The future is formed by the addition of chè. Thus-toy chè men, I shall love. mai chè men, thou wilt love. no chè men, he will love. Now, have we any right, however convinced we may be of the close relationship between Chinese and CochinChinese, to expect the same forms in the language of the Mandarins? Not at all. The pronoun of the first person in Cochin-Chinese is not a pronoun, but means "servant." "I love" is expressed in that civil language by "servant loves." In Chinese the same polite phraseology is constantly observed,2 but the words used are not the same, and do not include toy, servant. Instead of ngò, I; the Chinese would use kuà ĝin, little man; tín, subject; tsie, thief; iu, blockhead. Nothing can be more polite; but we cannot expect that different nations should hit on exactly the same polite speeches, though they may agree in the common sense of grammar. The past tense is indicated in Chinese by particles meaning "already" or "formerly," but we do not find among them the Annamitic da. The same applies 1 Léon de Rosny, 1. c. 302. 2 Endlicher, sect. 206. to the future. The system is throughout the same, but the materials are different. Shall we say, therefore, that these languages cannot be proved to be related, because they do not display the same criteria of relationship as French and English, Latin and Greek, Celtic and Sanskrit ? This would be to cut the wings of the Science of Language, and to confine it like a prisoner in its Aryan cage. As I intend to limit this present course of lectures chiefly to Greek, Latin, and Sanskrit, and their modern representatives, I thought it necessary thus from the beginning to guard against the misapprehension that the study of Sanskrit and its cognate dialects could supply us with all that is necessary for the Science of Language. It can do so as little as an exploration of the tertiary epoch could tell us all about the stratification of the earth. But, nevertheless, it can tell us a great deal. By displaying before us the minute laws that regulate the changes of each consonant, each vowel, each accent, it disciplines the student and teaches him respect for every jot and tittle in any, even the most savage, dialect he may hereafter have to analyse. By helping us to an understanding of that language in which we think, and of others most near and dear to us, it makes us perceive the great importance which the Science of Language has for the Science of the Mind. Nay, it shows that the two are inseparable, and that without a proper analysis of human language we shall never arrive at a true knowledge of the human mind. I quote from Leibnitz : "I believe truly," he says, "that lan 66 guages are the best mirror of the "human mind, and that an exact ana"lysis of the signification of words "would make us better acquainted than "anything else with the operations of "the understanding." It is my intention, therefore, in the present course of lectures, to confine myself as much as possible to the Aryan family of speech; and to explore more especially those familiar quarries in which we have all laboured with more or less success,-Greek, Latin with its Romance offshoots, English with its Continental kith and kin, and the muchabused, though indispensable, Sanskrit. My principal object, however, will be, not so much to describe the mere structure of these languages, as to show how their analysis and comparison lead to the discovery of certain principles which ought at all times to guide and to control the researches of the comparative Philologist. I propose to divide my lectures into two parts. I shall first treat of what may be called the body or the outside of language, the sounds in which language is clothed, whether we call them words, syllables, or letters: describing their origin, their formation, and the laws which determine their growth and decay. In this part we shall have to deal with some of the more important principles of Etymology. In the second part I mean to investigate what may be called the soul or the inside of language; examining the first conceptions that claimed utterance, their combinations and ramifications, their growth, their decay, and their resuscitation. In that part we shall have to inquire into some of the fundamental principles of Mythology, both ancient and modern, and to determine the sway, if any, which language, as such exercises over our thoughts. A WELCOME. BY RICHARD GARNETT. WHOSE bark from Baltic isles to ours 'Tis hers, companion of the flowers, Forerunner of the spring. On our soil her foot is set Mid happy trees displaying Their boughs in new arraying. Spring's bird, that with adventurous flights Thy ocean way dost trace, Mark where the herald footstep lights, And follow to the place. Through our isle's fair compass be Of sky and air repeating The gladness of our greeting. All hail fair stranger, gentle Bride, A mourning robe is laid aside, A cloud is rolled away. Come with birds and blossoms bright, And round thy path assemble All things thou dost resemble ! 