University of Virginia Library

15. CHAPTER XV.

I was born, as I have told you, of a quaker family;
and, so far as I was permitted to think for myself---or,
to become acquainted with two or three other quaker
families, who used to visit my father, after he was turned
out---I was rather pleased, than otherwise, with their
ceremonies and discipline; saving and excepting their
language, dress, and prohibition of amusement, until I
was old enough to think for myself. I then---heterodox
wretch that I was---some how or other, got it into my
head---notwithstanding all their persuasion, to remain
steadfast to their faith---that it was very ridiculous
to wear a plain dress, generation after generation,
as a matter of religion; a dress, too, that, when adopted,
was the court dress of the time. I went further. I
even began to imagine, that spiritual pride might, possibly,
(for I was in some doubt, a long while,) be as offensive
to the Deity, as any other sort of pride, whatever.
I learnt to look about me. I found that the
friends, whom I knew, wore the very best of woollen, and
linen, and silk; and that, in their way, they were quite
as dressy, and fashionable, as other people; nay, as
proud.[1]

As a matter of religion, therefore, I soon learnt to
laugh at dress.

I went a step higher. They did not swear---that was
well; but they would not take an oath in a court of justice.
The reason of that, was not so evident to me.---
Still, as there was nothing absolutely wrong, or very
foolish, in such tenderness of conscience, I let that pass.

I found no drunkards; no scoundrels---(scoundrels, I
mean, that have been convicted in a court of justice;)---
no downright, bare faced liars, nor thieves, among them.
How was that? I'll tell you. When a man got drunk;
or stole; or lied; and was caught---for much depended
on that---they turned him out, neck and heels, from
among them. Hence, they had no paupers. Certain
vices lead to poverty. This people take care to prevent
that, by watching the earliest indication of the vice;
and turning the transgressor out from among them.”

“That was politick;—wiser, it may be, than reformation,
or remonstrance;” said I, in the same tone of
voice.

“William!” said Caroline, timidly.

I dared not look her in the face. I was wrong. I felt
that I was. My indignation was carrying me, astray.
I was obliged to confess that the friends, as a religious
society, are remarkable, beyond all others, for their
patience, and mildness, and compassionate forbearance,
toward the backsliding. I, myself, had experienced it.

Caroline put her little hand to her eyes—and I continued;
while Hezekiah sat, with his broad, greasy
beaver, pulled over his forehead, smiling, with the old
fashioned benignity of one, who cannot bring himself to
chide a petulant boy, at every moment of his folly; and
Eunice, his good wife—a speaker among the friends—
only took off her spectacles; wiped them with her dark
brown bandanna handkerchief; smoothed her grey poplin
gown; and shook her head, placidly. I proceeded.

“I did not like their mode of marrying. Why, I can
hardly tell. It was surely wiser, and might be more
solemn, either as a civil or religious contract; it led to
greater circumspection; and put to trial the sincerity—
the fortitude of all:—but then, I had seen that, frightened
as the women generally were, when they stood up, to
undergo the ceremony—that the men were always—
yes, always—more frightened than the women. This,
I thought, unlucky; it was letting out the nature of the
woman, too publickly.”

Hezekiah smiled; and Caroline's mouth. I would
swear, (if I were not a quaker,) puckered a little.

“And once, I remember,” said I, “when two fools—I
beg your pardon—were standing up to be married[2] .—
I was there, and kept my eyes upon them; they had let
go of each others hands, in rising; or, had forgotten to
take hold of them; and when they were up, and repeating
the word, “I A. B. take thee C. D. to be my lawful
wife; and promise through divine assistance,” &c.—
they were poking all the while, like two blind people,
after each others hands—standing almost back to back;
and had really completed the ceremony, before they
succeeded at all. Nay, aunt Eunice—don't be angry
with me—it is very true, and Caroline—thee need'nt
laugh—it may be thee Tate one of these days.”

Poor Caroline coloured up to the eyes--her work fell;
and, in picking it up, she set her beautiful hair on fire;
and, in putting that out, scorched her fingers.

“Why, Liny, dear, what ails thee?”--said her father,
jumping up, and smoothing down her hair, over her
glittering dear forehead. “Go on William, go on—
never mind the child—why, I declare, thee looks more
frightened than she—well done!”

