I Know that you are one of those who consider our language as past its meridian. Some think it was in its highest lustre in the age of Sidney; others, in that of Addison. Perhaps, upon an impartial review of it, we shall find it more perfect now than ever.

In the authors before the reign of Elizabeth, there seems not the least pretence to a simple, natural style. A man was held unfit to write, who could not express his thoughts out of the common language; so that it is possible, there was as much difficulty in understanding them at the time they lived, as now. If we are to judge of the English they spoke, by that they writ, we have no reason to complain of the fluctuation of our tongue. But it is very probable that conversation-language was much the same two hundred years ago as at present; there are proofs of this in private letters still existing—I mean from such people as had no ambition to be thought learned, or from such as felt too much for affectation. The famous letter of Ann Boleyn to Henry the eighth, is of this last sort, in which there is scarce an obsolete expression.——I hope you make a distinction between expression and spelling—for as I once observed to you, it is but of late that our orthography has been fixed. In the State-tryals in Elizabeth and James’s reign, we find near the same language we use at present, and this was taken immediately from the mouth. In those passages where Shakespeare’s genius had not its full scope, may be observed his attempts to be thought learned, and refined; but where the subject was too impetuous to brook restraint, the language is as perfect as the idea. Upon the whole, tho’ the colloquial English was much the same as at present, we may safely pronounce the style of the authors of this period to be barbarous.

The disputes between Charles the first and the Parliament, were of great use in polishing the language; and tho’ the King’s papers are thought to be most elegant, yet it is evident that both parties endeavoured at strength for the good of their cause, and at perspicuity for the sake of being universally understood—and these two principles go near towards making a perfect style. Milton’s prose is in general very nervous, but it is not free from stiffness and affectation.

The other period is that of Addison. He was undoubtedly one of our smoothest and best writers: he had the skill of uniting ease, strength, and correctness, and did more towards improving the language than the united labours of fifty years before him. But yet there were some little remains of barbarism still left, which are evident enough in his contemporaries, and may be discovered even in him, by attending to the style and not to the matter. Will you believe that so elegant a writer has used authenticalness for authenticity?——You may find this horrid word in his Dialogues on Medals.

Political disputes have produced, among many bad effects, the same good, now, as formerly—they have improved our language. Those in the Administration of Sir Robert Walpole, but more particularly these in our own times, have occasioned some of the most perfect pieces of writing we have in our tongue. Though, from the nature of the subject, the pieces themselves can scarce exist longer than the dispute which gave them being; yet certainly their effect upon the language will be felt when the quarrel itself is no more, and every thing relating to it forgotten.

Tho’ I have affirmed that our language is more perfect now than in any past period—yet there is still much left in it to be corrected.—Indeed there are some defects in all languages, which have crept in by degrees, and are so sanctified by custom, that they can never be corrected. In English there is no difference in writing, tho’ there is in pronouncing, the present, and preterperfect tenses of the verbs read, and eat, and some others. Some unsuccessful attempts have been made to distinguish them by writing redde and ate. There are more words in Latin of contrary significations which are written the same, than, I believe, in any other language. It is a defect if the pronunciation of different words be alike, and a great fault if such a pronunciation be the consequence of a refinement. We now pronounce fore and four, the same; which sometimes makes an odd confusion. “I will come to you at three, I can’t come before”—and “I will come to you at three, I can’t come by four”—are pronounced just the same way. This we get by affectedly dropping the u. In French au dessous and au dessus are too much alike for contrary significations. Nature dictates a difference of sound for different meanings: the adverbs of negation and assent, bear no resemblance to each other in any language; and almost all languages agree in some such sound as no for denial.

The London dialect is the cause of many improprieties, which, if they were only used in conversation, would not much signify; but as they have begun to make part of our written language, they deserve some animadversion. To mention a few. The custom among the common people of adding an s to many words, has, I believe, occasioned its being fixed to some, by writers of rank, who on account of their residence in London did not perceive the impropriety. They speak, and write, chickens—coals—acquaintances—assistances, &c. Chicken is itself the plural of chick, as oxen is of ox, kine (cowen) is of cow, and many others. Coal, acquaintance, being aggregate nouns, admit of no plural termination, nor does assistance. If I were to say a bag of shots, or sands, the impropriety would be instantly perceived; and yet one is full as good English as the other. A certain author of great credit, who has taken a strict, nay, a verbal review of the English language, uses them as often as they occur.

As the Londoners speak, so they also write learn for teach, this is a very old mistake, and occurs frequently in the psalms, do for does (and the contrary), set for sit, see for saw, tin for latten (which are two different things as well as words), sulky for sullen, &c. &c. ’Change and ’sample have been long admitted denizens.——Even in a dictionary you may find million explained to be a fruit well known—as perhaps in a future edition we shall be told that a fly signifies a coach, and dilly a chaise.

The London phraseology has also been too hard for English. I got me up—he sets him down—I got no sleep—I slept none—such a thing is a doing—a going—a coming—live lobsters—live-cattle—I will call of you—do not tell on it. All these are writ without scruple. Our modern comedies, and the London news-papers, abound so much in this language, that they are scarce intelligible to one who has never been in the capital. Nay in books for the use of schools, the London dialect is so predominant, that many of the sentences are not to be understood by a country boy, and impossible to be rendered into Latin even by those who do understand them. “I will go and fetch a walk in the Green Park”—“I will go get me my dinner,” and such jargon is perpetually occurring.

English has also been corrupted by London emphasis and accent—I will not tire you by quoting examples, of which a long list might be made to prove the great propensity of the common people to those defects; and would be a farther confirmation of what I just now advanced, that men of learning really commit improprieties, because their ear is familiarized to them.

I have yet something to add on this subject—but I must caution you from imagining that because I find out the faults of others, I pretend to perfection myself. Hogarth says very properly in his Analysis of Beauty, “do not look for good drawing in those examples which I bring of grace and beauty—they are purposely neglected—attend to the precept.”