350 A VISIT TO LÜTZEN IN OCTOBER, 1862. PART II. SEQUEL OF THE BATTLE. BY HERMAN MERIVALE. THE death of the King was soon known, soon re but seems to have had no effect in damping the ardour of the Swedes. On their side of the field, and in the centre, the road, with its ditches, and the battery of seven cannon, were covered, and the neighbouring squares once more assailed and brought into utter disorder. Wallenstein's cavalry behaved ill, except some of the cuirassiers; as he afterwards complained.1 Numbers of the carbineers turned their horses' heads as soon as they had discharged their pieces, and fled in the direction of Leipzig. As for Isolani's Croats on his left wing, they executed a brilliant stroke in their own professional way. Avoiding the charge of the Swedes, they crossed the Flossgraben, wheeled to the right, turned, and rode completely round the Swedish right; made a dash for the village of Meuchen, two miles in the rear, where the Swedish baggage lay, and plundered it to their hearts content; while, at the same time, Wallenstein had the satisfaction of hearing that another troop of his runaway Croats had made their way to the Gallows Hill, in his rear, and were ployed in the same satisfactory way in ransacking his baggage and camp equipage; where, no doubt, they found loot of greater value than their brethren in the quarters of Gustavus. em But, on the west, the battle was 1 He issued, in consequence, two remarkable orders: one enjoining more strictly the use of the cuirass; one depriving part of the horse of their firearms. He said that the trooper's habit was to discharge his carbine and pistols as soon as he came near the enemy, and then to "caracole," that is, wheel round, and get out of danger. Neither order had any permanent effect. doubtful. Here, as we have seen, the Imperialists had set fire to the buildings about Lützen, with the view of impeding the enemy in any attempt to turn their right wing; and under the lurid cover of the conflagration and the fog, they repulsed Duke Bernard of Saxe Weimar's repeated charges, drove him back across the road, which, with the windmills beyond it, he had for a moment won, and endangered the whole left flank of the Protestant army. Rightly judging, however, that the real way to victory was to follow up the advantage obtained by the Swedes on the east, Bernard, as soon as he heard of the King's death, moved in person to that quarter, leaving the command of the left to Nils Brahe, whom the King had named as the best qualified to command an army of all his countrymen, except Torstenson. And Brahe justified the confidence reposed in him by driving the Imperialists once more from their windmills, and turning their own cannon against them. Bernard hastened to Knyphausen, who commanded the reserve, and informed him of the King's death. Knyphausen, a cool veteran, simply replied that his troops were in good order, and could make an excellent retreat. "It is the hour of revenge, not retreat," was Bernard's answer, as he hastened to place himself at the head of the same Smaland regiment which Gustavus had led into action. Only just in time; for Pappenheim now appeared, bringing his whole cavalry, six or seven thousand men, to strengthen Wallenstein's left, but leaving his infantry still on the march. The accounts of the exact period of Pappenheim's arrival vary singularly. The old French contemporary narrative, translated and reprinted in the Harleian Miscellany, says expressly that it was between two and three o'clock; but this seems too late. Wallenstein, in his short report to the Emperor, ingeniously implies, without actually asserting it, that Pappenheim was with him at the commencement of the action-evidently a fib, to draw off attention from his own blunder in having detached him two days before. And now the Swedes had to draw up once more their shattered brigades, with their backs, as it should seem, to the high-road, and abide the furious charge of Pappenheim's cavalry. Pappenheim himself led them on, exclaiming, "Where is the king?" but at the very first onset fell, pierced with two bullets, and was carried out of the field only to die. The last hasty order to rejoin Wallenstein, which he had received from that general, was found beneath his gorget, stained with his blood, and is now preserved in the archives of Vienna. Such was the end of the noblest among the servants of the Kaiser; not only brave to a fault, but displaying in his subordinate capacity high qualities of generalship. Gustavus himself emphatically termed him "the soldier;" the learned called him, from his prodigious personal strength, the Telamon of the Imperial army. His soldiers adored him, and the populace bestowed on him that superstitious awe with which, in those days, they loved to encompass their favourites; he was born on the same day with Gustavus, they observed, and subject to the same stellar influence; his forehead was marked with two cross swords, which came out fiery red in moments of excitement; nay, the evidence of his nurse was gravely invoked, to establish that he cried when he was first washed, and never afterwards in the whole course of his life! Out of the field as well as in it, he passed for a model of old-fashioned chivalry; a devout and humble Catholic, of blameless life, and strong domestic attachments. There is extant the tenderest of all possible new-year's letters to him (printed by Förster, in his Wallenstein's Prozess: Germans will print everything) from his wife, "her loveliest angel's submissively obedient maid"servant Anna Elizabeth," who describes 66 herself as dying vor langer Weile " in his absence. Pity that her lord's hand, which she "kisses many million times," was still red with the blood of Magdeburg, shed in participation with the ferocious Tilly. Under the cover of this reinforcement, Wallenstein rallied part of his troops; and then began the fiercest struggle of this day of many vicissitudes; one which every witness and every historian describes as of unexampled severity. The question was, in Wellington's words, which of the two shattered armies "could pound the longest." Nils Brahe was killed, his brigade beaten back across the road; the