of conversation, especially when there is any doubt in the case. What occasion, then, is there to give these [the?] words a separate "part of speech," since in character they do not differ from others in the language?

We will notice another frivolous distinction made by Mr. Murray, merely to show how learned men may be mistaken, and the folly of trusting to special rules in the general application of words. He says, "Thou art a man," is a very general and harmless expression; but, thou art the man, (as Nathan said to David,) is an assertion capable of striking terror and remorse into the heart." The distinction in meaning here, on which he insists, attaches to the articles a and the. It is a sufficient refutation of this definition to make a counter statement. Suppose we say, "Murray is the best grammarian in the world; or, he is a fool, a knave, and a liar." Which, think you, would be considered the most harmless expression? Suppose it had been said to Aaron Burr, thou art a traitor, or to General William Hull, thou art a coward, would they regard the phrase as "harmless!" On the other hand, suppose a beautiful, accomplished, and talented young lady, should observe to one of her suitors, "I have received offers of marriage from several gentlemen besides yourself, but thou art the man of my choice;" would it, think you, strike terror and remorse into his heart? I should pity the young student of Murray whose feelings had become so stoical from the false teaching of his author as to be filled with "terror and remorse" under such favorable circumstances, while fair prospects of future happiness were thus rapidly brightening before him. I speak as to the wise, judge ye what I say.

The adjective that has obtained a very extensive application in language. However, it may seem to vary in its different positions, it still retains its primitive meaning. It is comprised of the and it, thait, theat, thaet (Saxon,) thata (Gothic,) dat (Dutch.) It is the most decided definitive in our language. It is by use applied to things in the singular, or to a multitude of things regarded as a whole. By use, it applies to a collection of ideas expressed in a sentence; as, it was resolved, that. What? Then follows that fact which was resolved. "Provided that, in case he does" so and so. "It was agreed that," that fact was agreed to which is about to be made known. I wish you to understand, all thro these lectures, that I shall honestly endeavor to expose error and establish truth. Wish you to understand what? that fact, afterwards stated, "I shall endeavor," &c. You can not mistake my meaning: that would be impossible. What would be impossible? Why, to mistake my meaning.

You can not fail to observe the true character of this word called by our grammarians "adjective pronoun," "relative pronoun," and "conjunction." They did not think to look for its meaning. Had that (duty) been done, it would have stood forth in its true character, an important defining word.

The only difficulty in the explanation of this word, originates in the fact, that it was formerly applied to the plural as well as singular number. It is now applied to the singular only when referring directly to an object; as, that man. And it never should be used otherwise. But we often see phrases like this; "These are the men that rebeled." It should be, "these are the men who rebeled." This difficulty can not be overcome in existing grammars on any other ground. In modern writings, such instances are rare. This and that are applied to the singular; these and those to the plural.

What is a compound of two original words, and often retains the meaning of both, when employed as a compound relative, "having in itself both the antecedent and the relative," as our authors tell us. But when it is dissected, it will readily enough be understood to be an adjective, defining things under particular relations.

But I shall weary your patience, I fear, if I stay longer in this place to examine the etymology of small words. I intended to have shown the meaning and use of many words included in the list of conjunctions, which are truly adjectives, such as both, as, so, neither, and, etc.; but I let them pass for the present, to be resumed under the head of contractions.

From the view we have given of this class of words, we are saved the tediousness of studying the grammatical distinctions made in the books, where no real distinctions exist. In character these words are like adjectives; their meaning, like the meaning of all other words, is peculiar to themselves. Let that be known, and there will be little difficulty in classing them. We need not confuse the learner with "adjective pronouns, possessive adjective pronouns, distributive adjective pronouns, demonstrative adjective pronouns, indefinite adjective pronouns," nor any other adjective pronouns, which can never be understood nor explained. Children will be slow to apprehend the propriety of a union of adjectives and pronouns, when told that the former is always used with a noun, and never for one; and the latter always for a noun, but never with one; and yet, that there is such a strange combination as a "distributive or indefinite adjective pronoun,"—"confusion worse confounded."

