ready-made international words known by all nations, and he commenced at once to make use of this unlimited supply.

One day, when he was in the 6th or 7th Class at the Gymnasium he, by chance, observed that the signs over shops had certain terminations, as we might notice in England, for instance, "Surgery," "Bakery," etc., and it then struck him for the first time that these terminations had certain meanings, and that by using a number of suffixes, each always having the same meaning, he might make out of one word many others that need not be separately learnt. This thought shed a ray of light upon his great and terrible vocabularies, and he cried out "The problem is solved!" He at once understood how important it was to make use of this power, which, in the national languages, plays only a blind, irregular and incomplete rôle. So he began to compare words, and to search out the constant and defined relationship between them. He cast out of his vocabularies a vast series of words, substituting for each huge mass a single suffix, which had always a certain fixed relationship to a root-word. He next remarked that certain words, which he had hitherto regarded as purely roots, might easily become formed words and disappear from the dictionary, such as patr-ino (mother), mal-larĝa (narrow), tranĉ-ilo (knife). Soon after this the Doctor had in manuscript the whole grammar and a small vocabulary.

In 1878, when he was in the 8th Class at the Gymnasium, the language was more or less ready, and his fellow students commenced to study it. On December 17th, 1878, they celebrated the birth of the language by a banquet, at which a hymn was sung, the commencing words being as follows:—

The language then was very different from what it is now, as the following translation will show:—

"Let the enmity of nations fall, fall, for the hour is come. All mankind must be united in one family."

On the table, in addition to the grammar and dictionary, were some translations in the new language.

The Doctor’s fellow students were at first enthusiastic, but meeting with ridicule when they tried to discuss the language with their elders, they soon renounced it, and the Doctor hid his work from all eyes.

After he left school and was at the University, for five years and a half he never spoke of it to anyone. This secrecy tormented him. Compelled to conceal his thoughts and plans, he went scarcely anywhere, took part in nothing, and the best period of his life, his student years, were, for him, his saddest. Occasionally, he sought society, but it failed to enliven him, and he then tried to tranquillize his mind by writing poems in the language he was elaborating.

For six years he worked at perfecting and testing it. This gave him plenty of work, notwithstanding he had considered it ready in 1878; but severe trials showed him that, although it might be ready in theory, it was not so in practice. He had much to cut out, alter, and radically transform. Words, forms, principles, and postulates opposed one another in practice, although each, taken separately, appeared in theory right. Such things as the universal preposition je, the elastic verb meti (to put), the neutral, but definite, ending aŭ, would probably never have entered his head had he proceeded only on theory. Some forms, which appeared to him to possess a mine of wealth, were shown in practice to be useless ballast, and, on this account, he discarded several unnecessary suffixes.

He had thought, in the year 1878, that it was sufficient for the language to have a grammar and vocabulary; the heaviness and want of grace of the language he ascribed to his not knowing it sufficiently well; but practice always kept convincing him that the language required an indescribable "something," a uniting element, giving it life and soul. He therefore avoided all literal translations, and commenced to think in the language.

He soon noticed that his new language was not a mere shadowy reflection of the language he happened to be translating, but was becoming imbued with a life and spirit of its own, and was now no mere lifeless mixture of words, It flowed of itself as flexibly, gracefully, and freely as his own native tongue.

However, another circumstance delayed for a long time its public appearance. He knew that everyone would say, "Your language will be useful to me only when the whole world accepts it, therefore I shall not learn it until I find everyone else is adopting it." This problem gave him much thought till at last it struck him that correspondence was carried on in cipher by means of a key possessed by both parties. This gave him his great idea, namely, to construct his language in the fashion of such a key by inserting in it not only the vocabulary, but the whole grammar in its separate elements. Such a key, alphabetically arranged, would enable anyone possessing the key, giving the meaning of the elements in his own language, to understand without further ado a letter written in Esperanto.

Dr. Zamenhof illustrates this in the "Krestomatio," page 249, by the following sentence:—"I do not know where I left my stick; did you not see it?" Now supposing that a German wished to write this to an Englishman or person of any other nationality, he would translate it from the German into Esperanto as follows, dividing the words into their elements by hyphens:—

Mi ne sci-as, kie mi las-is mi-a-n baston-o-n; ĉu vi ĝi-n ne vid-is?

The Englishman, on receiving the letter, turns to his Esperanto dictionary, or to the Ĉefeĉ Key, if it be enclosed, and reads as follows:—