While the English language makes Americans of all foreigners, it does not, of course, obliterate race distinctions as long as races continue to exist as such. Persons of alien races, nevertheless, when born in this country and reared under native influences, will become "American" in a truer sense than foreigners belonging to the Caucasian race coming here at maturity. I dare say Frederick Douglass was truly more of an American, in all this word implies, than any foreigner who ever came to live here; and so are all the better classes of native-born negroes, in a certain sense, more truly American, this indescribable something which constitutes a nation, than any aliens whosoever.

A gentleman once told me that, travelling on a steamboat on one of the New England rivers, he had been inadvertently listening to a conversation carried on behind him, between what seemed to be two New England farmers. On rising from his seat, he saw that one of the men was a Chinaman, dressed like the other and conversing precisely as he did.

Seeing an acquaintance, he pointed out the Chinaman and asked if he knew who he was.

"That's Jimmy O'Connor; he's from So-and-so."

"I mean the Chinaman."

"Yes, the Chinaman; that's him. You know he was picked up at sea, when still a baby, by a New Bedford whaler, and was brought up in the captain's family, who adopted him. He's as good a farmer and as true an American as you can find anywhere."

These studies are meant to be purely objective, and have no concern with politics or policies, regarding undesirable immigration, or issues of a similar nature. But language is nationality, and nationality language, always, in the first instance; and the purer a language is spoken, the truer, purer, and better such nationality will be expressed and represented by those who thus speak it. What an incentive to aim at the purest and best expression of language, for any people! But it will be said that language is subject to change. If it is, so will the people who speak it to some extent change with it. Such change, however, is in its dress, in words mainly; rarely and at long intervals, and under very peculiar circumstances only, in its expression. As a matter of fact, I doubt whether a change of the idiomatic expression ever takes place.

The difference existing between the English spoken in the United States and the mother country might be cited as an example. The idiomatic expression is precisely the same. But the necessary self-reliance of the first settlers, the privation, the barter and exchange, the vast extent of the territory of this country, the greater independence enjoyed by its people, etc., might be named as reasons for the greater dash and freedom, together with a possible want of culture, as compared with the language spoken by educated Englishmen, prevailing in its utterance.

The same influences prevail regarding the general appearance, motions, and characteristic traits of these respective nations. Though closely allied and connected in a specific, and very nearly allied to each other in a general sense, there is that which distinguishes the English of the old world from those of the new, and which can be easily recognized.

Being centrifugal, the English idiom, octopus-like, embraces anything and everything that comes within the radius of its omnivorous capacity, without, however, losing its original character. It is like a fisherman who has hung out his net in the ocean, taking in all that comes along; or like the sea itself, greedy without end. It has no scruples about roots and construction, but construes everything according to its wants and adapts it to its uses as it comes along from any quarter.

These adopted children, these waifs, however, it must not be lost sight of, before they become integral parts of English speech must submit to a change of their original idiomatic expression. No matter who came—Celts, Romans, Angles, Saxons, or French—the people of the British Islands, while adopting their terms of expression, remained true to their original idiomatic expression. As this country absorbs people from the whole world and makes one homogeneous American nation of them, so has the English language absorbed, and is still absorbing, words from every other people's language, and has transformed them into one homogeneous language of its own.

Comparative philology, if it wants to accomplish that which would be most worthy of its efforts, will have to come down to these strong and basic roots of language.

The German language, whose idiomatic expression is centripetal, on the other hand, does not possess the same capacity for adopting foreign words and adapting them to its idiom. When it does adopt them, as, for instance, those of French origin, they are pronounced, not in the German, but, as far as the German people are capable of so doing, in the French manner. They could not, in fact, be pronounced in the German manner, the German language being a close corporation, so to say, which does not admit of any foreign shareholders; while the English language is a company open to all comers. While it is the endeavor of Germans to purify their language by expelling as far as possible any foreign word and element therefrom, Anglo-Saxons are constantly adopting new words from foreign languages. It would be equal to the labor of Sisyphus for Anglo-Saxons to endeavor to purify their language from foreign words, in the same sense that Germans are attempting to purify theirs.

It appears to me that the capacity of England for successful colonization is largely due to the centrifugal force inherent in its language, while the want of success of Germany for the same purpose is due to the absence of this force. Anglo-Saxon government tends toward decentralization, German toward centralization. I say this in spite of the fact that Germany is still divided into many principalities; the fact of its adherence to this undesirable condition being a proof of the correctness of this assertion rather than otherwise—Germans not being able to readily get out of that in which they are once rooted. In regard to governing peoples in distant territories or colonies, this tendency is of importance. English government, being undemonstrative, is more effective than German, which is demonstrative, meddlesome, and therefore offensive; the former being material and practical, the latter immaterial and inclined to be visionary.

In a word, where are we to find explanations regarding national traits of character except through inner motive powers, productive of results individual as well as national? There is no factor which exercises an influence upon a nation as a unit so wide in extent and of so powerful a nature as that of language. It is the only motive power, in fact, which every member of a nation shares with every other member thereof, but not with any member of any foreign nation.

IDIOMATIC EXPRESSION

Although it is a well known fact that every language has an idiomatic expression, an intonation of its own, I am not aware of any attempt ever having been made at definitely stating what such expression, or intonation, really consists in; and in what respect it differs, as between one language and another. Yet this fact should be the most important of all in connection with ethnological studies. It is necessary to know what a people's idiomatic expression is before we can begin to make a study of its language, in comparison with that of any other people, by which we may expect to arrive at conclusions of any real value in an ethnological sense.