In the french language, the gender of adjectives is varied so as to agree with the nouns to which they belong. "Possessive pronouns," as they are called, come under the same rule, which proves them to be in character, and formation, adjectives; else the person using them must change gender. The father says, ma (feminine) fille, my daughter; and the mother, mon (masculine) fils, my son; the same as they would say, bon pere, good father; bonne mere, good mother; or, in Latin, bonus pater, or bona mater; or, in Spanish, bueno padre, buena madre. In the two last languages, as well as all others, where the adjectives vary the termination so as to agree with the noun, the same fact may be observed in reference to their "pronouns." If it is a fact that these words are pronouns, that is, stand for other nouns, then the father is feminine, and the mother is masculine; and whoever uses them in reference to the opposite sex must change gender to do so.

Describing adjectives admit of variation to express different degrees of comparison. The regular degrees have been reckoned three; positive, comparative, and superlative. These are usually marked by changing the termination. The positive is determined by a comparison with other things; as, a great house, a small book, compared with others of their kind. This is truly a comparative degree. The comparative adds er; as, a greater house, a smaller book. The superlative, est; as, the greatest house, the smallest book.

Several adjectives express a comparison less than the positive, others increase or diminish the regular degrees; as, whitish white, very white, pure white; whiter, considerable whiter, much whiter; whitest, the very whitest, much the whitest beyond all comparison, so that there can be none whiter, nor so white.

We make an aukward use of the words great and good, in the comparison of things; as, a good deal, or great deal whiter; a good many men, or a great many men. As we never hear of a small deal, or a bad deal whiter, nor of a bad many, nor little many, it would be well to avoid such phrases.

The words which are added to other adjectives, to increase or diminish the comparison, or assist in their definition, may properly be called secondary adjectives, for such is their character. They do not refer to the thing to be defined or described, but to the adjective which is affected, in some way, by them. They are easily distinguished from the rest by noticing this fact. Take for example: "A very dark red raw silk lady's dress handkerchief." The resolution of this sentence would stand thus:

We might also observe that hand is an adjective, compounded by use with kerchief. It is derived from the french word couvrir, to cover, and chef, the head. It means a head dress, a cloth to cover, a neck cloth, a napkin. By habit we apply it to a single article, and speak of neck handkerchief.

The nice shade of meaning, and the appropriate use of adjectives, is more distinctly marked in distinguishing colors than in any thing else, for the simple reason, that there is nothing in nature so closely observed. For instance, take the word green, derived from grain, because it is grain color, or the color of the fair carpet of nature in spring and summer. But this hue changes from the deep grass green, to the light olive, and words are chosen to express the thousand varying tints produced by as many different objects. In the adaptation of language to the expression of ideas, we do not separate these shades of color from the things in which such colors are supposed to reside. Hence we talk of grass, pea, olive, leek, verdigris, emerald, sea, and bottle green; also, of light, dark, medium; very light, or dark grass, pea, olive, or invisible green.

Red, as a word, means rayed. It describes the appearance or substance produced when rayed, reddened, or radiated by the morning beams of the sun, or any other radiating cause.

Wh is used for qu, in white, which means quite, quited, quitted, cleared, cleansed of all color, spot, or stain.

Blue is another spelling for blew. Applied to color, it describes something in appearance to the sky, when the clouds and mists are blown away, and the clear blue ether appears.

You will be pleased with the following extract from an eloquent writer of the last century,[9] who, tho somewhat extravagant in some of his speculations, was, nevertheless, a close observer of nature, which he studied as it is, without the aid of human theories. The beauty of the style, and the correctness of the sentiment, will be a sufficient apology for its length.

"We shall employ a method, not quite so learned, to convey an idea of the generation of colors, and the decomposition of the solar ray. Instead of examining them in a prism of glass, we shall consider them in the heavens, and there we shall behold the five primordial colours unfold themselves in the order which we have indicated.

