Language!--the blood of the soul, Sir! into which our thoughts run and out of which they grow! We know what a word is worth here in Boston.

Young Sam Adams got up on the stage at Commencement, out at Cambridge there, with his gown on, the Governor and Council looking on in the name of his Majesty, King George the Second, and the girls looking down out of the galleries, and taught people how to spell a word that was n't in the Colonial dictionaries! R-e, re, s-i-s, sis, t-a-n-c-e, tance, Resistance! That was in '43, and it was a good many years before the Boston boys began spelling it with their muskets;--but when they did begin, they spelt it so loud that the old bedridden women in the English almshouses heard every syllable! Yes, yes, yes,--it was a good while before those other two Boston boys got the class so far along that it could spell those two hard words, Independence and Union! I tell you what, Sir, there are a thousand lives, aye, sometimes a million, go to get a new word into a language that is worth speaking.

We know what language means too well here in Boston to play tricks with it.

We never make a new word til we have made a new thing or a new thought, Sir! then we shaped the new mould of this continent, we had to make a few.

When, by God's permission, we abrogated the primal curse of maternity, we had to make a word or two.