In comparison with idiomatic expression, the study of the roots of words and their derivation, it appears to me, is of but secondary importance; idiomatic expression being the kernel in which the tree of national expression had its incipiency, its origin. It is the life which pulsates through its veins, in which it has its stay and maintenance; the nerves which tingle with its intelligence, its genius, its soul. Take away this soul, and it ceases to exist. For every language there must have been a strong impulse making an impression before there could have been any expression at all. This impulse must have been of so powerful and continuous a nature as to have left its impression upon the minds of a sufficiently large number of people to form the nucleus for the expression of a specific language, and, in so doing, constituting such people a nation.

I have already stated that it is motion in the first instance which superinduces a specific mode of breathing and consequent expression. It is to motion, then, that we must ascribe the first impulse. Such motion may have been active as to defense against enemies, wild beasts, or the elements; or it may have been passive, consisting of the continuous noise produced by the motion of the sea, tempests, or thunder-storms, making a great and lasting impression. Then, again, the influence may have been of a peaceful, balmy, beneficial nature, as with people living in security, in a mild climate and on fertile lands. The stronger the expression of these movements, the stronger the impression they made and the more powerful the expression of the language; the softer and more harmonious their expression, the softer and the more rhythmical the expression of the language. These influences made their first impression by superinducing a mode of breathing in conformity therewith.

Thus sounds giving expression to pain, perhaps, in the first instance, or to sorrow, joy, surprise, etc., were made in conformity with this, their specific mode of breathing. These outcries, consisting of syllables, grew into words and sentences, which, being uttered in conformity and sympathy with their special mode of breathing, created a specific idiomatic expression. The same process, from its first inauguration, and with but slight alterations, has been practised and persisted in by the same people from the beginning to the present time. With the English people, as already mentioned, no migration, no invasion, no conqueror, no matter how powerful, has been able to swerve it from its path. The most these invaders could do was to graft some of the expressions in which their ideas were clad, some words, on to this aboriginal stem. This stem was so strong in its primeval conception that it could bear all these exotic graftings without losing its character, absorbing all, welcoming all beneath the widespread roof and homestead of its branches. It proved its superiority over the idiomatic expression of these foreign tongues by its survival, as the fittest.

[Before proceeding further, I want to remark: these studies having been made from an Anglo-Saxon point of view, it is just possible that a preponderance of observations may have been made on that side; while, if they had been made from a German standpoint, the preponderance most likely would be on that side. This, no doubt, will be the case should I at any future period be able to write all this, as I intend to, in the German language.]

What is this original sap in the English, and what is it in the German language?

The aborigines of the British Isles, living apart from their continental brethren, became possessed of an idiom different and apart from any other. It was the idiom of the sea, by which they were surrounded; the motion and commotion of the waves, the surf, the incoming and outgoing tides, their undertow and overflow; the waves advancing toward the shore, their breaking against it, and their final retreat from the same.

The English language is a raft living upon the ocean. You can hear the waters rushing through it and on to the shore and back again. You can feel the waves rising up to gigantic heights, and then falling to and below the level of the sea. You can feel the undertow in its reserve force, quiet and subdued like the lull before the storm, yet capable of almost any demonstration. You can feel all this in the strength and vigor of its diction as expressed in its prose and poetry. This is not a mere poetical conception, but a truth capable of actual, practical demonstration.

While reading poetry or prose, or while singing, fancy seeing in your mind's eye the ocean with its waters in commotion, either the open sea or the surf near the shore, and you will feel every word you utter mingle with its waves. These pictures will never disturb your fancy, but will associate with it in perfect harmony. Now substitute for the picture of the ocean and its tumult some rural picture, as of a field of grain or the branches of trees tossed by the wind, or the flow of a river, or even that of the sea itself when perfectly calm. Keep such picture before you exactly as you did that of the sea in commotion. While reading, speaking, or singing English you will not be able to hold such picture; it will soon disturb you, and to such an extent that you must cease thinking of it, or be obliged to stop your reading, singing, etc.

The impression made by the ocean, in fact, is so great that it dominates the thought and the entire being of English-speaking people. This is the case to such an extent that if you continue to persistently think of any other image than the ocean, even without uttering any sound whatever, it will so greatly perturb you that you will be unable to continue thinking at all. You may, on the other hand, continue to think for an indefinite period of the image of the ocean without experiencing any disturbance whatever.

While the basic element of the English language is closely affiliated with the ocean, that of the German language is affiliated with the woods, and the blowing of the winds. In their habitation in the forest, the wind made so deep an impression on the primeval inhabitants of Germany that you can feel its soughing pervade all German diction.

If you are a German keep the picture of the woods before you and the soughing of the wind through the tree-tops, and it will harmonize with German thought and diction. Substitute a picture of the ocean for it, or almost any other picture, and you will not be able to vocally utter German thought, nor will you be able to continue thinking in the German language at all.

In place of conjuring up these pictures in your mind's eye you can substitute real pictures representing these scenes, and while contemplating them the effect will be the same.

After pursuing the picture of the ocean for a while, say: "English;" after pursuing that of the woods, say: "Deutsch;" either will come quite naturally, but you cannot reverse them. If you attempt it, these words will not be forthcoming.