"In a fine summer's night, when the sky is loaded only with some light vapours, sufficient to stop and to refract the rays of the sun, walk out into an open plain, where the first fires of Aurora may be perceptible. You will first observe the horizon whiten at the spot where she is to make her appearance; and this radiance, from its colour, has procured for it, in the French language, the name of aube, (the dawn,) from the Latin word alba, white. This whiteness insensibly ascends in the heavens, assuming a tint of yellow some degrees above the horizon; the yellow as it rises passes into orange; and this shade of orange rises upward into the lively vermilion, which extends as far as the zenith. From that point you will perceive in the heavens behind you the violet succeeding the vermilion, then the azure, after it the deep blue or indigo colour, and, last of all, the black, quite to the westward.

"Though this display of colours presents a multitude of intermediate shades, which rapidly succeed each other, yet at the moment the sun is going to exhibit his disk, the dazzling white is visible in the horizon, the pure yellow at an elevation of forty-five degrees; the fire color in the zenith; the pure blue forty-five degrees under it, toward the west; and in the very west the dark veil of night still lingering on the horizon. I think I have remarked this progression between the tropics, where there is scarcely any horizontal refraction to make the light prematurely encroach on the darkness, as in our climates.

"Sometimes the trade-winds, from the north-east or south-east, blow there, card the clouds through each other, then sweep them to the west, crossing and recrossing them over one another, like the osiers interwoven in a transparent basket. They throw over the sides of this chequered work the clouds which are not employed in the contexture, roll them up into enormous masses, as white as snow, draw them out along their extremities in the form of a crupper, and pile them upon each other, moulding them into the shape of mountains, caverns, and rocks; afterwards, as evening approaches, they grow somewhat calm, as if afraid of deranging their own workmanship. When the sun sets behind this magnificent netting, a multitude of luminous rays are transmitted through the interstices, which produce such an effect, that the two sides of the lozenge illuminated by them have the appearance of being girt with gold, and the other two in the shade seem tinged with ruddy orange. Four or five divergent streams of light, emanated from the setting sun up to the zenith, clothe with fringes of gold the undeterminate summits of this celestial barrier, and strike with the reflexes of their fires the pyramids of the collateral aerial mountains, which then appear to consist of silver and vermilion. At this moment of the evening are perceptible, amidst their redoubled ridges, a multitude of valleys extending into infinity, and distinguishing themselves at their opening by some shade of flesh or of rose colour.

"These celestial valleys present in their different contours inimitable tints of white, melting away into white, or shades lengthening themselves out without mixing over other shades. You see, here and there, issuing from the cavernous sides of those mountains, tides of light precipitating themselves, in ingots of gold and silver, over rocks of coral. Here it is a gloomy rock, pierced through and through, disclosing, beyond the aperture, the pure azure of the firmament; there it is an extensive strand, covered with sands of gold, stretching over the rich ground of heaven; poppy-coloured, scarlet, and green as the emerald.

"The reverberation of those western colours diffuses itself over the sea, whose azure billows it glazes with saffron and purple. The mariners, leaning over the gunwale of the ship, admire in silence those aerial landscapes. Sometimes this sublime spectacle presents itself to them at the hour of prayer, and seems to invite them to lift up their hearts with their voices to the heavens. It changes every instant into forms as variable as the shades, presenting celestial colors and forms which no pencil can pretend to imitate, and no language can describe.

"Travellers who have, at various seasons, ascended to the summits of the highest mountains on the globe, never could perceive, in the clouds below them, any thing but a gray and lead-colored surface, similar to that of a lake. The sun, notwithstanding, illuminated them with his whole light; and his rays might there combine all the laws of refraction to which our systems of physics have subjected them. Hence not a single shade of color is employed in vain, through the universe; those celestial decorations being made for the level of the earth, their magnificent point of view taken from the habitation of man.

"These admirable concerts of lights and forms, manifest only in the lower region of the clouds the least illuminated by the sun, are produced by laws with which I am totally unacquainted. But the whole are reducible to five colors: yellow, a generation from white; red, a deeper shade of yellow; blue, a strong tint of red; and black, the extreme tint of blue. This progression cannot be doubted, on observing in the morning the expansion of the light in the heavens. You there see those five colors, with their intermediate shades, generating each other nearly in this order: white, sulphur yellow, lemon yellow, yolk of egg yellow, orange, aurora color, poppy red, full red, carmine red, purple, violet, azure, indigo, and black. Each color seems to be only a strong tint of that which precedes it, and a faint tint of that which follows; thus the whole together appear to be only modulations of a progression, of which white is the first term, and black the last.

