Читать книгу A Book About Words - G. F. Graham - Страница 8

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One very interesting point in the study of language is the cause of the introduction of new, and the falling off of old, words. It is to be observed that a new word is generally ushered in with a sort of parade—a flourish of trumpets; many writers make a rush at it, and drag it in, whether applicable or not. Its novelty is attractive; and it is often used in a sense which really does not belong to it. But it is not every word thus introduced that maintains its place: it is often found, after all, that it has more sound than sense, and is rather ornamental than useful; and then it is sure to fall into neglect, dies away, and is heard of no more. On the other hand, in the natural course of things, many words which have done good service, and for a long period, are at length discontinued, and give way to new, and sometimes more useful, terms. These slip out of the language unperceived; they are no longer wanted—no one enquires for them; some new and more expressive terms push them out, and they are consigned to oblivion.

It is quite ludicrous to observe how strangely uneducated or illiterate people use words which, to them, are quite new. They are so fascinated with their novelty, or, perhaps, with their sound and length, that they apply them in all manner of odd and eccentric meanings. Two of these words—‘promiscuous’ and ‘immaterial’—seem to be great favourites with a certain class: an ignorant Englishman somehow imagines that the word ‘immaterial’ conveys a sort of reproach, and he insults his fellow-workman by calling him an ‘immaterial,’ meaning that he is a fellow of no worth or respectability. The word ‘promiscuous’ is often used by the lower orders in the same loose way. A witness in a trial, not long ago, stated that ‘he met the prisoner “promiscuously” (or, as he pronounced it, ‘permiskously’) in the streets;’ meaning, by chance, or casually.

If we trace the history of the English language through the various phases of its career, from its earliest up to its present condition, we shall find that it has been continually growing more Romance and less Saxon. It is said that a process of decay had set in even before the introduction of Anglo-Saxon into England—that the language had already lost some of its inflections; and it is well known that, in process of time, these endings, with some few exceptions, wholly disappeared. Again, at a later period, many Saxon nouns which had formed their plurals in en rejected this form, and adopted the Romance (or French) plural-ending, s. At one time, the word ‘eye’ formed its plural ‘eyne,’ or ‘eyen;’ ‘tree’ made ‘treen;’ ‘shoe,’ ‘shoon;’ and even the Romance word ‘uncle,’ ‘unclen.’ These forms have now all departed, and in their place we have ‘eyes,’ ‘trees,’ ‘shoes,’ &c.

The mode of forming a plural by a change of the internal vowel, which was common in Saxon nouns, has now almost vanished from the language. We have some few left; but not more than five or six examples, as ‘tooth,’ ‘goose,’ ‘foot,’ ‘man,’ ‘woman,’ and ‘mouse.’ We may be quite confident that any new nouns brought into English will form their plurals by the French, and not the German, system.

Again, verbs of strong conjugation are much fewer than formerly. Many verbs now form the past tense by adding d or ed to the present which, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, changed the internal vowel-sound for that purpose. To ‘climb’ formerly made ‘clomb’ (a form used by Milton in the seventeenth century); ‘quake’ made ‘quoke;’ ‘laugh,’ ‘lofe;’ ‘reach,’ ‘raught;’ and many others. All these now adopt the weak form of conjugation, and form the past tense by adding d or ed to the root of the verb: ‘climb-ed,’ ‘laugh-ed,’ ‘reach-ed,’ ‘quak-ed,’ &c. And so it will be with all verbs that may be hereafter brought into the language; they will, one and all, form the past tense by adding ed.

But not only have we lost these Saxon characteristics: whole lists of Saxon words have disappeared which once did good service in the language. This may be easily shown by glancing over a few pages of Chaucer or Mandeville, where we shall find a multitude of terms which have been long disused. For example:—

clepen	to call		sterve	to die
thorpe	village		swappen	to strike
grutchen	to murmur		foryield	to repay
stound	moment		reden	to advise, &c.

Even in Shakspere and Milton we may find many words which are now obsolete. All these, again, are Saxon; so that it may be truly said that our losses have been Saxon, whilst our additions have been all Romance, i.e. Latin or French.

In most cases substitutions have been made; but we shall always find that the disused word was Saxon, while the one substituted for it is French or Latin. Thus, for the Saxon compound ‘monath-seoc’ (month sick) we now have ‘lunatic;’ instead of ‘waeter-adl’ (water-illness), we have ‘dropsy.’ The old Anglo-Saxon ‘eorth-gemet’ (earth-measure) has given way to the Greek ‘geometry;’ and the Saxon ‘witena-gemot’ (meeting of wise men), has been transformed into the French ‘parliament.’

In all probability it was the influence of the Norman conquest that assisted this tendency to substitute single terms for compound words. The French language not being favourable to such formations, after a time pushed out many Saxon compounds; and yet, in point of clearness, power, and feeling, the Saxon words were far more effective. Their separate parts were significant, and familiar to the commonest understanding; whereas the new word was, of course, at first altogether foreign, and even after a time was far from being so impressive as the other. For example, the meaning of the Anglo-Saxon noun ‘sige-beacan’ must have been clear to the most uneducated mind: ‘sige’ is ‘victory,’ and ‘beacan’ is ‘sign;’ that is, ‘victory-sign.’ Now, for this was substituted ‘trophy,’ which, being a more uncommon word, does not explain itself as the other, and is, therefore, not so vivid or picturesque. Again, ‘heah-setl’ is translated into ‘throne.’ In the former word we have two distinct ideas, ‘high’ and ‘seat,’ both familiar to the most illiterate peasant; whereas the word ‘throne,’ though now common enough, must at first have puzzled the people considerably.