While with English diction there is a pause and then an emphasis as of the waves coming on and then breaking against the shore, so, with German diction, there is an emphasis and then a pause, as of the blowing of the wind succeeded by a calm. These, in a word, are the characteristic elements in the idiomatic expressions of these peoples; English idiomatic expression being low succeeded by loud; German, loud succeeded by low.

The influence of the ocean with its continuous uproar formulated the speech and character of the English nation into one of strength and reality, with its centre of gravity in the abdomen. The peaceful influence of their habitation in the woods, together with the impression made by the wind, the singing of birds, etc., formulated the speech and character of the German nation into one more of ideality, with its centre of gravity in the thorax.

The fondness of the English for the sea, their supremacy thereon, etc., need not be amplified upon:

The fondness of the Germans for the woods is equally noted: Der "dunkle," "zauberische," "geheimnissvolle," "heilige"—Wald (The "darkly deep," "magical," "mysterious," and "sacred" woods) are but common expressions.

There is not a word in the English language of the same significance as that of "Der Wald." It embraces many ideas, of which the words "the woods" and "the forest" are not expressive. These, in a literal translation, find expression in the words "Das Gehoelz" and "Der Forst," which are of a more realistic nature.

The English language, on the other hand, is full of expressions applying to nautical matters and to the sea, for which there are no adequate expressions in the German language.

The fondness of the present Emperor of Germany for the sea must be attributed to the English blood flowing in his veins. While it is his desire to create a powerful navy, the people of Germany are indifferent to, and obstruct rather than assist, the accomplishment of this desire.

Idiomatic expression, the soul of language, has its incipiency in the soul of a people, and may pervade it for centuries before the body of the language, the words in which its thoughts are clad, makes its appearance. It must have taken many centuries more before these words grouped themselves into sentences and assumed the shape of speech. The words may change, but the idiomatic expression will always remain the same.

So, also, must the soul of man have had existence for an indefinite period of time before a body was formulated to clothe it in. The spiritual cell, if I may be permitted to use such an expression, must have existed before the material; or, in other words, the spiritual cell must have made its appearance long before the material cell commenced to make its appearance.

RELATIONSHIP SUPPOSED TO EXIST AS BETWEEN THE GERMAN AND ENGLISH NATIONS

It is a common saying that there is a close relationship existing between the German and English nations. There is no greater fallacy than this. I contend that this relationship is of a very distant order, consisting, as it does, merely in words, or, as I have said, garments loosely flung around the sturdy, strong, and unalterable stem of English idiomatic expression. In every other respect there is a great dissimilarity and antagonism even, existing between these two peoples. If there is any analogy existing between them at all, it is one of opposition; one that is based on the idea that extremes meet (les extrÊmes se touchent), their poles being diametrically opposed to each other.

There is no more relationship existing between (Anglo-Saxon) German and English than there is between (Norman) French and English; the German, French, and English languages each possessing their own especial and unalterable idiomatic expressions. Whatever foreign words either of them adopt must be subjected to their idiom, or keep floating along as best they may in their original character.

The entire aspect of these three nations, the French, English, and German, points to the fact that there must be a radical difference in their vital mode of existence. Just what this vital mode consists in, in respect to the two latter nations, I expect to still further establish in a future publication. Both languages traverse nearly the entire range of the vital organs in opposite directions. Hence the strength and also the weaknesses of these languages, as compared with other languages which, extending from side to side, have a smaller compass but a comparatively purer range of sounds. Regarding other nations and their languages, I trust others, thoroughly familiar with the same, by applying to their investigations similar principles, will establish similar facts.

Owing to its centrifugal tendency, it is necessary for English vocal utterance to open the mouth much wider than it is for German. Let a German open his mouth no farther for the enunciation of English than he is in the habit of opening it while speaking his own language, and he will not be able to utter a single sound. The same result will obtain when an Anglo-Saxon attempts to speak German on the same basis that he is in the habit of speaking his own language. Owing to the centripetal tendency of the German language, the mouth in speaking German is but slightly extended. That this respective widening and narrowing of, not only the mouth but of every other channel employed in bringing about vocal utterance, must tend to exercise a marked influence on Anglo-Saxon and German features will be obvious. The consequence is that the mouth of English-speaking persons in thus being extended has a broad yet narrow appearance, with rather thin and compressed lips, while the mouth of Germans in thus being contracted is comparatively smaller, with full and ripe lips. This feature is in conformity with all other features which, with Anglo-Saxons, are elongated, with Germans contracted.

Experiments regarding centrifugal and centripetal action can be made to good advantage by resting your head sideways on a pillow. In this position during vocal utterance you can feel these actions, and, feeling them, "measure" them. This mode of proceeding can be successfully adopted in many other experiments connected with these studies. I must warn the reader, however, again and again, that all this has reference only to languages spoken idiomatically correct. It has no reference whatever to foreign languages spoken in the usual mechanical manner.

LANGUAGE AND MOTION

I will now show that motion is the first impulse and primary condition of speech. I will give but a few examples at present, but expect to prove most exhaustively later on that motion must precede, or apparently at least, accompany vocal sounds always.