"Indeed trade cannot be carried on to any advantage, with the Negroes, Tartars, Americans, and East-Indians, but through the medium of red cloths. The testimonies of travellers are unanimous respecting the preference universally given to this color. I have indicated the universality of this taste, merely to demonstrate the falsehood of the philosophic axiom, that tastes are arbitrary, or that there are in Nature no laws for beauty, and that our tastes are the effects of prejudice. The direct contrary of this is the truth; prejudice corrupts our natural tastes, otherwise the same over the whole earth.

"With red Nature heightens the brilliant parts of the most beautiful flowers. She has given a complete clothing of it to the rose, the queen of the garden: and bestowed this tint on the blood, the principle of life in animals: she invests most of the feathered race, in India, with a plumage of this color, especially in the season of love; and there are few birds without some shades, at least, of this rich hue. Some preserve entirely the gray or brown ground of their plumage, but glazed over with red, as if they had been rolled in carmine; others are besprinkled with red, as if you had blown a scarlet powder over them.

"The red (or rayed) color, in the midst of the five primordial colors, is the harmonic expression of them by way of excellence; and the result of the union of two contraries, light and darkness. There are, besides, agreeable tints, compounded of the oppositions of extremes. For example, of the second and fourth color, that is, of yellow and blue, is formed green, which constitutes a very beautiful harmony, and ought, perhaps, to possess the second rank in beauty, among colors, as it possesses the second in their generation. Nay, green appears to many, if not the most beautiful tint, at least the most lovely, because it is less dazzling than red, and more congenial to the eye."

Many words come under the example previously given to illustrate the secondary character of adjectives, which should be carefully noticed by the learner, to distinguish whether they define or describe things, or are added to increase the distinction made by the adjectives themselves, for both defining and describing adjectives admit of this addition; as, old English coin, New England rebelion; a mounted whip, and a gold mounted sword—not a gold sword; a very fine Latin scholar.

Secondary adjectives, also, admit of comparison in various ways; as, dearly beloved, a more beloved, the best beloved, the very best beloved brother.

Words formerly called "prepositions," admit of comparison, as I have before observed. "Benhadad fled into an inner chamber." The inner temple. The inmost recesses of the heart. The out fit of a squadron. The outer coating of a vessel, or house. The utmost reach of grammar. The up and down hill side of a field. The upper end of the lot. The uppermost seats. A part of the book. Take it farther off. The off cast. India beyond the Ganges. Far beyond the boundaries of the nation. I shall go to the city. I am near to the town. Near does not qualify the verb, for it has nothing to do with it. I can exist in one place as well as another. It is below the surface; very far below it. It is above the earth—"high above all height."

Such expressions frequently occur in the expression of ideas, and are correctly understood; as difficult as it may have been to describe them with the theories learned in the books—sometimes calling them one thing, sometimes another—when their character and meaning was unchanged, or, according to old systems, had "no meaning at all of their own!"

But I fear I have gone far beyond your patience, and, perhaps, entered deeper into this subject than was necessary, to enable you to discover my meaning. I desired to make the subject as distinct as possible, that all might see the important improvement suggested. I am apprehensive even now, that some will be compelled to think many profound thoughts before they will see the end of the obscurity under which they have long been shrouded, in reference to the false rules which they have been taught. But we have one consolation—those who are not bewildered by the grammars they have tried in vain to understand, will not be very likely to make a wrong use of adjectives, especially if they have ideas to express; for there is no more danger of mistaking an adjective for a noun, or verb, than there is of mistaking a horse chestnut for a chestnut horse.

In our next we shall commence the consideration of Verbs, the most important department in the science of language, and particularly so in the system we are defending. I hope you have not been uninterested thus far in the prosecution of the subject of language, and I am confident you will not be in what remains to be said upon it. The science, so long regarded dry and uninteresting, becomes delightful and easy; new and valuable truths burst upon us at each advancing step, and we feel to bless God for the ample means afforded us for obtaining knowledge from, and communicating it to others, on the most important affairs of time and eternity.

