their excellences the fruit of superior genius. They were neither bigots nor partisans. They did not write for a religious sect nor a political party. They wrote for coming ages, though it was their primary object to interest and instruct their own countrymen. They were read with delight and profit by men of their own time. They have continued to please and instruct every generation that has succeeded their own, and they will continue to be read, despite of critics, " down to the last syllable of recorded time."

The first and most important element of history is truth. "History," says Cicero, "is the light of truth." If Herodotus and Livy are estimated only by the amount of truth they record, and censured only for the errors they have committed, they will then bear a favourable comparison with the most celebrated modern historians. In recent times, history is made to subserve the same end as did the commonplaces of the old rhetoricians; it is made a mere storehouse of arguments, to which the various religious and political partisans resort for weapons. Showy and superficial historians, like Voltaire, make the facts of history the foundation on which they base their philosophical speculations. Of course, such writers exercise great discrimination in the choice of periods and events. We have now whig histories and tory histories; monarchical histories and democratic histories; Catholic histories and Puritan histories; Christian histories and infidel histories. Facts and events are classified to suit the theorist. What philosophy has gained truth has lost. The artlessness of Herodotus, and the impartiality of Thucydides, are among the things that were. They are mentioned with approbation, but never imitated. Such noble virtues, like the polar sun, are too far removed to warm. The short-sighted historian of to-day has, perhaps, a private end to gain, a favourite reform to promote, or some Utopian policy to recommend. History is made the theatre on which he exhibits his benevolent plan, or describes the machinery of his political scheme. He questions the oracles of the hoary past, and so interprets their ambiguous responses as to promote his own purposes. History is thus

coloured by the medium through which it passes. Instead of facts we have theories. Instead of a detailed narrative of important events, we have grave speculations upon the motives and policy of the actors. Instead of impartial biography of eminent men, we have fulsome eulogy or indiscriminate abuse.

Instead of history as it should be, we have philosophic principles, infidel or Christian, according to the character of the writer, all labelled and assorted for the benefit of the inexperienced and uninitiated. Those who re-write the annals of Greece and Rome, select those facts which tally with their own views, and wholly omit or misinterpret such as conflict with them. Compare Mitford's Greece with the accounts given by native writers. You find the same soil, the same scenes, the same events, but the actors, "oh how changed!" Mitford was a monarchist. He hated democracies as cordially as Alison. He, therefore, saw nothing to admire in the flourishing republics of Athens and Sparta, while in the tyrant of Syracuse and Philip of Macedon, he found every thing noble, princely, paternal, godlike. A turbulent democracy was an offence unto him. He could not tolerate their popular assemblies, their reckless legislation, and their abuse of good men. These defects outweighed all their virtues. Hereditary titles, royal magnificence, and costly equipage better pleased his taste; therefore, he lauds the "mild and paternal" sway of despots, and condemns, in no measured terms, the legislation of the "fierce democracie." By a similar process, and from like motives, Clarendon makes Charles I. a martyr of blessed memory, and Laud a saint. By an artful collocation of facts, and a slight shading of opinions, Hume converts the Puritans into mewling fanatics, and their bigoted persecutors into high-minded and honourable men. "The best historians of later times," says Macaulay, "have been seduced from truth, not by their imagination, but by their reason. They far excel their predecessors in the art of deducing general principles from facts; but unhappily they have fallen into the error of distorting facts to suit general

principles. They arrive at a theory from looking at some of the phenomena; and the remaining phenomena they strain or curtail to suit their theory. It would be nearer the truth, had the critic affirmed that they form their theory, and then summon history to testify in its favour; for it can scarcely be doubted, that every writer, before he enters upon his work, has imbibed those strong political and religious partialities, which, in so many instances, give a false colouring to history, and lead men blindfold into error. So long as party spirit reigns, we may not hope to find the model historian, which Lucian described centuries ago. "Let a historian," says he, "be fearless, incorrupt, free, the friend of independence and truth, calling a fig a fig, and a spade a spade, giving nothing to hatred, nothing to love, touched neither by shame nor pity nor diffidence; a judge equally just and kind to all parties, a foreigner in his books, a citizen of no estate, bound by no laws, subject to no king, utterly careless what this or that man may say of his works."