While standing up, straight, throw out your arms horizontally, then speak English. You will have no difficulty, but you will not be able to speak German so easily. Next, stand as before, and again throw out your arms horizontally, then drop them, letting them hang down close to your body. After doing so you will have no difficulty in speaking German, but you will not be able to speak English so readily. In throwing out your arms in the first instance, your mouth will open, and you will close it in speaking English. In letting them drop, in the second instance, your mouth will close, and you will open it in speaking German. Now, stand on the tips of your toes, and you will have no difficulty in speaking English, but you will not be able to speak German with ease. Then rest the weight of your body on your heels, and you will have no trouble in speaking German, but you cannot speak English with ease. In standing on the toes the body is extended by centrifugal, in standing on the heels it is contracted by centripetal action. Next, extend your neck, and you will have less trouble in speaking English than in speaking German; then lower your neck, and you will find no trouble in speaking German, but you will in speaking English. These experiments might be amplified manifold, but these must suffice for the present.

The same features of the opening and closing of the mouth in conformity with the position you assume, will obtain in all these instances the same as at first mentioned. It will scarcely be necessary for me to repeat that all this shows that the motion for English speech is centrifugal, for German centripetal. Nor will it be necessary to call attention to the fact that all this tends towards giving Germans a condensed and broad, Anglo-Saxons a lengthy and narrow bodily appearance.

It is, however, a noteworthy fact that with Germans the nearer you approach the sea, the more centrifugal becomes their action and personal appearance. The people of Northern Germany, therefore, though radically differing from them in most other respects, partake more of the general bodily features of Anglo-Saxon nations than those of the South of Germany, who are positively opposed to them.

Upon having ascertained the correctness of these statements by actual experiment, I want to ask the reader how he expects to reconcile these facts with the universally adopted theory that the larynx is the sole instrument productive of vocal utterance. An Anglo-Saxon, when stretching out his arms horizontally, can readily speak English, while a German in the same position cannot utter a sound of his language without difficulty. If the larynx in the case of an Anglo-Saxon, under these circumstances, produces vocal utterance, why is it not so easy with a German?

My explanation is this:

By extending your limbs, in stretching out your arms, or standing on your toes, the centrifugal action is instrumental in parting the jaws and giving the tongue an upward tendency. In so doing, the oesophagus and replica obtain ascendancy over the trachea and the larynx. The abdomen (the seat of gravitation for English speech) and its tributaries thus obtain the mastery over the thorax and its tributaries. The former being the main vehicle for English speech, such speech can be produced without molestation. These facts, while favorable to the production of English vocal utterance, obstruct and hinder German vocal utterance.

In lowering the arms or standing on one's heels, thus substituting centripetal for centrifugal action, the jaws close, the tongue assumes a downward tendency. The trachea and the larynx, as well as the thorax (the seat of gravitation for German vocal utterance), obtain the preponderance, and German may be freely spoken, while English is obstructed.

In raising the tongue, a free passage to the oesophagus is obtained, while that to the trachea is obstructed. In lowering the tongue, a free passage to the trachea is obtained, while that to the oesophagus becomes obstructed. It is necessary, however, to understand that, while English speech is centrifugal and German centripetal, these are tendencies only and not permanent conditions; centrifugal and centripetal action constantly interchanging and modifying one another. An uninterrupted tendency in one and the same direction, either centripetally or centrifugally, would soon come to an end and produce stagnation, inertia, death. There is no action without a counteraction. Hence, ingoing vocal sounds are counterbalanced by outgoing; the same as ingoing thoughts or thoughts produced by external vision are counterbalanced by outgoing, or thoughts produced by internal vision, etc.

In addition to the parts mentioned, there are many other parts of the body which, subjected to centrifugal or centripetal action, will produce results of the same order as those already mentioned. In stretching out your legs (while in a sitting position), you will find speaking German to be difficult; upon drawing them up, you will have trouble with English. The same results may be obtained, in connection with the toes and fingers, in a number of different ways. From all this, it will be readily seen that all parts of the body are closely related to each other, the tendency of the muscles in one prominent part producing the same tendency in all the rest.

There is one thing which must be mentioned, however. To obtain centrifugal action, it is necessary to stretch the part under consideration; the mere extension of a part, without stretching it, will be fruitless of results in either one direction or another; so will the mere contraction of any part be fruitless of results, unless such contraction is complete. You can let your arms hang down alongside of your body and yet speak English easily; and you can hold them out horizontally, and yet speak German easily. In either case the contraction and expansion must be thorough to produce results either centripetally or centrifugally.

All persons make similar motions to those mentioned with every sound they utter, though these motions do not appear on the surface; in fact, they could not speak if they did not make them.

I have already mentioned, but want to repeat, that centrifugal action is the cause of the elongated faces, and especially of the elongation of the lower jaw of English-speaking persons. It is also the cause of their semi-parted lips while in repose, showing their teeth, and a full exhibition thereof while speaking; a fact which has caused much merriment to continental nations, and has given rise to an endless number of caricatures of "milord" and "milady" on their travels, etc. It is also the cause of the perfection of dentistry in this country and in England, where the teeth are always more or less on exhibition. In other countries, where they are hidden behind the curtains of the lips, which are usually closed, except while speaking or laughing, this necessity does not arise to nearly the same extent. To the centrifugal force there is also due much of the innate charm and beauty of English-speaking women.

