[Before proceeding further, I want to remark: these studies having been made from an Anglo-Saxon point of view, it is just possible that a preponderance of observations may have been made on that side; while, if they had been made from a German standpoint, the preponderance most likely would be on that side. This, no doubt, will be the case should I at any future period be able to write all this, as I intend to, in the German language.]
What is this original sap in the English, and what is it in the German language?
The aborigines of the British Isles, living apart from their continental brethren, became possessed of an idiom different and apart from any other. It was the idiom of the sea, by which they were surrounded; the motion and commotion of the waves, the surf, the incoming and outgoing tides, their undertow and overflow; the waves advancing toward the shore, their breaking against it, and their final retreat from the same.
The English language is a raft living upon the ocean. You can hear the waters rushing through it and on to the shore and back again. You can feel the waves rising up to gigantic heights, and then falling to and below the level of the sea. You can feel the undertow in its reserve force, quiet and subdued like the lull before the storm, yet capable of almost any demonstration. You can feel all this in the strength and vigor of its diction as expressed in its prose and poetry. This is not a mere poetical conception, but a truth capable of actual, practical demonstration.
While reading poetry or prose, or while singing, fancy seeing in your mind's eye the ocean with its waters in commotion, either the open sea or the surf near the shore, and you will feel every word you utter mingle with its waves. These pictures will never disturb your fancy, but will associate with it in perfect harmony. Now substitute for the picture of the ocean and its tumult some rural picture, as of a field of grain or the branches of trees tossed by the wind, or the flow of a river, or even that of the sea itself when perfectly calm. Keep such picture before you exactly as you did that of the sea in commotion. While reading, speaking, or singing English you will not be able to hold such picture; it will soon disturb you, and to such an extent that you must cease thinking of it, or be obliged to stop your reading, singing, etc.
The impression made by the ocean, in fact, is so great that it dominates the thought and the entire being of English-speaking people. This is the case to such an extent that if you continue to persistently think of any other image than the ocean, even without uttering any sound whatever, it will so greatly perturb you that you will be unable to continue thinking at all. You may, on the other hand, continue to think for an indefinite period of the image of the ocean without experiencing any disturbance whatever.
While the basic element of the English language is closely affiliated with the ocean, that of the German language is affiliated with the woods, and the blowing of the winds. In their habitation in the forest, the wind made so deep an impression on the primeval inhabitants of Germany that you can feel its soughing pervade all German diction.
If you are a German keep the picture of the woods before you and the soughing of the wind through the tree-tops, and it will harmonize with German thought and diction. Substitute a picture of the ocean for it, or almost any other picture, and you will not be able to vocally utter German thought, nor will you be able to continue thinking in the German language at all.
In place of conjuring up these pictures in your mind's eye you can substitute real pictures representing these scenes, and while contemplating them the effect will be the same.
After pursuing the picture of the ocean for a while, say: "English;" after pursuing that of the woods, say: "Deutsch;" either will come quite naturally, but you cannot reverse them. If you attempt it, these words will not be forthcoming.