The site of populous cities and of trim little towns was once wild waste or sunless woodland. Our rude forefathers, wandering upon uninhabited tracts, converted them into fair fields and domains which their descendants rounded out eventually into nations. Humanity has prospered and today we often think of countries in terms of their characteristic landscape and scenery. But the thought naturally suggested by the name France or England is that of a nation whose people speak French or English. To separate the idea of language from that of nationality is rarely possible. To say that a man’s accent betrays his nationality is another way of stating that every language has a home of its own upon the surface of the earth. A word or an accent will thrive or wither like a tree according to region. In the earliest forms of Aryan languages, words for fish or sea appear to be wanting--a want which points to inland origins. The natives of the scorching equatorial lowlands have no word for ice in their dialects. A further glimpse into the past is required for a proper estimate of these facts. Man’s conquest of a region is achieved in two distinct stages. The first settlers rarely accomplish more than a material hold. Their task is exclusively that of exacting sustenance from the soil. Intellectual possession is taken at a later stage. The land then becomes a source of inspiration to its dwellers. Having provided for his material wants, man is now able to cultivate ideals and give free rein to his artistic propensities. Instead of brooding in gloomy anxiety over future support or becoming desperate through sheer want he is able to bestow a leisure hour on a favorite recreation. In both of these stages, his thoughts and the words used for their utterance are in harmony with their surroundings. We therefore turn to the land for intimate acquaintance with man and his culture. His very character is shaped in the mold of his habitual haunt. And language is little more than the expression of his character. The earnest Scotchman and the steadfast Swede, both hardened by the schooling of a vigorous climate, contrast strikingly with the impulsive Andalusian or the fitful Sicilian trained to laxity and carelessness in the midst of plenty. The revengeful Corsican is the native of an unblest island, while the Russian, bred in the vast and monotonous steppe, cannot avoid injecting a strain of melancholy into the literary treasures which he contributes to the human brotherhood. The emotional ties which bind man to his country or to his mother tongue are the same because they are rooted in the past. A citizen of any country is conscious of his nationality whenever he realizes that he has a common origin with his compatriots. Language is merely the outward form of this feeling. But without its unifying influence national solidarity cannot be perfected.