These, and many other instances, which are not casual coincidences, prove, at least, that the "True English Grammar" is not quite so new a thing as its writer would have it thought. The main difference between it and Mr. Webster's is, that Mr. Fowle has adhered more implicitly to Horne Tooke than Mr. Webster did after a little experience, and has adopted a more general division of words.

The doctrine, which rejects the moods and tenses of verbs, is by no means a new one; and, although long ago suggested, its advantage and expediency have ever been doubted by the judicious.

Even the rejection of the whole passive voice, startling as it may appear, is no novelty; and, if we are not mistaken, has been actually reduced to practice in the Grammar of Mr. S. Cardell, of New York, "the ingenious philologer," according to Mr. Fowle, "who ought to be better known in this country."

One word as to the treatment of Mr. Murray and other writers. Mr. Fowle seems to have considered it an essential thing in a true English grammar, to choose such illustrations of his principles, as shall ridicule personally those from whom he may chance to differ. Thus, "He Murray-that Murray (who perplexes)" (p. 21.) "I, Mr. Murray, puzzle children." (p. 160.) It was not to be expected, that the upholders of venerable corruptions, like Dr. Lowth and Mr. Murray, should be entitled to his civilities. The character of the "fearless" reformer, from Brutus downwards, has always implied a contempt of the courtesies, not to say of the decencies of life. Men made of such stern stuff know a régard for the truth alone. It would be too much like betraying the glorious cause of reform, and doing obeisance to error, to omit any expression of rudeness and disregard towards his opponents, or of arrogance and self-sufficiency on his own part. From these principles, we do not perceive that he has swerved; and it is not a little curious to observe, how cleverly he has managed to make his book a tissue of alternate grammatical expositions and personal abuse.

A word with regard to the practicability of these innovations, and we have done.

What should we think of that man's project, who should propose to teach a system of arithmetic, founded on the duodecimal ratio? Yet there are not wanting mathematicians to maintain the superiority of such a system. Will parents consent to teach their children a system of grammar, which treats of words, not as men write and speak them, but as Horne Tooke and Mr. Fowle think that they should be written and spoken? If the rising generation are to

profit by these improvements, they must, for one hundred years at least, cut themselves off from all sympathy with those about them, in whatever is connected with language and letters; until they shall be able to reform learning, and fashion English after the standard of primitive simplicity, "appealing from the authority of Addison and Swift to the woods of Germany." Not merely so. When they commence the study of the French, Italian, and Spanish, (the latter of which has been brought so near to our homes) they will truly have all their labor to begin again. Mr. Webster has assumed as the motto of his Philosophical Grammar, "that the most necessary of all learning is to unlearn that which is naught." From this they surely will not be excused, who, after enjoying the benefit of the grammar before us, turn to the study of the modern languages. They will have forgone the aid of analogy in the study of those languages, and have thrust themselves out of the pale of all the grammatical systems in the world. We would suggest, therefore, as the watchword of his disciples,

"Double, double, toil and trouble."

If, their doctrine is sound, the business of reform must not stand still, until all the dialects on the face of the earth have been made over anew. It is not the English language alone that is in fault, "but," as Mr. Webster formerly avowed, "the grammars and dictionaries of all other languages must be revised and corrected, before their elements and true construction can be fully understood." These men plainly reverse the order of things, and consider grammar the final cause of language, rather than language the final cause of grammar. But if Mithridates, in the plenitude of his power, could not change a single word in all the numerous dialects spoken throughout his empire, how is it to be supposed, that busy and matter-of-fact men, in an age infinitely more practical than his, will be persuaded to sacrifice their familiar forms of discourse, for any notions of wire-drawn philology? Practical usefulness is far better than the semblance of philosophical propriety. Whine as they may, about "straining our language on foreign racks," and, instead of taking their mother tongue as they find it, flounder about in the misty mazes of their own conjectures, we shall continue to think, that there is much more of philosophism in their doctrines, than of good philosophy. People will call a whale a fish in spite of the zoologists; and we sadly fear, that they will talk of prepositions and conjunctions in spite of the "Diversions of Purley.

MISCELLANY.

[The following story is translated from the German of Musæus, being one of his Volksmärchen, or Popular Tales, not original productions, but stories common among his countrymen, and taken by him from the lips of individuals, mostly among the peasantry. The collection is popular in Germany. The main incident in this tale has been used by Lewis in the story of Don Raymond, given in "The Monk." The two stories, however, are by no means alike.]

THE ELOPEMENT.

On the banks of the little river Lokvich, in Vogtland, near the borders of Thuringia, stands the castle of Lauenstein. A nunnery formerly stood on the same spot, but it was broken up in the times of the early reformers, and the lands attached to it reverted, of course, to the temporal lords of the soil. The earl of Orlamund, in whose domains they were situated, bestowed them upon a feudal retainer, who built a castle upon the ruins of the convent, and gave his own name to the estate, or else adopted the one which he found belonging to it; he is called in story the lord of Lauenstein. He was not long in learning that the laity never thrive on the spoils of the church, but sooner or later find them a source of grievous vexation.