LECTURE VIII.

In former lectures we have confined our remarks to things and a description of their characters and relations, so that every entity of which we can conceive a thought, or concerning which we can form an expression, has been defined and described in the use of nouns and adjectives. Every thing in creation, of which we think, material or immaterial, real or imaginary, and to which we give a name, to represent the idea of it, comes under the class of words called nouns. The words which specify or distinguish one thing from another, or describe its properties, character, or relations, are designated as adjectives. There is only one other employment left for words, and that is the expression of the actions, changes, or inherent tendencies of things. This important department of knowledge is, in grammar, classed under the head of Verbs.

Verb is derived from the Latin verbum, which signifies a word. By specific application it is applied to those words only which express action, correctly understood; the same as Bible, derived from the Greek "biblos" means literally the book, but, by way of eminence, is applied to the sacred scriptures only.

This interesting class of words does not deviate from the correct principles which we have hitherto observed in these lectures. It depends on established laws, exerted in the regulation of matter and thought; and whoever would learn its sublime use must be a close observer of things, and the mode of their existence. The important character it sustains in the production of ideas of the changes and tendencies of things and in the transmission of thought, will be found simple, and obvious to all.

Things exist; Nouns name them.

Things differ; Adjectives define or describe them.

Things act; Verbs express their actions.

By action, we mean not only perceivable motion, but an inherent tendency to change, or resist action. It matters not whether we speak of animals possessed of the power of locomotion; of vegetables, which send forth their branches, leaves, blossoms, and fruits; or of minerals, which retain their forms, positions, and properties. The same principles are concerned, the same laws exist, and should be observed in all our attempts to understand their operations, or employ them in the promotion of human good. Every thing acts according to the ability it possesses; from the small particle of sand, which occupies its place upon the sea shore, up thro the various gradation of being, to the tall archangel, who bows and worships before the throne of the uncreated Cause of all things and actions which exist thro out his vast dominions.

As all actions presuppose an actor, so every action must result on some object. No effect can exist without an efficient cause to produce it; and no cause can exist without a corresponding effect resulting from it. These mutual relations, helps, and dependencies, are manifest in all creation. Philosophy, religion, the arts, and all science, serve only to develope these primary laws of nature, which unite and strengthen, combine and regulate, preserve and guide the whole. From the Eternal I AM, the uncreated, self-existent, self-sustaining Cause of all things, down to the minutest particle of dust, evidences may be traced of the existence and influence of these laws, in themselves irresistible, exceptionless, and immutable. Every thing has a place and a duty assigned it; and harmony, peace, and perfection are the results of a careful and judicious observance of the laws given for its regulation. Any infringement of these laws will produce disorder, confusion, and distraction.

Man is made a little lower than the angels, possessed of a mind capable of reason, improvement, and happiness; an intellectual soul inhabiting a mortal body, the connecting link between earth and heaven—the material and spiritual world. As a physical being, he is subject, in common with other things, to the laws which regulate matter: as an intellectual being, he is governed by the laws which regulate mind: as possessed of both a body and mind, a code of moral laws demand his observance in all the social relations and duties of life. Obedience to these laws is the certain source of health of body, and peace of mind. An infringement of them will as certainly be attended with disease and suffering to the one, and sorrow and anguish to the other.

Lower grades of animals partake of many qualities in common with man. In some they are deficient; in others they are superior. Some animals are possessed of all but reason, and even in that, the highest of them come very little short of the lowest of the human species. If they have not reason, they possess an instinct which nearly approaches it. These qualities dwindle down gradually thro the various orders and varieties of animated nature, to the lowest grade of animalculæ, a multitude of which may inhabit a single drop of water; or to the zoophytes and lythophytes, which form the connecting link between the animal and vegetable kingdom; as the star-fish, the polypus, and spunges. Then strike off into another kingdom, and observe the laws vegetable life. Mark the tall pine which has grown from a small seed which sent forth its root downwards and its trunk upwards, drawing nourishment from earth, air, and water, till it now waves its top to the passing breeze, a hundred feet above this dirty earth: or the oak or olive, which have maintained their respective positions a dozen centuries despite the operations of wind and weather, and have shed their foliage and their seeds to propagate their species and extend their kinds to different places. While a hundred generations have lived and died, and the country often changed masters, they resist oppression, scorn misrule, and retain rights and privileges which are slowly encroached upon by the inroads of time, which will one day triumph over them, and they fall helpless to the earth, to submit to the chemical operations which shall dissolve their very being and cause them to mingle with the common dust, yielding their strength to give life and power to other vegetables which shall occupy their places.[10] Or mark the living principle in the "sensitive plant," which withers at every touch, and suffers long ere it regains its former vigor.

