en to them in vain: while all the thoughts that occur,
at least to the bulk of mankind, we are able to express in words, to
communicate facts, feelings, passions, sentiments, to discuss, to argue,
to agree, to issue commands on the one part, and report the execution on
the other, to inspire lofty conceptions, to excite the deepest feeling
of commiseration, and to thrill the soul with extacy, almost too mighty
to be endured.

Yet what is human speech for the most part but mere imitation? In the
most obvious sense this stands out on the surface. We learn the same
words, we speak the same language, as our elders. Not only our words,
but our phrases are the same. We are like players, who come out as if
they were real persons, but only utter what is set down for them. We
represent the same drama every day; and, however stale is the eternal
repetition, pass it off upon others, and even upon ourselves, as if it
were the suggestion of the moment. In reality, in rural or vulgar
life, the invention of a new phrase ought to be marked down among the
memorable things in the calendar. We afford too much honour to ordinary
conversation, when we compare it to the exhibition of the recognised
theatres, since men ought for the most part to be considered as no more
than puppets. They perform the gesticulations; but the words come from
some one else, who is hid from the sight of the general observer. And
not only the words, but the cadence: they have not even so much honour
as players have, to choose the manner they may deem fittest by which to
convey the sense and the passion of what they speak. The pronunciation,
the dialect, all, are supplied to them, and are but a servile
repetition. Our tempers are merely the work of the transcriber. We are
angry, where we saw that others were angry; and we are pleased, because
it is the tone to be pleased. We pretend to have each of us a judgment
of our own: but in truth we wait with the most patient docility, till he
whom we regard as the leader of the chorus gives us the signal, Here you
are to applaud, and Here you are to condemn.

What is it that constitutes the manners of nations, by which the
people of one country are so eminently distinguished from the people
of another, so that you cannot cross the channel from Dover to Calais,
twenty-one miles, without finding yourself in a new world? Nay, I need
not go among the subjects of another government to find examples of
this; if I pass into Irelan