From all this one great lesson may be learned: no matter by what divergent means nature may work its ends, similar results are obtained, though often arrived at by opposite means and from opposite directions. Thus life ever presents to us new forms and features, and ever infuses new interest into what otherwise might become unbearable in its monotony. A better insight into these facts ought to make us feel more lenient towards what appear to us as other people's "idiosyncrasies." It should also have a tendency to prevent us from attempting to enforce to their full extent laws made in conformity with our own desires and inclinations but in direct opposition to those of others (foreigners living among us), whose character and disposition lead them in diametrically opposite directions.

Unless otherwise mentioned, I wish the reader to remember that I am always speaking not only from the standpoint of an American, but as an American. The fact of my long residence in this country, where I have spent the best part of my life, in itself would not entitle me to do this, having shown, as I have endeavored to do, that this is not sufficient to change a person from one nationality into another. During my earnest endeavor at fathoming these differences, however, I have been led into assuming the forms which distinguish the Anglo-Saxon from the German. Unless I am with Germans and speak the German language, in my thoughts and otherwise I lead the life of an American.

That my English speech, however (though my friends in their indulgence would lead me to believe otherwise), is not as perfect as it might be, is largely due to the fact of my constantly having recourse to the German language, and that I am thus as constantly led back into these other forms of existence which cannot be indulged in without some detriment and abstraction from either the one or the other. There was a time, in fact, when the transformation I have spoken of was taking place (the disturbance being so great) that I could not speak well either the one language or the other.

I am well convinced, on the other hand, that through perseverance perfection in the utterance of both of these languages, for speech as well as for song, and possibly of some other languages besides, may be attained in the course of time; nature being so pliable that, when the required actions are once fully understood and complied with, a perfect change may be made instantly in passing from one language on to another. Such changes, in fact, are naturally made by persons who, in their infancy, have been educated in and taught to speak several languages at one and the same time; the material during infancy being so pliable that it can be readily formed into any shape and transformed into any other. All of the preceding also shows that, for every separate idiom, the entire instrument must be "tuned" for its production in a given order, and that only when so tuned can such idiom be produced in its entire purity. It also shows that, unless so tuned, the vocal cords of the larynx and replica cease to be instrumental in the production of sound.

An instrument tuned for the production of the English language, consequently, cannot produce German sounds, nor can it produce Romanic, Slavonic, or the sounds of any other language. Sounds, apparently the same, of either the singing or speaking voice of various languages are, therefore, not the same and are certainly not produced in the same manner. For a German, consequently, or an Italian to attempt to teach an English-speaking person the art of singing is an anomaly. A foreigner might, with the same show of reason, attempt to teach persons of another nationality the correct pronunciation of their own language. It would be equally false, of course, for an English-speaking person to attempt to teach a German, Italian, etc., the art of singing, unless he had first mastered his pupil's idiomatic expression, or the pupil had mastered that of his teacher.

Many persons are under the erroneous impression that song and speech are performances separate and apart from each other, while they are in reality of precisely the same, though inverse, order. They are of the same order, for instance, as the back and palm of the hand: the former representing speech, the latter song; the external and the internal, or the anterior and the posterior. As the back of the hand, such must and will be its palm; or, as its palm, such must and will be its back.

Conversing with a teacher some time since, she scorned such propositions, saying a person's language had nothing to do with his or her song; the mode of production of the latter being the same with ALL nationalities; besides, she had studied the larynx, and knew all about it. This, of course, settled it, and I had not anything further to say.

DIFFERENCE IN THEIR MODE OF BREATHING AS BETWEEN ANGLO-SAXONS AND GERMANS

Anglo-Saxons inspire first into the thorax and then into the abdomen. Germans inspire first into the abdomen and then into the thorax. The former expire first from the abdomen and then from the thorax; the latter expire first from the abdomen and then from the thorax. This, however, gives but a partial account of the process of breathing, and I must postpone a more explicit one to a later period.

To prove the correctness of the above assertion, press your hand against the left side of your thorax anteriorly, and you will find it difficult to inhale. If you press your hand against the right side of your thorax, on the other hand, you will have no difficulty in inhaling. Next, press your hand against the right side of your abdomen, and you will not be able to exhale; but if you press your hand against its left side, you will experience no trouble in exhaling. In pressing your hands one against the left side of the breast and the other against the right side of the abdomen, you will have trouble in breathing.

Pressures produced in the precisely opposite manner in every respect, on the part of a German-speaking person, will produce effects of precisely the same nature. A German, in pressing the right side of his abdomen, will not be able to inspire freely, but pressing its left side will not hinder him from doing so. Pressing the left side of his thorax will impede his expiration, while the pressing of its right side will not prevent him from doing so. These results will become more obvious when these pressures are continued for some time. All the pressures mentioned are to be applied anteriorly. Pressures of the same nature applied posteriorly produce opposite results with Anglo-Saxons as well as Germans.

Similar results may be obtained by producing pressures on the median line of either thorax or abdomen, front as well as back. Such will also be the case when pressures are produced on either side from the armpits downward or from the hips upward. More satisfactory results, however, than those obtained through mechanical pressure can be obtained by making the respective parts rigid. It will scarcely be necessary for me to mention all these various causes and consequent results in detail, as any one interested in these matters can work them out for himself from that which I have said.

RISE AND FALL, OR RHYTHM

The thorax is productive of the falling, the abdomen of the rising voice, the former being the representative of the impression for sounds, the latter of their expression.