Descend from thence, down thro the various gradations of vegetable life, till you pass the narrow border and enter the mineral world. Here you will see displayed the same sublime principle, tho in a modified degree. Minerals assume different shapes, hues and relations; they increase and diminish, attach and divide under various circumstances, all the while retaining their identity and properties, and exerting their abilities according to the means they possess, till compelled to yield to a superior power, and learn to submit to the laws which operate in every department of this mutable world.

Every thing acts according to the ability God has bestowed upon it; and man can do no more. He has authority over all things on earth, and yet he is made to depend upon all. His authority extends no farther than a privilege, under wholesome restrictions, of making the whole subservient to his real good. When he goes beyond this, he usurps a power which belongs not to him, and the destruction of his happiness pays the forfeit of his imprudence. The injured power rises triumphant over the aggressor, and the glory of God's government, in the righteous and immediate execution of his laws, is clearly revealed. So long as man obeys the laws which regulate health, observes temperance in all things, uses the things of this world as not abusing them, he is at rest, he is blessed, he is happy: but no sooner has he violated heaven's law than he becomes the slave, and the servant assumes the master. But I am digressing. I would gladly follow this subject further, but I shall go beyond my limits, and, it may be, your patience.

I would insist, however, on the facts to which your attention has been given, for it is impossible, as I have before contended, to use language correctly without a knowledge of the things and ideas it is employed to represent.

Grovelling, indeed, must be the mind which will not trace the sublime exhibitions of Divine power and skill in all the operations of nature; and false must be that theory which teaches the young mind to think and speak of neutrality as attached to things which do exist. As low and debasing as the speculations of the schoolmen were, they gave to things which they conceived to be incapable of action, a principle which they called "vis inertiæ," or, power to lie still. Shall our systems of instruction descend below them, throw an insurmountable barrier in the way of human improvement, and teach the false principles that actions can exist without an effect, or that there is a class of words which "express neither action or passion." Such a theory is at war with the first principles of philosophy, and denies that "like causes produce like effects."

The ablest minds have never been able to explain the foundation of a "neuter verb," or to find a single word, with a solitary exception, which does not, in certain conditions, express a positive action, and terminate on a definite object; and that exception we shall see refers to a verb which expresses the highest degree of conceivable action. Still they have insisted on three and some on four kinds of verbs, one expressing action, another passion or suffering, and the third neutrality. We propose to offer a brief review of these distinctions, which have so long perplexed, not only learners, but teachers themselves, and been the fruitful source of much dissention among grammarians.

It is to be hoped you will come up to this work with as great candor as you have heretofore manifested, and as fully resolved to take nothing for granted, because it has been said by good or great men, and to reject nothing because it appears new or singular. Let truth be our object and reason our guide to direct us to it. We can not fail of arriving at safe and correct conclusions.

Mr. Murray tells us that "verbs are of three kinds, active, passive, and neuter. In a note he admits of "active transitive and intransitive verbs," as a subdivision of his first kind. Most of his "improvers" have adopted this distinction, and regard it as of essential importance.