ARTICLE VII.

THE FORMATION OF COMPOUND WORDS.

By JOSIAH W. GIBBS, Professor in Yale College, Ct.

1. Composition, or the formation of compound words, is a special mode of forming new words and developing new ideas.

2. Composition, considered externally, is the combination of two words, expressing distinct ideas, so as to form one word, expressing one idea. The word thus formed is called a compound. This definition is sufficient for the merely practical grammarian.

3. Composition, considered in its internal nature, is, like many other linguistical processes, a development of the

species from the genus. That is, the name of the genus, as boat, by prefixing the specific difference, as steam (i. e. moved by steam) now denotes the species, as steamboat. This is the more philosophical definition.

4. In reference to the mental process in composition just described, the compound consists of two parts; viz. the general, or that which denotes the genus, and the special, or that which denotes the specific difference. The latter, which is the leading member of the composition, usually precedes, and has the tone or accent.

5. The unity of the word consists in the tone or accent, which binds together the two parts of the composition. The mere orthography is an uncertain criterion, being sometimes entirely arbitrary.

6. The unity of the idea consists in its referring to a specific thing, well-known as having a permanent existence.

7. Every composition is binary, or every compound consists properly of only two members, although these may themselves be compounded. Compare household-stuff, deputy-quarter-master-general, which must be analyzed conformably to this principle. The most plausible exception is Lat. suovitaurus (whence suovitaurilia), 'a swine, sheep, and bull.'

8. Composition is an original process in language, distinct on the one hand from derivation, that is, the formation of words by internal change of vowel and by suffixes, and on the other from the mere syntactical combination of ideas.

9. Composition differs essentially from the formation of words by internal change of vowel and by suffixes, in this, that derivation gives us different forms of ideas; as, drink (noun), drinker, drinking (noun), to drench, all forms or modifications of the radical idea to drink; to set, to settle, sitter, setter, seat, sitting (noun), all from the radical idea to sit; while composition gives us species of idea, as, schoolhouse, state-house, alms-house, all species under the general term house; door-key, chest-key, watch-key, species of keys.

10. As a mode of forming words, composition is later in

its origin than derivation, and has arisen from the inadequacy of derivation to express the definite ideas which become necessary in language. Thus, mere derivation would be insufficient to express the different kinds of keys, as, door-key, chest-key, watch-key, or the different kinds of glasses, as, beerglass, wine-glass, etc.

11. Notwithstanding which, there is some common ground for derivation and composition, and the two forms may alternate. In such a case the derivative is the most forcible, and the compound is the most precise in its import. Thus we have in English (neglecting accidental differences of usage), hunter and huntsman; speaker and spokesman; trader and tradesman; plougher and ploughman; hatter and hatmaker ; steamer and steamboat; bakery and bakehouse; brewery and brewhouse; patchery and patchwork; treasury and treasurehouse; deemster and domesman. So also where the words are radically distinct; as, fowler and birdcatcher; Hollander and Dutchman; journal and daybook; marine and seaman ; navigating and seafaring; propitiatory and mercy-seat; vintage and grape-gathering; vintner and wineseller. These coincidences take place only when the second part of the compound is a very general or indefinite term, or has become so by use. In this way words originally compound acquire much of the character of derivatives.

12. Composition differs also from the mere syntactical combination of ideas. Composition is a development of words for constant, not merely for occasional use. It is not an arbitrary process in language, or a process to be adopted at pleasure. A proper compound must express a specific idea formed for permanent use in the language. Wherever it takes place, there should be an adequate cause or occasion. Not every combination of two ideas into one is properly expressed by a compound. Ideas combined at the moment of speaking or writing, for the first time, do not form compound words. It is owing to this principle that we have deathwound not lifewound; fatherland, not sonland; foxhunter, not sheephunter; earthquake, not seaquake; brownbread, not