An Anglo-Saxon's voice, inspiring, as he does, into the thorax, and expiring from the abdomen, will first fall and then rise. A German's voice, on the contrary, inspiring, as he does, into the abdomen, and expiring from the thorax, will first rise and then fall.

This is the fundamental cause of the difference between the idiomatic expression of these two peoples, and primarily also of the difference existing between their national traits physically as well as mentally.

Every original word in either of these languages will illustrate these facts:

Take the same words in English, and the accent will be reversed:

When these and similar words were adopted into the English language, it was done at the expense of their original idiomatic expression. I am speaking of the music, the rise and fall, the rhythm pervading a language, not of time or measure, nor of the intonation, nor of emphasis.

I make four distinctions, and expect to prove that they are the basis of every artistic expression of either speech or song. First, measure or time. Second, the rise and fall of the voice, equal to its rhythm. Third, intonation, which pertains to words in accordance with their meaning. Fourth, emphasis, which has reference to the feelings.

That the human voice is capable of at one and the same time expressing four moods so different from each other, shows that there are various factors (all of a different nature) simultaneously at work producing these different results. To correctly indicate these four characteristics, it would be necessary to mark each syllable in a fourfold manner. I shall confine myself to the rhythm and the metre, and shall mark the former above the line by using the signs for accent (´`), and the latter below the line by using those for metre (¯?).

Right here is the main stumbling-block with persons of either nationality in speaking the language of the other. They will in so doing invariably retain the idiomatic expression of their own vernacular.

The proper way to illustrate the rhythm would be as follows:

There is always a rise of the voice before its fall in German, and a fall before its rise in English for each and every syllable. When a language is well spoken, this complete intonation is always heard. If this needs illustration, which it should not, being so obvious, the poetry of both peoples offers proofs in great abundance. It is a notable fact that, with German verse, the voice for the end syllable always sinks, with English it rises; the former is generally short, the latter long; but even where the word ends with a long syllable in German the voice falls at the end, and where one ends with a short syllable in English the voice rises at the end.

To anxiously count every syllable in poetry is contrary to the spirit of a language. There are slight touches here and there which simply serve as connecting links, and which, in marking the rhythmic flow of sounds, should not be included as belonging to the metre. Most of these are prefixes or affixes, pauses for repose or relaxation, consisting in scarcely noticeable inspirations or expirations, which are necessary to strengthen the voice for the actual metre. The various intonations are generally expressed by the use of the signs for long and short only. As the latter, properly speaking, only represent time or measure, the voice is left to express as best it may and without any guidance whatsoever every other factor composing a language. All I want to do now is to show by the signs for the accent the difference between the English and German rhythmic movement:

Lenau.

Heine.

The beginning of every line in this verse might remain unmarked as not belonging to the rhythmic expression proper, and being expressive mainly of an inspiration preceding the expiration which it foreshadows. The beauty of Heine's verse is largely due to the fact that he does not anxiously count time, but lets his voice rise and fall where it is most effective. It will be noticed that there is a greater movement, as expressed by the signs of the rhythm, in Heine's verse than there is in Lenau's, hence the inexpressible charm of his diction. Here is another great poet, or poetess rather, the greatest Germany has produced, also fearless of prescribed forms, but full of charm and power:

Droste-Huelshoff.

In these last two citations, the dactylus (¯ ? ?) is the prevailing measure, which but strengthens my assertion that in German diction there is a fall after a rise; the former being here more distinctly expressed than in the simple trochaic measure. The fall, the relaxation, being greater, the rise, the vigor in the expression, thereby gains additional strength. What is the consequence of this falling off or gliding down in German diction so well expressed in Lenau's

It is not a positive line of demarcation, but one which is lost, as it were, "in the soft ether of the evening sky."

Hence the high tide succeeded by the low, the aspiration followed by resignation, the night after the day, death after life, repose after the strife—all this expresses the genius of the German language; and is also expressive of German life and character—its dreaminess, its longing, its desire for the ideal, never to be attained; the abstract, the abstruse; its yearning, its altruism, its transcendentalism, its Weltschmerz (the sadness pervading all nature). It is also expressive of its Begeisterung (an enthusiasm which upon the slightest provocation takes a man almost off his feet). All these are traits of the German national character.

There is no spiritual bond among all these millions that could possibly produce such sentiments and feelings as its result, differing, as they do, from the feelings of any other nation or people, but that of a language common to all.

To prove that the trochaic measure is the one ordained by nature for German expression, it is but necessary to glance at the characteristic words of the preceding verses:

The same rhythm, though not so obviously expressed, obtains with the words of one syllable:

Now compare with this the strength and vigor of English diction, which runs in the precisely opposite direction:

Scott.

Longfellow.

Kipling.

It is either the iambic (?¯) or the anapest (??¯). Of course, these vary to some extent in conformity with the reader's intonation, but the spirit of the language is always from weakness to strength, in place of from strength to weakness, as with the German. It is always the waves approaching the shore and then breaking against it, as against the wind coming up suddenly and then dying away. This is the reason why a serenade or lullaby in English can never be rendered with the same effect as in German, the English voice rising at the end instead of falling.

Wherever a verse commences with a stress, it must be considered that a fall of the voice or an inspiration has preceded it; this, though unaccompanied by sound, being really the case. I have thus marked the beginning of Longfellow's beautiful lines:

Mr. Lunn, in his Philosophy of Voice, has the following:

"How many Englishmen dare utter loudly a word beginning with a vowel? If attempted, either it would not be done, or, in spite of the speaker, owing to the weakness of the muscles which draw the cords together [sic], an aspirate would precede the vowel."