We shall contend, as before expressed, that all verbs are of one kind, that they express action, for the simple yet sublime reason, that every thing acts, at all times, and under every possible condition; according to the true definition of action as understood and employed by all writers on grammar, and natural and moral science. Here we are at issue. Both, contending for principles so opposite, can not be correct. One or the other, however pure the motives, must be attached to a system wrong in theory, and of course pernicious in practice. You are to be the umpires in the case, and, if you are faithful to your trust, you will not be bribed or influenced in the least by the opinions of others. If divested of all former attachments, if free from all prejudice, there can be no doubt of the safety and correctness of your conclusions. But I am apprehensive I expect too much, if I place the new system of grammar on a footing equally favorable in your minds with those you have been taught to respect, as the only true expositions of language, from your childhood up, and which are recommended to you on the authority of the learned and good of many generations. I have to combat early prejudices, and systems long considered as almost sacred. But I have in my favor the common sense of the world, and a feeling of opposition to existing systems, which has been produced, not so much by a detection of their errors, as by a lack of capacity, as the learner verily thought, to understand their profound mysteries. I am, therefore, willing to risk the final decision with you, if you will decide. But I am not willing to have you made the tools of the opposite party, determined, whether convinced or not, to hold to your old neuter verb systems, right or wrong, merely because others are doing so. All I ask is your adoption of what is proved to be undeniably true, and rejection of whatever is found to be false.

Here is where the matter must rest, for it will not be pretended that it is better to teach falsehood because it is ancient and popular, than truth because it is novel. Teachers, in this respect, stand in a most responsible relation to their pupils. They should always insist with an unyielding pertinacity, on the importance of truth, and the evils of error. Every trifling incident, in the course of education, which will serve to show the contrast, should be particularly observed. If an error can be detected in their books, they should be so taught as to be able to correct it; and they should be so inclined as to be willing to do it. They should not be skeptics, however, but close observers, original thinkers, and correct reasoners. It is degrading to the true dignity and independence of man, to submit blindly to any proposition. Freedom of thought is the province of all. Children should be made to breathe the free air of honest inquiry, and to inhale the sweet spirit of truth and charity. They should not study their books as the end of learning, but as a means of knowing. Books should be regarded as lamps, which are set by the way side, not as the objects to be looked at, but the aids by which we may find the object of our search. Knowledge and usefulness constitute the leading motives in all study, and no occasion should be lost, no means neglected, which will lead the young mind to their possession.

Your attention is now invited to some critical remarks on the distinctions usually observed in the use of verbs. Let us carefully examine the meaning of these three kinds and see if there is any occasion for such a division; if they have any foundation in truth, or application in the correct use of language. We will follow the arrangements adopted by the most popular grammars.

"A verb active expresses an action, and necessarily implies an agent, and an object acted upon; as, to love, I love Penelope." A very excellent definition, indeed! Had grammarians stopped here, their works would have been understood, and proved of some service in the study of language. But when they diverge from this bright spot in the consideration of verbs—this oasis in the midst of a desert—they soon become lost in the surrounding darkness of conjecture, and follow each their own dim light, to hit on a random track, which to follow in the pursuit of their object.

We give our most hearty assent to the above definition of a verb. It expresses action, which necessarily implies an actor, and an object influenced by the action. In our estimation it matters not whether the object on which the action terminates is expressed or understood. If I love, I must love some object; either my neighbor, my enemy, my family, myself, or something else. In either case the action is the same, tho the objects may be different; and it is regarded, on all hands, as an active verb. Hence when the object on which the action terminates is not expressed, it is necessarily understood. All language is, in this respect, more or less eliptical, which adds much to its richness and brevity.

Active verbs, we are told, are divided into transitive and intransitive. Mr. Murray does not exactly approve of this distinction, but prefers to class the intransitive and neuter together. Others, aware of the fallacy of attempting to make children conceive any thing like neutrality in the verbs, run, fly, walk, live, &c., have preferred to mark the distinction and call them intransitive; because, say they, they do not terminate on any object expressed.

A transitive verb "expresses an action which passes from the agent to the object; as, Cæsar conquered Pompey." To this definition we can not consent. It attempts a distinction where there is none. It is not true in principle, and can not be adopted in practice.

"Cæsar conquered Pompey." Did the act of conquering pass transitively over from Cæsar to Pompey? They might not have seen each other during the whole battle, nor been within many miles of each other. They, each of them, stood at the head of their armies, and alike gave orders to their subordinate officers, and they again to their inferiors, and so down, each man contending valiantly for victory, till, at last, the fate of the day sealed the downfall of Pompey, and placed the crown of triumph on the head of Cæsar. The expression is a correct one, but the action expressed by the verb "conquered," is not transitive, as that term is understood. A whole train of causes was put in operation which finally terminated in the defeat of one, and the conquest of the other.