Down went the candle—and we were left for a moment,
in absolute darkness. I attempted to find it;
and, in doing so, I encountered a soft hand—ah,
heaven!—ere I could withdraw it—I felt the pressure
of a warm trembling mouth upon it—I was strangely
affected---strangely. The sweet innocent—could it
be? I had no time to reflect on the matter, for a light
appeared; and I resumed my story, trembling, however,
and so pale, that it was observed. I glanced at Caroline.
She had pulled her little chair behind her mother; and
sat, so, that I could see nothing of her face, but a bright
line along her profile—I never saw her so intently busy.
—I went on.

“Their language---it is detestable. They affect to
speak pure English. It is shamefully wrong. They
will not say you are, to an individual, because some
Roman Cæsar chose to be so addressed. This would
be well. I could venerate such great simplicity. But—

what do they substitute? Not thou art; for that were
beautiful, so beautiful, that I would never use any
other language, if I did not think it too beautiful; too
holy, and too tender; for any other use, than, in our
prayer to the Deity; and in our communion with them
that we love—in passion; in poetry; and, most of all, in
the deep, deep devotion of the heart.”

There was a silence like death in our little parlour—
I could hear Caroline breathe, like one asleep and
happy.

“No!—but what do you substitue?—a base counterfeit
jargon, that is neither one thing nor another—saying
thee is, and thee art, very often; and, generally,
pronouncing the possessive pronoun thy as if it were
written thee—as thus—“How's thee wife,” for how is
thy wife. Such shocking barbarism ought to be done
with. Speak as you will; but, in the name of all that
is decent and respectable, speak some language or
other. Don't talk quaker, as if you were ashamed of it.
You value yourselves on rejecting the idle, frivolous accomplishments
of the age, in which you act most wisely;
and in teaching your children only what is plain
and substantial. Yet what is the consequence?—this
adulterate language is common among your best
educated men and women. Shame on you. Either
have more courage, or less presumption;—more regard
to the rules of grammar, and common sense, or less ridiculous
tenderness about the Roman Cæsars. Either
say you are; or thou art, and you will cease to be ridiculous,
however peculiar may be your dialect. It will
be then like your dress, if you choose the latter; but far
more respectable and dignified; now, it is as if you
should invent something of your own, unlike the garb
of any other people, savage or civilized.

Your funerals. They are well. I like to see men and
women, put into the ground like cats and dogs;—in
white deal coffins, to be sure, but without ceremony.—
Nay, Hezekiah, I will not be reproved. Your society
have carried their spirit of contradiction to a childish,
ridiculous extent. They omit all titles—because
others use them—they say yes and no; and give as a

reason, that, in the scripture they are bidden to say
yea and nay! But why do they not say yea and nay,
then? and why, if they are so conscientious, do they not
confine themselves to the original Greek. He, whom
they follow, did not forbid either: nor did he talk English.
How do they know, then, that they are obeying
him? They bury in while coffins, because other people
bury in black ones. They wear no mourning. That
is well. Yet, some sign might be worn, to apprise people,
when they meet you, that you have lost a friend,
lest they may distress themselves; if they do not distress
you, by an abrupt inquiry after the health of your
dead wife or child? I do confess, that, to my ears, it is
very disagreeable to hear a little broadbrim, just in jacket
and trowsers—addressing a man of thy age, by the
name of Hezekiah. It touches mournfully, and unpleasantly
along my heart, where I have happened—unapprised
by any badge, even the simplest—of a death, to
speak of some one, that was very dear to—I beg your
pardon again. It is only the other evening, you remember,
that you, yourself, were led to inquire after
the health of a woman, who had been buried but a week
before—of her own husband, too!—a man of sensibility,
that had loved his wife, as we all know—like a
heretick, with all his heart and all his soul. Had he
worn any badge, I care not what-something that would
tell, not of his sorrow; but something that would warn
me not to tread, too suddenly, upon the fresh grave of a
beloved one—he had been spared that pang. They
prohibit dancing; musick--painting, perhaps; and sculpture.
That is bigotry, not religion. It is the abuse of
these things, that should be reprobated; not the things
themselves. They worship in a manner, that would be
awful, were only the old or the truly good assembled
together. But, as that can never happen, they have
adopted, just exactly the worst mode of worship in the
world for a mixed congregation of men and women,
young and old, devout and careless. I know this.
That mind must be capable of an abstraction, approaching
sublimity, which can maintain her intercourse,
in silence, with Jehovah, for two whole hours at a
sitting; and that too, interrupted by an eternal shuffling
of feet; blowing of noses; hemming, and hawing, and spitting,
for the last half hour, as the junior population—of
hearers—begin to manifest their impatience, and to hint
their desire of an adjournment.”