whole Swedish infantry, of the first line, was almost cut to pieces. In half an hour, says one writer, the entire yellow regiment lay on the ground, in order, where they had stood before. The fog, towards the close of the day, descended thicker than ever; but it suddenly cleared again half an hour before sunset; and then Bernard, reduced to the last straits to hold his ground, discovered, to his infinite satisfaction, that Knyphausen's reserve remained in unbroken order, as yet untouched by the enemy. The sorely-thinned rem nants of his first line rallied in the interval of the second, and Knyphausen's charge decided the day. For the last time the road was crossed; the Imperialist cannon captured. And now the early November darkness came on. Just at this crisis arrived Pappenheim's infantry, six regiments strong. Had they charged the Swedes, the event of the day would probably yet have been. different. But they took no part in the action. According to the common account, they were prevented by the darkness. But among the Imperialists the notion spread, that the advance of these battalions was arrested by the order of Marshal Holk, who, at this crisis, commanded Wallenstein's left, and who was thought to have been long meditating treason. This question, like many others raised in that age of dark suspicions, must remain undecided; for Holk died shortly afterwards, and "made no sign." Wallenstein retreated on Leipzig under cover of the night. He left, it is said, 8,000 or 9,000 of his troops, with 5,000 or 6,000 Swedes, killed or wounded on the field of battle. The Swedes remained masters of that field, and in possession, after many vicissitudes of taking and retaking, of most of the enemy's heavy cannon. Gallas, in his report of the battle, makes an excuse for this loss which is curious, and may be true: he says the artillerydrivers were peasants, impressed, with their horses, from the neighbourhood of Leipzig, whose heart was on the other side, and who, as soon as they found opportunity, cut the traces and abandoned their charge. Wallenstein, however, at first claimed the victory in his despatches, chiefly on the strength of the King's death. But his own exasperation at his defeat was intense. According to one story, as soon as he arrived at Leipzig, he "shut himself up in a room and swore for an hour;" which, says Philippi, oddly enough, "is scarcely "credible, considering his well-known disposition to silence." At all events he allowed his mortification to rankle, deeply and grimly, in his breast. Not until he had rallied his beaten army as well as he could, and established it in winter-quarters in Bohemia, abandoning Saxony to the victor, did he proceed, in cold vindictiveness, to hold his "bloody assize" on those who had misconducted themselves in the action. His wrath was particularly directed against his cavalry officers, who had fled from the field. About a dozen, colonels and others, were executed, and many sentenced to inferior punishments. "Good people," said one young colonel to the crowd, at his execution, "I am come "here to die for running away together "with my generalissimo." At the same time, with his accustomed liberality or policy, he made magnificent presents, on his own part and not the Emperor's, to those who had distinguished themselves. For my own part I must say, though quite aware of the storm of Teutonic indignation which such an avowal is likely to provoke, that I never could get rid of the impression that the magnifi cent Wallenstein was in truth a great impostor-a humbug of enormous pretensions. His whole demeanour savours of that intimate combination of enthusi asm with jugglery which imposes most successfully on mankind. He was an actor through life. A subtle Italian spy, set to watch him in 1628, describes his "bizarre" and violent manners as nothing but a trick, assumed in order to deceive at once the multitude by an appearance of power, and his superiors, by persuading them that one capable of such extravagance could not be capable of connected designs. In addition, he could import at will into his proceedings that touch of the mystic, that smoke-flavour of the supernatural, which especially influences his wonder-loving countrymen. Of the real genius of the general or the statesman, I cannot find that his life exhibits a single trace. But he was, above all things, Fortune's favourite. I do not remember where I fell in with a pretty piece of criticism on a picture of Gérard's, in the French division of this year's Exhibition, not so interesting from its execution as from its quaint fancy. The goddess Fortune - arridens nudis infantibus-has fallen in love, beside a village well, with a charming infant boy. Her wheel is resting at her feet-her cornucopia is pouring out its neglected treasures-while the saucy little idol is laughing in her face, and fencing with her hand as it caresses his dimpled cheek. The affairs of this unstable world are at a standstill while she indulges in her fancy; and, as for the unconscious child, he may be anything he pleases-cardinal, pope, emperor, Wallenstein, Napoleon. Those whom the blind goddess thus selects have about them something dæmonic, as the Germans express it. Wallenstein's life, so dazzling in its midcareer, is veiled in mystery both at the beginning and the end. The cadet of a poor though noble Bohemian house, the third son of a sixth son, both his parents addicted to the Protestant persuasion, his prospects of rising in the Austrian service might have seemed slender enough; but, just as he is entering on the world, both of these parents are |