This is right, as far as his observation is concerned, but he does not seem to know that this very weakness he complains of is really the strength of the English language, the lull before the storm, the concentration before the explosion; and that "thus the idiosyncrasy of our people's speech" is not "deadness, weakness, and general feebleness," but, on the contrary, a strength and a virility not surpassed by any other tongue. This finds illustration in Kipling's

It is but necessary to comprehend the laws which underlie this apparent weakness to turn it to its best account, and to obtain from it the highest results, both for speech and song. As for the "weakness of the muscles which draw the cords together," it will scarcely be necessary for me to make a specific refutation; the premises upon which such assumption is founded being quite untenable, there being quite as much vigor in the muscles and cords of an Anglo-Saxon as in those of any other nation. Nor, I suppose, will it be necessary to strengthen my assertions by once more quoting the separate words and thus pointing out the iambic, the rise after the fall (?¯), or the anapest (??¯), the twofold repose and gathering of strength for the final emphasis.

The English language in its Saxon words mainly consists of monosyllables. These, however, as stated, must be looked upon as words of two syllables, a suppressed intonation always preceding their vowel sounds. The majority of such words, as a matter of fact, originally consisted of two syllables, of which the last was dropped when they were adopted by the English. This last syllable, representing the fall of the voice thus disappearing, left the first, which represented its rise, standing unsupported by itself. As the rise of the voice, however, cannot be expressed without the accompaniment of its fall, the latter always tacitly accompanies the same, and is expressed in an undertone, preceding the rise.

Almost every verb of this class will give evidence of this fact:

Hence, in conformity with the above, these words in the English language should be properly marked thus:

which gives the real intonation thereof.

This applies to all words commencing with a vowel, and explains what Mr. Lunn has designated as a "weakness of the English language":

Without this half-suppressed fall of the voice, there would be no beauty, no charm, no soul in the English language; in fact, it could not exist. Words of two syllables, however, always have the fall of the voice on the first, its rise on the second, syllable, even where the preponderance of time belongs to the first syllable, as in the words

The reader will find these statements sustained by almost every word he may examine into, which will show that the characteristic expression of English diction is that of the iambic measure, which passes from weakness to strength; while that of German diction, as already stated, is that of the trochaic measure, which passes from strength to weakness.

Having shown that German sentiment is in accord with the idiomatic expression of the German language, I will now show that English sentiment also conforms to its idiomatic expression. I must beg the reader, however, not to be over-critical. I am not attempting to furnish comparative sketches of the national character of these peoples in a literary sense, but am entering into these matters for the sole purpose of sustaining the results of my physiological investigations. Nor should these attempts be applied to individual cases, there being exceptions to all rules, but to the national character in general. If a person in making investigations of this kind had to constantly fear that he might be treading on some one's sensitive toes, he could never make any headway at all. I am, in fact, perfectly willing to apologize beforehand for any such mishap possibly taking place, as I wish to be perfectly impartial and without bias. I have said this much partly for the reason also that in consequence of some remark, on one occasion, made in my former publication in favor of the English vs. the Germans, one critic honored me with the epithet "renegade."

The rising voice succeeding the falling is not a soft and gradual receding, but, on the contrary, it is more like an explosion, a trumpet-blast; the inspiration which had been "stored" being suddenly released. There is no such "storing" in connection with German diction; inspiration and expiration succeeding each other on the spot. With English diction this change may be compared to the break of day after the night; the fray after the repose; resurrection after death; a conflagration and a rebuilding at once on the spot, not only individually, but by an entire community (Boston and Chicago); an outburst after due deliberation; no sentimentality, but a firm resolve for the right; patient submission to a point, then a strike for liberty; the slow accumulation of a fortune and the spontaneous spending thereof; a hot political campaign and a victory or defeat; in either case acquiescence; no vain mourning after the fact; a butterfly of wealth, idleness, and fashion, then perhaps ruin; yet not despair, but a brave conformity to altered circumstances; an energy in the pursuit of business or of war which does not flag until utterly exhausted or success is achieved and a victory is won. All this is due to the reserve force in the character of English-speaking people, which comes to their rescue when circumstances demand it. A world positive and direct, full of energy, restlessness, and activity. A world of, and for, this world; whose world to come, even, must have a positive and well-defined character and surroundings:

To what is all this due but to this bond of language uniting these millions, and embracing every foreign element, in its children at least? The theme is inexhaustible, but I am limited as to time; yet additional remarks on the same subject will be forthcoming during the further pursuance of these studies.

For song, it appears to me, the words, besides being marked by notes, should also be marked as to rhythm, as this would assist singers in giving them the proper intonation; notes indicating metre, but not rhythm.

Metre and rhythm are produced by two distinctly different processes; metre, or time, being the outcome of a mode of breathing subject to the will, while rhythm is the outcome of an involuntary mode of breathing for a characteristic quality inherent in a nation's language as its idiomatic expression.

Ordinarily, both metre and rhythm are expressed by the same signs (?¯); this is very misleading.

To express time, or metre, I use the signs for short and long (?¯). To express rhythm, or the fall and rise of the voice, I use the signs for what is usually called the accent (´`). If we were to measure the exact time, however, consumed in the utterance of syllables, we would find that the falling voice, which is the product of inspiration and belongs to the thorax, requires more time than the rising voice, which is the product of expiration and belongs to the abdomen.