“No—it is impossible. He who would wait upon
his Maker, with a broken and contrite spirit, must be
content, either to worship him alone, in the mountain,
where “the man of sorrows” went, in the solitude of his
spirit; or, with his own family, and for a shorter time;
or, if with others, at the risk of being driven, at the
mercy of all his corporeal senses, over all heaven and
earth. The senses must be well employed, or they will
be badly employed. They will not be idle; and, where
they have no employment—they have no repose; where
there is no musick; no form; nothing but a cold, august,
unaccountable silence, they will work themselves out
of the place, and go abroad, vehemently.”

“But, worst of all, ten thousand times worse, is
their tremendous impiety. They would teach that the
age of miracles hath passed. Yet, they would affect to
work a continual miracle. The times of the Galileans
and the fishermen are not our times; yet, these men
would persuade us that ignorance and stupidity are no
hindrance, in our day, to the propagation of doctrines,
that concern our everlasting happiness. Nay, they
pretend daily,---the least presumptuous of them---to a
more intimate communion with God, than any of the
apostles did;—they come into his temple;—they feel
the outpouring of his grace....and power....and they
arise....full of the divinity....and talk over, again and
again, such intolerable nonsense, as we should blush to
hear, from any ordinary man, in the ordinary concerns
of life. Yet this—this everlasting repetition; sing song;
and cant; without scope or object, argument or inference;
every word of which, after a little time, may be
anticipated, from the running, favourite language and
manner of the speaker, with as much certainty, as if
they were written down, and never altered, except in
their arrangement----this is called inspiration----the
prompting of Divinity. Father of mercies!---do these

men know what they are saying!---they the organs of
thy will!---they!—O, if they really believed it, would
they not quake and fall down?---would they not tremble
in their joints?---would they not fall upon their
faces, and pray that the cup might pass from them?
Inspiration! it is babbling stupidity; for which their
dishonoured Maker, if he had aught of human infirmity
in his nature, would silence them, for ever---blind and
darken them, for ever, for daring, in their terrifick presumption,
to ascribe such wretched blasphemy to his
prompting.”

“William! William!—what art thou?”—cried the
alarmed and trembling mother—as she stood before me,
moving her articulate hands, and outstretched arms,
up and down, as if to conjure some evil spirit, down
into the earth again.

“No, mother, no—” I cried, standing boldly upon
my feet, before her—“No! I venerate thee—I love thee
—as if thou wert really my own mother. I know that
thou art sincere—I have seen thee, pale as death; and
heard thy prayer, like strange musick, in my heart,
long and long before thou didst dare to arise, and give it
utterance; there are others, too—men of great minds,
and women of pure hearts—but, ye are all presumptuous,
infatuated creatures. Teach us, if you will. But
first qualify yourselves. What!—will ye break to us,
the bread of eternal life, without first having learnt
whether ye have the power?—when, you do not even
call your children about you, to teach them their alphabet,
till you, yourselves have learnt it, as other people
have learnt theirs. Are you inspired? Why are not
your children? Is the miraculous communion of God
with his creatures yet known? Then why have you
not the gift of tongues? Why do you learn languages?
Why not trust to inspiration for them?—and, literally,
taking no heed what ye shall say, go abroad among
the nations of the earth, warning and denouncing, each
in their own language?”

The good woman could endure this no longer. She
fell upon my neck, and wept aloud; and Caroline too,
I could see her little heart sobbing, in the corner. “Oh

William! William!”—cried the former, as soon as she
could speak—“would that thou mightest feel, with one
half the enthusiasm, with which thou speakest! Thou
wouldst then be, even in thy errour—what I cannot, dare
not believe thee to be now—though I do hope it—a good
man. But, let me not judge thee. We are all frail,
fallible creatures. There is only one Being, to try the
reins of men. It may be, that we are all wrong....it
may even be, that thou art right....but, dear William, I
do entreat thee—take heed to thy steps. Thou art
young, and of a brave heart; going about among the
children of men, with an undaunted countenance; but,
oh William! William! my dear child! there is One that
can bring thee low; One that may, if thou art not turned
aside, by some lighter calamity, lay his hand upon
thee.”