"Bonaparte lost the battle of Waterloo." What did he do to lose the battle? He exerted his utmost skill to gain the battle and escape defeat. He did not do a single act, he entertained not a single thought, which lead to such a result; but strove against it with all his power. If the fault was his, it was because he failed to act, and not because he labored to lose the battle. He had too much at stake to adopt such a course, and no man but a teacher of grammar, would ever accuse him of acting to lose the battle.

"A man was sick; he desired to recover (his health). He took, for medicine, opium by mistake, and lost his life by it." Was he guilty of suicide? Certainly, if our grammars are true. But he lost his life in trying to get well.

"A man in America possesses property in Europe, and his children inherit it after his death." What do the children do to inherit this property, of which they know nothing?

"The geese, by their gabbling, saved Rome from destruction." How did the geese save the city? They made a noise, which waked the sentinels, who roused the soldiers to arms; they fought, slew many Gauls, and delivered the city.

"A man in New-York transacts business in Canton." How does he do it? He has an agent there to whom he sends his orders, and he transacts the business. But how does he get his letters? The clerk writes them, the postman carries them on board the ship, the captain commands the sailors, who work the ropes which unfurl the sails, the wind blows, the vessel is managed by the pilot, and after a weary voyage of several months, the letters are delivered to the agent, who does the business that is required of him.

The miser denies himself every comfort, and spends his whole life in hoarding up riches; and yet he dies and leaves his gold to be the possession of others.

Christians suffer insults almost every day from the Turks.

Windows admit light and exclude cold.

Who can discover any thing like transitive action—a passing from the agent to the object—in these cases? What transitive action do the windows perform to admit the light; or the christians, to suffer insults; or the miser, to leave his money? If there is neutrality any where, we would look for it here. The fact is, these words express relative action, as we shall explain when we come to the examination of the true character of the verb.

Neutrality signifies (transitive verb!) no action, and neuter verbs express a state of being! A class of words which can not act, which apply to things in a quiescent state, perform the transitive action of "expressing a state of being!"

Who does not perceive the inconsistency and folly of such distinctions? And who has not found himself perplexed, if not completely bewildered in the dark and intricate labyrinths into which he has been led by the false grammar books! Every attempt he has made to extricate himself, by the dim light of the "simplifiers," has only tended to bewilder him still more, till he is utterly confounded, or else abandons the study altogether.

An intransitive verb "denotes action which is confined to the actor, and does not pass over to another object; as, I sit, he lives, they sleep."

"A verb neuter expresses neither action nor passion, but being, or a state of being; as, I am, I sleep, I sit."

These verbs are nearly allied in character; but we will examine them separately and fairly. The examples are the same, with exception of the verb to be, which we will notice by itself, and somewhat at large, in another place.

Our first object will be to ascertain the meaning and use of the words which have been given as samples of neutrality. It is unfortunate for the neuter systems that they can not define a "neuter verb" without making it express an action which terminates on some object.

"The man sits in his chair."

Sits, we are told, is a neuter verb. What does it mean? The man places himself in a sitting posture in his seat. He keeps himself in his chair by muscular energy, assisted by gravitation. The chair upholds him in that condition. Bring a small child and sit it (active verb,) in a chair beside him. Can it sit? No; it falls upon the floor and is injured. Why did it fall? It was not able to keep itself from falling. The lady fainted and fell from her seat. If there is no action in sitting, why did she not remain as she was? A company of ladies and gentlemen from the boarding school and college, entered the parlor of a teacher of neuter verbs; and he asked them to sit down, or be seated. They were neutral. He called them impolite. But they replied, that sit "expresses neither action nor passion," and hence he could not expect them to occupy his seats.

"Sit or set it away; sit near me; sit farther along; sit still;" are expressions used by every teacher in addressing his scholars. On the system we are examining, what would they understand by such inactive expressions? Would he not correct them for disobeying his orders? But what did he order them to do? Nothing at all, if sit denotes no action.