One very expressive Saxon word, ‘wanhope,’ has disappeared from the language. This may be considered a real loss; ‘wanhope’ expressed that condition of the mind in which we have not actually lost all hope, but when it is beginning to wane, i.e. grow gradually less, and we feel it slipping away from us. ‘Hope’ and ‘despair’ are the two opposite ends of the scale, and ‘wanhope’ formerly expressed an intermediate state of mind. This was a beautiful word, and we have now no equivalent for it.

A host of Saxon derivatives have also vanished from the language which were once in common use; and among them may be named those having the prefix ‘for.’ We still retain the words ‘forbear,’ ‘forbid,’ ‘forget,’ ‘forgive,’ ‘forlorn,’ and ‘forswear;’ but in the writings of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries we often meet with ‘forfend,’ ‘fordrive,’ ‘forsay,’ ‘forspend,’ ‘forwither,’ ‘forwaste,’ &c., all of which are now dead and buried. One word of this class survives, though in a different form, viz. the Saxon verb ‘fordon.’ This verb, though given up, may be still seen in the familiar expression ‘to do for.’

This tendency towards raising the French at the expense of the Saxon portion of English may be accounted for by various circumstances of our history. First, there can be no doubt that the Norman conquest was mainly instrumental in producing this effect. This event could not have failed to be unfavourable to the prosperity of the Saxon. The relation in which the conquerors stood to the conquered was of itself sufficient to account for it, and though the enmity between the two races will explain how the two languages were kept so long separated, when the fusion did at length take place, the advantage was clearly in favour of the governing classes.

Another cause of this leaning to the French may have been the number of French words introduced by Chaucer. The English language (if, indeed, it then deserved that name) was in the latter part of the reign of Edward III. only just beginning to be formed. The Saxon element, which ever since the Conquest had been crushed, was now lifting its head, whilst the French was somewhat discouraged. But the language was not then fit for literary, especially for poetical, purposes; and, therefore, at the very time when it first appeared as English, a large influx of French words took place.

But this result was assisted by other circumstances. The number of Huguenot refugees who found shelter in England after the massacre of St. Bartholomew added materially to the French population of this country, and assisted in swelling the French vocabulary of the English language.

In the seventeenth century the marriage of Charles I. and Henrietta Maria of France could not fail to produce some effect on the language and literature of the age, and though this French taste received a check during the rule of Cromwell, it returned with double force at the Restoration. The foreign tastes acquired by Charles II. in his wanderings on the continent mainly contributed to this state of things, and on the return of the Stewarts, the general tone of the court and nobility, as well as the literature of the age, was French.

But this was as nothing when compared with the consequences of Louis XIV.’s revocation of the Edict of Nantes, in 1685. We are told by Mr. Smiles that, in consequence of this cruel and impolitic act, as many as 400,000 French emigrants found an asylum in this country. It is impossible that this could have been without effect on the English language, and although statistics on the subject are wanting, we may confidently conclude that this immigration considerably increased the French element of the English language.

There can be little doubt that the style of Latinity which Johnson adopted also led to the abandonment of many words of Saxon origin. He was the most weighty authority in England in all things regarding language, style, and literature, till the year of his death, 1784; and his numerous imitators, maintaining his peculiarities of style, still further contributed to the same state of things. Add to all these influences the general leaning of most writers of the present day, and we shall not be surprised at the condition of the English language.

When we consider the numerous and continual attacks which the Saxon element of English has thus sustained, we may be inclined to wonder that there should be any of it left—that it should not have been utterly crushed and annihilated by these raids. But this wonder will be increased when we find that it not only exists, but constitutes to this day by far the larger portion of our language. This is surely sufficient to prove the innate depth, force, and vigour of that element; and we may fairly conclude that if it has so far been able to make head against these innovations, it retains an intrinsic power to resist future attacks of the same nature.

In truth, Saxon is not so much an element as the very basis and foundation of English. The great body of articles, pronouns, numerals, conjunctions, prepositions, signs, auxiliaries, &c.—in fine, all the framework and joints of the language—are drawn from that source.