“Ah, William, I do love thee, even as my own child.
I am old, and have not long to live. It would make me
happy, to find thee less showy---less eloquent---more
simple and direct, in these matters. I hope that I do
not judge of thee, uncharitably; but, it doth appear to
me, that thy nature is---I have long thought so, but till
this night, I have been unwilling to tell thee so---is rather
to talk about religion, than to feel it; rather to agitate
others, than to be agitated thyself, with the name
of the living God.”

I was unaccountably affected at her reproof. I hung
my head. I could find no answer to her words. I returned
her embrace. “Mother!” said I---“thou shalt be
my mother---henceforth, I will talk less loudly.”

“Oh, bless him!” I heard some one whisper, near
me. I knew the voice. It went, into the holiest,
sweetest place of my whole heart.

There followed a silence of some minutes---and Caroline
sat, with her head leaning away from us; and, I
thought, from a convulsive heaving of her shoulders,
now and then, that she was weeping.

“Go on---” said Hezekiah, mildly, “and confine thyself
to the story---if possible.”

“Well,” said I, at last, “I left my native town, for
awhile, with no more notion of religion, than of the

black art. I rambled, hither and thither, without having
an opportunity to meet with any of the society, or
to understand their discipline. At last, I happened, in
my journeying, to tarry awhile, where I was willing to
take advantage of my quakership; at least, so far as to
escape militia service.”

“Was that thy only indoosement?” said Hezekiah.

“Ind-yuse-ment;—allow me,” said I; willing, if I
could not correct the father, whose organs were inapt
and rigid, to give Caroline a lesson, over his back.

“Well, then—no matter how it is pronounced; thee
understands me, and that is enough.”

“Pardon me,” I replied, “that is not enough. There
is a right way, and a wrong way. And it is always
worth our while, whatever we do, to do it right.”

“But it is a matter so trivial,” said Eunice, mildly;
and Caroline, too, was about to speak—but the sound
died away on her lips; and she turned up her bashful
eyes to me, with such an air of entreaty, that I would
have forborn, if I could; but I could not. There were
certain sounds, in pronunciation, that jarred upon my
ear, like false notes, in musick.

“Trivial!” said I. “Can that be trivial, which is of
perpetual application, every moment of our lives?—that,
which is almost the only distinguishing trait now, between
the language of the well born, and well educated,
and the vulgar?—that, which gives delicacy and charm
to the chiefest pleasure of life—social conversation?—
Oh, no! Let me ask you. Are you not among the first
to remark the strong vulgarities, and provincialisms,
of the Irish, and Scotch? Do I not often hear you all,
kind hearted as you are, repeat, with a tone of pity,
(and shame, sometimes,) the words that you have heard
others pronounce badly, or misapply? Nay, is there
anything, that more disturbs your attention; or more
diminishes your respect for any person, than downright
vulgarism?”

“All acknowledge that there is not. But, we all have
our own vulgarisms; and that we have, it never enters
our head to conceive, until we have been thrown among
strangers; who, though not less charitable; nor more

fastidious than our friends, cannot forbear testifying
their surprise, when we fall into them. We are
startled then, and led to examine for ourselves. How
are we mortified, to find, that we have been using words
all our life, that are not to be found in our language?
Coinage of our own limited neighbourhood; cant words
of our own village, town, city, or province? We are
humbled; not much, to be sure, if we regard a delicate
nicety on such subjects, as trivial; yet somewhat—for
our cheeks will redden, if, while we are talking to a
stranger, we see that he does not rightly understand
us.”

