PHILOSOPHY OF GRAMMAR.

I asked the question, should I say “every body is gone out only I,” or, “only me?” and was answered “only I,” because “only I” means “I alone”—“remain,” being understood.

Had I used the conjunction “but” instead of “only,” the proper construction would have been the same, because “but” means “be out,” or, in more modern phrase, “I being out of the question.” The modern “but,” said my informant, represents two distinct words, both imperatives. When it stands for “be out,” it is the precise equivalent of “except,” derived from the Latin. Sometimes it is used for the imperative of an obsolete verb, signifying to add, which is now retained only in the infinitive—“to boot.” Let us look for an instance:—here is one in Sir Charles Grandison, which lies open before me. Harriet Byron writes, after some preliminary reflections—“But, why should I torment myself? what must be, will.” The interpretation of the passage is this;—to what I have already said, boot (or, in modern English, add,) this second thought, that what must be, will; and, therefore, why should I torment myself? These two are the only real meanings of that Proteus-like conjunction; and one or other will explain all Johnson’s hundred instances, scarcely one of which he understood properly. Johnson’s industry was unwearied, but his research trifling. Authority, and not analysis, was its object. Authority belonged to his day, inquiry to ours: so adieu to learning—and hey! for knowledge:—à bas les savans! et vive le savoir!

Alas! it makes one’s head ache to look over this grammatical jargon—I wrote my first twenty volumes without much troubling my head on the subject. But now “the school-master is abroad,” that is, he is at home—with me—and my march of intellect goes on without ever budging from the fire-side. “Mon voyage autour de ma cheminée,” would not be the least intellectual book I ever wrote. And yet, my dear Mr. Colburn would not give me £20 for all the grammar that I may write for the rest of my life; though I rivalled in etymological philosophy “The Diversions of Purley.”

Before I drop grammar,—What a droll pun is that of the grammarian presenting his book to the Académie, after the Duke de —— had advanced his pretensions to be elected one of the quarante, on the score of his illustrious ancestors. “Je suis ici pour mon grand-père,” said the duke. “Je suis ici pour ma grammaire,” said his ignoble philological competitor.

By the by, grammar is the last thing that should be placed in the hands of children, as containing the most abstract and metaphysical propositions, utterly beyond their powers of comprehension; putting them to unnecessary torture; giving them the habit of taking words for things, and exercising their memory at the expense of their judgment. But this is the original sin of education, in all its branches.