Words are lighter than the cloud foam

Of the restless ocean spray;
Vainer than the trembling shadow
That the next hour steals away;
By the fall of summer rain-drops
Is the air as deeply stirred;
And the rose leaf that we tread on
Will outlive a word.

Yet on the dull silence breaking
With a lightning flash, a word,
Bearing endless desolation

On its blighting wings, I heard.
Earth can forge no keener weapon,
Dealing surer death and pain,
And the cruel echo answered

Through long years again.

I have known one word hang star-like
O'er a dreary waste of years,

And it only shone the brighter

Looked at through a mist of tears,

While a weary wanderer gathered
Hope and heart on life's dark way,
By its faithful promise shining
Clearer day by day.

I have known a spirit calmer

Then the calmest lake, and clear As the heavens that gazed upon it, With no wave of hope or fear;

But a storm had swept across it,

And its deepest depths were stirred,

Never, never more to slumber,

Only by a word.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER

HE unexpected favor with which this work has been

THE

received by the public from year to year, since its publication in 1873, has made the author anxious to ren

der it more worthy of regard. He has, therefore, carefully revised the work, corrected some errors, and added two new chapters, one on "Onomatopes," the other on "Names of Men," besides many pages on the subjects of the other chapters.

Professor G. P. Marsh, in his "Lectures on the English Language," quotes the saying of a distinguished British scholar of the last century, that he had known but three of his countrymen who spoke their native language with uniform grammatical accuracy; and the Professor adds that "the observation of most persons acquainted with English and American society confirms the general truth implied in this declaration." In this statement, made by one of the most eminent philologists of the day, is found, at least, a partial justification of works like the present, if they are properly written. The author is well aware that, in writing such a book, he is obnoxious to the complaint of Goethe, that "everybody thinks that, because he can speak, he is entitled to speak about language;" he is aware, too, that in his criticisms on the misuses and abuses of words, he has exposed himself to criticism; and it may

be that he has been guilty of some of the very sins which he has condemned. If so, he sins in good company, since nearly all of his predecessors, who have written on the same theme, have been found guilty of a similar inconsistency, from Lindley Murray down to Dean Alford, Breen, Moon, Marsh, and Fowler. If the public is to hear no philological sermons till the preachers are faultless, it will have to wait forever. "The only impeccable authors," says Hazlitt, are those who never wrote."

It is hardly necessary to add that the work is designed for popular reading, rather than for scholars. How much the author is indebted to others, he cannot say. He has been travelling, in his own way, over old and well worn ground, and has picked up his materials freely from all the sources within his reach. Non nova, sed nové, has been his aim; he regrets that he has not accomplished it more to his satisfaction. The world, it has been truly said, does not need new thoughts so much as it needs that old thoughts be recast. There are some writers, however, to whom he has been particularly indebted; they are Archbishop Trench, the Rev. Matthew Harrison, author of "The Rise, Progress, and Present Structure of the English Language," Professor G. P. Marsh, and especially Archdeacon F. W. Farrar, the last of whom in his three linguistic works has shown the ability to invest the driest scientific themes with interest. A list of the books consulted will be found on pages 479, 480.