“Trivial! Nothing is trivial, which has a right, and
a wrong, in it; nothing is trivial, which is of constant,
hourly use, in the sweetest communion of life—the musick
of conversation—the harmonies of the fire-side.—
Indeed, indeed, the time is coming, when many things,
that are now common among us, will be denounced, as
unqualified vulgarity and barbarism. I have often hurt
your feelings, my dear sir—Hezekiah, I mean—and
yours, Caroline; but, depend upon it, that it was never
intentional; that my own have been lacerated more cruelly
at the time, and bled longer afterward; but I know,
and feel, that the time will come, when they, whom I
have most frequently pained, for a moment, will thank
me for it. Why are they mortified? Is it that they
really think the matter trivial? No!—their eyes and
cheeks give a flat contradiction to their words. They
are ashamed and angry, with themselves, and with me.
They act as if they were infallible. They cannot bear to
find another wiser than themselves; as if it were any reproach,
to be ignorant of what we never were taught.
Their looks prove, that they do not regard the matter as
trivial. If they did, they would'nt be disturbed. Would
their eyes sparkle, and their lips quiver, if I should tell
them, that one bead more was necessary, to a string of
coral, upon their necks? No. That would be trivial.
But, if I told them that they did not keep time in dancing,
or that they read through their noses, then it is ten
to one, that their eyes would flash fire, and their beautiful
forms dilate with petulance—while some of them

would tell me, snappishly enough, too, that they “could
not see the use of such pedantry”—or, that “it was time
wasted.”

“Pedantry, to speak correctly! Trivial, to pronounce
so, that the ear drinks in your modulation; and the understanding
the sense thereof, like melody, and poetry;
without jarring, crash, or discord.”

“Suppose that you should hear a woman say, virtoo,
or vartue, or sarvant? Would it not be unpleasant to
your ear? Would not your attention to what she was
saying, be disturbed?—and would you not be among
the first to speak of her vulgarity, afterward—with compassion,
I admit—but calling it vulgarity, nevertheless?
Yet, to a well trained ear, there are many faults in
your pronunciation, far more shocking.”

“What are they, William?” said the mother. “Tell
us now, while we are prepared for it. I have often desired
some such opportunity for a dispassionate discussion
of the subject; and I hope some advantage from it;
much as I lament thy evil habit of correcting every
body—”

“Pardon me, mother—not every body;” said I.

She continued, with a pleasant tone—“Old and young;
friends, acquaintances, and strangers. It is really a
bad habit, William; one that, apart from an appearance
of pedantry, and indelicacy, if not of a want of feeling,
(which appears to be in it,) is liable to a more serious
charge—to that of pride and self-conceit.”

“O, no—you do me injustice, indeed. I have no such
feeling. Do I attempt to obtrude my authority upon
you? Never. Do I give laws and rules of my own, to
regulate you? No. Do I even lay down acknowledged
principles, if they are arbitrary, without lamenting
and acknowledging that they are so? Believe me, mother—if
nobody, but myself, were ever to hear Caroline
pronounce a word wrong, I should care little for it;
right or wrong, whatever she said, would be pleasant
to me.”

“William!” said the father, seriously—with the accent
of reproof; and glancing at poor Caroline.

“But, she will be among others, men and women,
who are becoming more and more scrupulous, every
day; and then it would pain me—I cannot deny it—to
the heart, to hear her transgressing. A well bred woman,
or a well bred man, will so speak the English
language; or the French; or any language, if he can,
that you will be unable to say, when you hear the
former, while he speaks, whether he is Scotch, or
Irish; or Welsh, or English;—or whether the latter,
when he talks French, be a Gascon, Norman, or Parisian.
It is hardly a less degree of vulgarity, to be
marked by nationalisms, than by provincialisms, or
cockneyisms. For my own part, I would as soon submit
to talk the dialect of a Yorkshireman, or Lancasterman,
or Bow-bell-man, in London; a Canadian, or Yankee,
or Virginian, in America; or Arragonese, in Spain;
or anything, but the pure Castilian, there; and the Tuscan,
in Italy; or the Hoch Deutsch, in Germany; as to
speak either Scotch, Irish, Welch, or American, so as
to be known, at once, for one of either people. No—
let us so talk the English language, that people will
love to hear us, even when they do not understand us;
let us adopt a standard, and follow it.”

