proceed; and, if he be a tolerable reader, it will be his own fault, if he
does not, by such aid, become a tolerable grammarian. The chief of these
exercises are the _parsing_ of what is right, and the _correcting_ of what
is wrong; both, perhaps, equally important; and I have intended to make
them equally easy. To any real proficient in grammar, nothing can be more
free from embarrassment, than the performance of these exercises, in all
ordinary cases. For grammar, rightly learned, institutes in the mind a
certain knowledge, or process of thought, concerning the sorts, properties,
and relations, of all the words which can be presented in any intelligible
sentence; and, with the initiated, a perception of the construction will
always instantly follow or accompany a discovery of the sense: and
instantly, too, should there be a perception of the error, if any of the
words are misspelled, misjoined, misapplied,--or are, in any way,
unfaithful to the sense intended.

Thus it is the great end of grammar, to secure the power of apt expression,
by causing the principles on which language is constructed, if not to be
constantly present to the mind, at least to pass through it more rapidly
than either pen or voice can utter words. And where this power resides,
there cannot but be a proportionate degree of critical skill, or of ability
to judge of the language of others. Present what you will, grammar directs
the mind immediately to a consideration of the sense; and, if properly
taught, always creates a discriminating taste which is not less offended by
specious absurdities, than by the common blunders of clownishness. Every
one who has any pretensions to this art, knows that, to _parse_ a sentence,
is but to resolve it according to one's understanding of its import; and it
is equally clear, that the power to _correct_ an erroneous passage, usually
demands or implies a knowledge of the author's thought.

But, if parsing and correcting are of so great practical importance as our