The holy nuns, whose remains had rested quietly for centuries in the burial vaults of the convent, could not endure this profanation of their sanctuary. The dry bones rattled in the tombs, and, in the middle of the night, up rose the skeletons from their subterranean lodgings, and clattered up and down the still remaining cloisters. Sometimes the holy sisters would sweep in procession across the castle-yard, wander through the apartments, and slam to the doors with such violence, that nobody in the house could close his eyes. Sometimes they made a disturbance in the servants' apartments or in the stables, pinched and pulled about the maids, tormented the cattle, dried up the cows' milk, and made the horses snort, and rear, and break down their stalls.

The activity with which the holy sisters pursued their pranks gave no rest to man or beast; and though the master of the house hired the most famous exorcists, at great expense, to reduce them to order, it was all to no purpose. The most powerful conjurations, before which the whole kingdom of Belial trembled,

and the brush dipped in holy water, which used to make the evil spirits scatter like a swarm of flies when you flap your handkerchief among them, for a long time availed nothing against the obstinacy of the spectral Amazons, who maintained their claims to their ancient possessions so stoutly, that the exorcists, with their whole panoply of relics, were obliged to quit the field.

At length a famous member of the fraternity, who traversed the country to spy out witches, drive away bogles, and cure people possessed with evil spirits, was engaged to bring the riotous ghosts to reason, and shut them up in their tombs, where they might roll their skulls and clatter their bones as much as they pleased. He succeeded, at last, in restoring quiet, and the nuns were dismissed to their repose; but after seven years had elapsed, one of the sisterhood awoke a second time, showed herself at night, and renewed the old disturbances until she was tired; then rested, as before, for seven years, and again appeared in the castle. After a while, the family grew accustomed to her presence, and when the time came for her septennial visit, were careful not to walk through the cloisters after nightfall, or leave the fireside without good reason.

After the decease of the first occupant, the castle descended to his son, and thus it went down from father to son, until the period of the thirty years' war, when the last male of the line came into possession of the estate. He was a man of such goodly proportions, that, at the time when his growth was completed, his weight was little less than that of the great Francis Finatze, so famous for his paunch, or the distinguished Paul Butterbread, who lately exhibited his corpulence to the admiration of the Parisians. Siegmund, however, before he became of the shape of a pumpkin, was a very respectable man, who lived in good style on his acres, but took care not to diminish his patrimony. As soon as he succeeded to the estate of his ancestors, he followed their example by taking a wife to continue the line of Lauenstein. After due time a child was born, and proved to be a pretty little girl, the first and last of his progeny. From this time forth, thanks to his wife's attention to his comfort, he grew continually fatter and fatter. The care of the daughter's education devolved entirely upon the mother, who, from the period of the marriage, had exercised sovereign authority in the household. The more papa increased in bulk, the more stupid he became, till finally he took no notice of any thing that was not boiled or roasted.

Miss Emily, as her mother was constantly busied about the household affairs, was left in a great measure to the kind care of

nature, and, perhaps, was no loser thereby. Nature is an artist who takes good care of her reputation, and usually repairs an error by a masterpiece of skill. She had formed the person and intellect of the daughter on a very different model from those of the father. Emily was handsome and intelligent. As her charms unfolded themselves, her mother became determined to make them a means of increasing the dignity of the family. The dame cherished a secret pride, not easily discernible on common occasions, except from her devotion to her genealogical tree, which she regarded as the principal ornament of her dwelling. There was hardly a family in the whole country with which she would have willingly seen her daughter connected, and none of the young lords in the neighbourhood were allowed to make attempts on her heart. No officer of the customs could watch a toll-gate with more vigilance to see that no contraband wares are admitted, than she did the heart of her daughter. Lovers were kept at a distance, and all the schemes of mothers and aunts brought to nought. Emily, for a long time, implicitly followed her mother's directions, and looked down with scorn upon her admirers. She waited for a prince or an earl to do homage to her charms, and humbler suitors were received with chilling reserve.

Before, however, the expected grandee appeared, a circumstance occurred, which overthrew all mamma's plans, and worked such a change in Emily's heart, that all the nobility of Germany could have made no impression upon it. During the continuance of the thirty years' war, the army of the gallant Wallenstein happened to go into winter-quarters in Vogtland; and Siegmund was overwhelmed with a crowd of unbidden guests, who made more uproar in the castle than the riotous ghosts of the holy sisterhood. Although their right of possession was far less, it was a much harder matter to expel them. Finding the evil unavoidable, the family thought it best to submit with a good grace, and exert themselves to please their guests. There was a constant round of suppers and balls in the castle. The mother presided over the former, the daughter over the latter. This abundant hospitality put the officers in good humor; they honored the house where they were so well entertained, and the host and guests were mutually satisfied with each other. Among the visiters, was many a young hero fitted to endanger a lady's peace; but one was distinguished above the rest. This was a young officer who went by the name of the handsome Frederick. He looked like the god of love in arms, and his manners were as pleasing as his figure was elegant; he was mild, modest, obliging, a lively talker, and a