“I have hurt your feeling, I know, by my interruptions,
now and then. I know that it is unseasonable to
arrest one, in the flow of his heart, to tell him of some
errour in his pronunciation; and, I confess, too, if he be
very correct, that it would be well to wait till he is
done.[3] But, how am I to remember all his blunders?
It is impossible. I must either correct him on the spot,
then, or not at all. Perhaps, he will get angry. In
ninety-nine times, out of one hundred, he does. I confess,
that it is provoking. But why? Let him search
his own heart. It is vanity. His self love is wounded.
He would claim to be infallible. Bless his heart; or,

rather, bless her heart; for I have a woman in my mind
now—who blunders incessantly; and calls it pedantry,
to speak without blundering;—a little reflection would
put that at rest, for ever. Year after year, have I already
spent in correcting myself; yet, there is not a
day of my life, hardly, wherein I do not find that I have
been wrong, ever since I could speak; using some word
that was not English; or—what is to the full as bad—
mis-pronouncing a word, that is English. And shall
she, who is set right only now and then, start and thrill,
as if her honour were impeached, because I hint to her
that such a word is not English; or that the accent
should have been placed on another syllable? I do it,
to protect her from future mortification. How will she
ever know that she is wrong, unless somebody tell her
of it? She never thinks of looking into a dictionary at
all; and I never do, unless to satisfy myself, for a moment.
It is only, when I hear a word pronounced in a
new way, that I run to it; rather in the expectation of
finding that I am right, than wrong. Thus, it is only
last Sunday, that I heard a well educated man, after
pronouncing, at least, one hundred words wrong, pronounce
two, in a manner so very uncommon, that it
startled me. He said te-nure, instead of ten-ure, giving
the e the sound that it has in the—and sombre, giving
the o that sound, which it has in old. I had always
given the two letters the sound of e, in met—and o, in
lot; and, not an hour ago, I learnt that ad-ult, is a-dult.
There is no practice like reading aloud, to correct our
pronunciation. We are startled, when we come to a
new word, then; but, if we are reading to ourselves, as
few of us pronounce the words, then, we pass over
them. You may commit Johnson's folio to memory;
and yet, be less accurate when you are through; and
far less prompt, than by reading a few pages aloud,
even to yourself, every day or two, for a few months,
with a dictionary at your elbow.”

“Depend upon it, that we are getting into a fashion,
of greater nicety and neatness, in our language. Men
are as much ashamed now; or will be, soon, of a slovenly
pronunciation—and women, of a sluttish one—as of

nastiness and vulgarity, in their dress, or writing.—
Nay, I will go further. I do say, that it shocks a well
educated ear, as grievously, to hear a word mis-pronounced,
as it does your eyes, to see it mis-spelt. And,
I have no doubt, that, before our country is five years
older, orthography and pronunciation will be classed
together; and that a woman will as soon discard her
lover for false pronunciation, as for false spelling; nay,
that men will learn to blush at the former, in the tenderest
tête à tête, as at the latter, in the sweetest billet
doux—(pardon my French.) They will blush to look
at one; and to think of the other. Nay, a few years ago,
it would have been thought as pedantick, for one to correct
another; a lady, in false orthography, however truly he
respected her; as it would be, now, to correct her pronunciation.
Then, it would have been held trivial, I
dare say; and beneath the attention of a sensible man, to
tell a girl, that he loved, how to spell. His dear one
might have written character with two k's, (for I have
known such a case,) with impunity; and, even now, she
may pronounce strength, strenth; frequently, frekwently;
perfume, purfume; going, goin; doing, doin. &c.
and nobody shall dare to hint an amendment. Believe
me, the time is not far off, when people will wonder at
our present forbearance toward such vulgarity, as we
now wonder at that of our ancestors, toward false orthography.”

“Well, William, it is getting late; and we have heard
nothin yet of thy history. Suppose—”

“Nothing, if you please,” said I.

“Well then, nothing. Suppose that we postpone that
matter for to-night; and, to-morrow evening, take it up
agane?”

“Agen,” said I, “to rhyme with men.”

“To-morrow is first day,” said his wife.

“Yes,” said I, laughing; “and the day called Monday,
is the second day. That is another of your whims;
it is beneath the name of principle. Why break in upon
the customs of society, with new names, for every
day, and every month? You might as well (for the reasons
are the same) invent a new language at once; or,

like the Jews, have a peculiar Sabbath. You refuse to
say Sunday, Monday; and January and February; because
Pagans and Idolaters did so:—but the same objection
would hold to our language; and, certainly, to
the Latin;—that was spoken by Pagans and Idolaters;
and all the modern languages—ours, with the rest—are
greatly indebted to it.”