In marking verse, however, the sign for long (¯) generally accompanies the short syllable of the rising, and the sign for short (?) the, as a matter of fact, long syllable of the falling voice. It takes longer to fill a bottle than to pour out its contents; to prepare a dish than to eat it; to walk upstairs than to jump from a window. It takes longer to prepare for an utterance than to utter it. It takes longer to inspire than to expire.

In view of the vast foreign element constituting a part of this nation, it would be a matter of interest to know at what period the foreigner ceases to exist as such and the "American" begins; or, in other words, to understand when the evolution takes place which transforms the foreigner into the American. From my point of view it is, above all, a question of language. The political aspect of the case is scarcely to be considered. An unnaturalized Englishman, consequently, after thoroughly "Americanizing" his language, becomes more of an American (no matter whether he himself thinks so or not) than an Irishman who, though naturalized, never ceases to use his native brogue.

These questions, of course, are many-sided. When I speak of nationality, however, I have the best specimens of a nation as representatives thereof in view always. A man with a foreign accent does not have the same standing or influence in municipal, state, and national councils as one who speaks a pure English; there is always a feeling against him, no matter how able or patriotic he may be, of some foreign influence as a substratum in his composition.

STRESS

I have already stated that the thorax is the seat of the falling, the abdomen that of the rising, voice. This can be tested by a simple experiment, the result of which will be as startling as it is phenomenal. By simply pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will find that the fact of your doing so will prevent you from uttering any sound belonging to the rising voice, or the stress laid upon a word.

Take, for instance, the following:

"Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,"

and you will find that, upon pressing the stomach, or making the same rigid, you will not be able to utter the words "say," "see," "dawn's," and "light." This will become more obvious in uttering these words slowly than in doing so rapidly. You will have no difficulty, on the other hand, in uttering the rest of the words, viz.: "Oh," "can you," "by the," "early."

Upon releasing the stomach and bringing a pressure to bear upon the chest, on the other hand, you will have no difficulty in uttering the first words mentioned, those of the rising, while you will be unable to utter the last, those of the falling voice. This rule holds good for all peoples and all languages.

There is this difference, however, as between English and German speech, that, for the former, the falling voice (identical with that of the thorax) precedes the rising (identical with that of the abdomen); while for the latter the reverse is the case;—Anglo-Saxons inspiring into the chest and then into the stomach; Germans into the stomach and then into the chest. Germans will have greater difficulty in making this experiment than Anglo-Saxons, as words of the falling voice, as a rule and in all languages, precede those of the rising. Germans, consequently, must think of the word of the rising voice, which, as a matter of fact, succeeds the words of the falling, before they can utter the latter. This difficulty is enhanced by the fact that while the rising voice is generally confined to a single word, the falling voice generally embraces several.

Hence the frequency of the use of the anapest (??¯) and the dactylus (¯??), and the relative rarity of the use of the bacchius (?¯¯) and the antibacchius (¯¯?); short always representing the falling voice, which embraces more than one word, while long represents the rising voice, which usually embraces but one single word; the definition requiring more words than the thing to be defined. Hence, for German diction, the "thought" of the word of the rising voice must precede the "utterance" of the words of the falling; while for English diction, the "thoughts" of the words of the falling voice must precede the "utterance" of the word of the rising.

A German may try and say the following:

in such a manner as not to think of the words which are italicized before uttering those which immediately precede them, and he will find that he will be unable to pronounce the latter.

An Anglo-Saxon may try and say the following:

and he will find that in saying "in triumph doth wave," he must think of the words "doth wave" before he will be able to utter the word "triumph." Again, in saying "the home of the brave" he must think of the words "of the brave" before he will be able to utter the word "home."

A German, consequently, must think of the principal word before he can utter those which qualify it; an Anglo-Saxon must think of the latter before he can utter the former.

In place of using mechanical pressure, the same results can be obtained by making the respective parts rigid. Regarding this matter of making parts rigid, I want to make the following explanation, illustrating the physiological process going on in so doing.

While a part is rendered inactive, placed hors de combat, so to say, by the application of mechanical pressure, the same result can also be obtained by making such part rigid. To accomplish this, it is but necessary to positively think of such part, to associate your mind with it, which is equal to an act of expiration when it relates to the abdomen, and inspiration when it relates to the thorax. By positively thinking of the abdomen, which is equal to an expiration therefrom, you will be unable to utter the stress or rise of the voice, which is the product of an expiration from the stomach; by positively thinking of the thorax, which is equal to an inspiration into the same, you will be unable to utter the fall of the voice, which is the product of an inspiration into the chest. The reason is obvious: We cannot utter sound in the same direction in which we breathe; sound and respiration always following opposite directions.

For the purpose of making satisfactory experiments in this respect, as, in fact, in every other respect in connection with these investigations, it is necessary that inspiration or expiration, as the case may be, should be continuous, that is, that either the one or the other should be persisted in until a result is obtained; namely, until an apparent increase or decrease in the size of the part of the body under consideration, or an inflation or depletion of the same, will be perceptible. Though it may be difficult at first, a person will soon learn to distinguish between an increase or a swelling of a part, which means inspiration into the same, and a decrease or a shrinking or diminution thereof, which means expiration from the same.