_Things_ exist.

Thinking beings conceive _ideas of things_.

Those who employ language adopt _sounds or signs to convey those ideas_
to others.

On these obvious principles rest the whole superstructure of all
language, spoken or written. Objects are presented to the mind,
impressions are there made, which, retained, constitute the idea, and,
by agreement, certain words are employed as the future signs or
representations of those ideas. If we saw an object in early life and
knew its _name_, the mention of that name will recal afresh the idea
which had long lain dormant in the memory, (if I may so speak,) and we
can converse about it as correctly as when we first saw it.

These principles, I have said, hold good in all languages. Proof of this
may not improperly be offered here, provided it be not too prolix. I
will endeavor to be brief.

In an open area of sufficient dimensions is congregated a delegation
from every language under heaven. All are so arranged as to face a
common center. A white horse is led into that spot and all look at the
living animal which stands before them. The same impression must be made
on all minds so far as a single animal is concerned. But as the whole is
made up of parts, so their minds will soon diverge from a single idea,
and one will think of his size, compared with other horses; another of
his form; another of his color. Some will think of his noble appearance,
others of his ability to travel, or (in jockey phrase) his _speed_. The
farrier will look for his blemishes, to see if he is _sound_, and the