“Really, William, it is diverting to hear thee. What
possesses thee?” cried the old man. “Thee has gone all
round the compass. Is there anythin' wrong there?”

“Why not ask him,” added his wife, smoothing the
venerable hair upon his ruddy temples, with her hand,
“if there be anything right in it. William is a terrible
critick.”

“Nothing but thee has,” said I; “nothing else, that I
can see. But that is quaker-grammar; and, beside, you
are both too incorrigible for me.”

“I once heard thee say, that thou couldst never forbear
setting one right, whom thou didst respect, although
a stranger.”

“True,” said I; “but I ought to have added this
qualification;—except he be too old, or too ill-tempered
to learn; or where he so errs, that the younger
people are not likely to be led away, with his example.”

“In general, I have too much veneration for age and
good sense, ever to presume to hint, that it may not be
infallible; but, where it is wrong, and attended with
great authority of manner; and where that authority
would be hurtful; I have always had; and I hope that I
always shall have, the firmness and courage to interrogate,
even aged men.”

“I would have it distinctly understood, then, that I
never correct them that I despise, or abhor; neither
fools, nor scoundrels; for their own reputations are an
antidote enough to their example:—nor the wise and
respectable, when it is too late to benefit them; and nobody
is nigh, to be carried away, by their authority.”

“Well, well!” said the old man, rising—and Caroline
immediately opened the Bible. He took out his great,
heavy silver watch, with a glittering old fashioned steel

chain, cunningly wrought; “If I remember right,” said
he—“there are ten minutes left to us—thee was about
to give us an account of some words—”

Caroline shut the Bible, and leaned forward, earnestly;
her beautiful hair falling down over her white
hands, and shading her large mild eyes, like dishevelled
shadow, rather than substantial hair.

“And first,” he continued, “as to that word induce;
how should that be pronounced?”

“Assuredly, not as if it were written indooce; that
was the fashion of the last age; nor indeuse—which is
the sickly affectation of the French school; nor injuce—
which is the barbarism of the present generation. But
simply and purely, so as to sound the vowel u in the
most forcible, and uncorrupt manner; as thus, indyuse.”

“Injuce,” whispered Caroline, involuntarily.

“Injuce, injuce,” said the mother, more audibly.

“No, no, wife—that is wrong,” said the husband.—
“Hear me—this is it—indguce—in-juice.”

“No, indeed, far enough from it,” said I. “Do you
pronounce the vowel u, dgu? No—that whole class of
words—induce, produce, endure, &c. &c. &c.—is to be
sounded as if the u were written you; or the word divided
thus—ind-uce, &c.”

“But, a more serious fault is universal here, I find.
You always sound the vowel e, as if it were an u, in
such words as the following: mercy—earth—persevere
—person---perfect---impertinent; making of them, murcy---
urth---pursevere---purson---purfect---impurtinent.
And you call it affectation in others, who have the courage
to depart from your practice! Yet, some among
yo; and those too, who have the quickest sense of the
ridiculous; and are among the first to laugh at a Virginian,
for calling a bear, a bar; stairs, stars; and at a
yankee, for pronouncing the word does, as if it were
written dooze; some too, whose delicacy of ear would be
grievously offended, if one should say impurative---pu
rumptory---or urrour, for peremptory---imperative---
errour, are constantly in the habit of outraging my ears,
with the sounds urth---purson---purfect, &c. &c. All
words, I find, which have a vowel following the conso

nant after the first e, as in peremptory, you pronounce
rightly; but, if there be two consonants, as in perfect,
you do not. The first you call peremptory; the latter,
purfect.”

“The law is the same, in every case. The e should
be always sounded, as in me, or in met. It has no such
sound as the u. It is a shocking barbarism.”

“But I observe that thee always says a-er, and fa-er;
instead of air and fair. Is not that a little affected!”

