Language (n.) is the physiognomy of a nation.
Language (n.) holds more wisdom than we put there: if one thinks much oneself, one finds a good deal of wisdom deposited in it.
Language (n.) one knows fade unless exercised, as scholars forget their Greek and artists their Italian on returning from Italy; so read in each now and then.
Language (n.) is the face of a nation: the tongue a man writes in is the physiognomy of the people he belongs to.
Language (n.) learned by a child through its own chatter is the natural schooling of reason: concrete logic acquired as a musical talent learns harmony by playing, not by studying thorough-bass.
Language (n.) in every tongue says that inanimate things will — the brook will not go uphill, the glass will break, the steam wants an issue — but never that they know, perceive or think.
Language (n.) of the present is a shabby jargon whose basic character is impotence, and if this goes on the German classics will no longer be comprehensible in the year 1900.