“To that, I am half inclined to plead guilty; for, I
confess that I am almost alone, in that mode of pronunciation.
Yet, the best authority that we have, establishes
it. In speaking, however, I do not recollect any
person, except myself, that uses it. Yet, the sound of
ai in air, and fair, and in a multitude of other words,
where they unite, is exactly the same, as in maid, aim,
pail, rain. I pronounce it so; and, therefore, am I called
affected. Depend upon it, that these delicacies will soon
distinguish the well educated man, and the man accustomed
to good society. It is no longer a proof of gentility,
to pronounce errour and peremptory, right; the very
vulgar would be startled to hear one of themselves say
urrour and purumptory, now; yet, I can remember
where the first[4] was common, among the well bred;
and, even now, it is moer common to hear fashionable
people—in their inarticulate gibberish, leavin out the
final g, when they speak; and sayin' strenth, for strength
—and I done this, for I did it; and I shew him, for I
showed him; and she had went away, before I come; and
I had drank enough, &c. &c. or, where is he at?—complete
these execrable violations, with pronouncing the
word erroneous as if it were urroneous. Nay, it was
not long since, that I was listening to a beautiful creature;
and holding my breath while I listened—when
she came down upon me, with a long story about Capun
so, and so, who give her them are books, what she
had shew'd me, the night afore—it an't him (it are not
him!) it is him—her and me walked together—&c. &c.

“Judge of my feeling; I declare to you, dear mother,
as I am a living man, that I could have gone down on my
knees, before that woman, if it would have led her to attend
a little more to her speech. But, the worst of it
was, that while I was blushing for her, and pitying her,
and afraid to look up,—there was probably not another
person in the room, who observed her blundering!
She touched the harp, with exceeding spirit and brilliancy;
her voice was rich and harmonious; and there
was a deep breathing of passion, as if her heart made
melody within her; yet, when she came to sing some of
the sweetest and most beautiful airs in our language,
I was perpetually (not purpetually) mangled and teazed
with the same vile pronunciation—that is, when she
pronounced at all; for, in fashionable singing, it is impossible
to conjecture what the subject is; you are permitted
to hear nothing but expression, and the gamut,
with variations; poetry and meaning are discarded.
In general, the final consonants are omitted; and the
most villanous blunders of the printers, consecrated.—
Thus, in Moore's song. “The Meeting of the Waters,”
all the copies that I know are, “Tis not the soft murmur
of streamlet or hill!” for rill!—and you will always
hear it sung so. I could name twenty others, to
prove that women never think; and never care, either
for the thought; the word; the English; or even the pronunciation,
of what they sing. In the course of the
entertainment, I heard a literary gentleman say, that,
such a man was of a very desis-sive turn (meaning decisive;)
that his char-uc-ter, was dif-fic-ult to hunderstand;
that he had hof-ten (sounding the t) saw him; that he
had lately had-ver-tiss'd (instead of advertised) for a
place, where he could live, if he come in town; and that
“directly he saw it” he waited hon im, &c. and told him
that the man, which had it last—he who was beat at,
&c. &c.”

“Another was called to sing; and did me the compliment,
as I was near him, during his preliminary embarrassment,
to ask me how I liked ho, noh, me luff no.
It was rather a puzzling question; but, as I passed for
a linguist, I thought that it might be as well to bow,

as gracefully as I could; and try to make out, in what
language it was, while he was singing it; or, if he
would be so indulgent, get a copy of it, and decypher it,
at my leisure.”

“He began—threw his head back—stuck his hands
in his brecches—(I knew that he had been abroad, by
that, and probably seen some of the “no sex at all” gentry,
of an Italian opera, perform)—straddled his legs
apart; shut his eyes, and sang, like a good fellow, amid
one universal murmur of applause. But not a word
could I understand. Was it German? Italian, Russian,
Cherokee, or what? The air too, seemed familliar
enough; but I could not recollect it. I waited on him, the
next day for a copy; he was superlatively polite; hoped
that I was delighted with it, &c. wondered that I had
never met with it; and the next day, brought it to me,
with his own hands, copied, O! exquisitely!”

“I opened it, with one of my best bows. Judge of my
astonishment! It was some minutes, before I could believe
my own eyes, but a little consideration convinced
me that they could be depended on; and that the song
which I had heard, was English, tolerable English, at
least, and called “Oh, no, my love, no.”

“I saw Hezekiah, look at his watch. It was just the
hour, and we parted for the night; nor did we meet
again, until the next third day evening; that is, the
evening of the day, called Tuesday.”