There are, however, some French philologists who would have it that the majority of words in English is much in favour of French. M. Thommerel gives himself great pains to prove this conclusion, but apparently on very insufficient grounds; and M. Génin, who has written some valuable works on his own language, says, in his ‘Variations du langage Français,’ that the English are indebted to the French for more than three quarters of their language! ‘Les Anglais,’ he writes, ‘ne sont riches que de nos dépouilles; si l’on se mettait à cribler leur langue, et à reprendre ce qui nous appartient, il ne leur resterait pas même de quoi se dire: “Bonjour! comment vous portez-vous?” Leur fameuse formule, How do you do? est volée à la France.’ The tone of this remark is pretty evident, and he surely here allows his patriotism to get the better of his good sense; for he certainly ought to have known that, though our language is enriched with many French words, the main body of English, since the fourteenth century, has been, and is at the present moment, drawn from a Saxon and not a French source. In the case of ‘How do you do?’ however, he is probably right. He quotes from several ballads of the twelfth century the expression ‘Comment le faites-vous?’ as then used in the English sense of ‘How do you do?’ to prove that we have adopted—or rather, as he says, stolen—this form from the French. It has been suggested that the verb do, in this phrase, is derived from the Saxon ‘dugan,’ to prosper or prevail, from which comes the more modern ‘doughty;’ as in ‘a doughty knight.’ According to this explanation, ‘How do you do?’ is equivalent to ‘How do you get on, or prosper?’ But Mr. Wedgewood, in his ‘Dictionary of English Etymology,’ rejects this view. He agrees here with M. Génin, that it is a close translation of the old French ‘Comment le faites-vous?’ And so the matter now stands.

Various circumstances give rise to new words, which either remain in or depart from the language as they may be found serviceable or otherwise. One modern importation is ‘Handbook.’ This appears an unnecessary innovation, more especially as we had already a word which answered the same purpose, and quite as well, viz. ‘Manual,’ and which has the additional recommendation of being a simple, not a compound, word. ‘Handbook’ is of German origin, and probably owes its introduction to that German influence which came in with the late Prince Consort. Mr. Murray has largely contributed to its popularity by his numerous and well-known ‘handbooks,’ and the word will now most probably retain its place in the language.

D’Israeli the elder claims the honour of having introduced the word ‘Fatherland’ into English. This is certainly a useful addition to our vocabulary. We had before no word to distinguish between the two Latin meanings of ‘rus’ and ‘patria;’ ‘country’ being equivocal in sense, since it may mean either the land of our birth, or that part of it distinguished from the town. Here the French have hitherto had the advantage of us: they have ‘patrie,’ for ‘Fatherland;’ ‘pays,’ for a territorial division; and ‘campagne,’ in a rural sense.

The exact date of the introduction of the term ‘stand-point’ is not known, but it is among the new words of about thirty or forty years’ standing; and we may conclude from its form that it is German. This word is, no doubt, an improvement on ‘point of view,’ as being a closer, and therefore more convenient, expression. It is now in common use, especially with writers on mental philosophy.

The noun ‘antecedent’ has been hitherto used exclusively as a term of grammar, but of late years it has appeared in a new sense. It is now often used, in the plural number, to signify the actions and general conduct of some one whose reputation we wish to ascertain. We must inquire, they say, into his ‘antecedents;’ that is, try to find out what he has been doing, who were his companions, how he has hitherto conducted himself, &c. This is certainly a convenient term enough. It expresses concisely what would otherwise require a rather ponderous circumlocution. Mr. ‘Punch,’ with his usual satirical spirit, said that it would be more satisfactory to know something of a suspected man’s relatives than of his antecedents!

We learn from Lord Macaulay that the word ‘gutted’ was first used on the night in which James II. fled from London: ‘The king’s printing-house … was, to use a coarse metaphor, which then for the first time, came into fashion, completely gutted.’

The first writer who used the word ‘anecdote’ was Procopius, the Greek historian of the reign of Justinian. He wrote a work which he called ‘Anecdotes,’ or a ‘Secret History.’ The Emperor Justinian and his wife, Theodora, are here represented as two demons, who had assumed a human form for the destruction of mankind. Procopius tells us that he wrote this work as a supplement to his ‘History,’ in which he could not, for fear of torture and death, speak of some living persons as they deserved. The word ‘anecdote’ is compounded from the Greek ἀν (an) not, ἐκ (ek) out, and δότα (dota) given. It thus means a fact not given out or put forth—an unpublished story. Though this was its original meaning, every one, of course, knows that we have now whole volumes of published anecdotes.

The ending ‘ation’ is, in English, chiefly applied to Latin roots; as in ‘consultation,’ ‘creation,’ ‘donation,’ &c. It is said that Mr. Dundas, afterwards Lord Melville, was the first to use the word ‘starvation,’ which he introduced in one of his speeches in the House of Commons, on the American war, 1775. Here we had, for the first time, a Saxon root—‘starve’—with a Latin ending—‘ation;’ a hybrid formation. From this circumstance, we are told that Mr. Dundas was ever afterwards called by his acquaintances, ‘Starvation Dundas.’ But whatever objection may have been made to it, the word has now taken a firm hold on the language, and is used by the best writers as a perfectly legitimate term.

The mania of modern times for grand terms has produced some very curious words. Tradesmen, in advertising some new invention or article for sale, almost always endeavour to attract public attention towards it by giving it an unusually grand name, generally from a Greek source, but often a strange combination. To take a few cases of these mysterious compounds:—‘Rypophagon’ Soap. This, it may be presumed, means dirt-eating, or dirt-consuming, soap. But, as all soap cleanses the skin, why should this sort be designated as particularly cleansing? Simply to sell the article. Indeed, we can hardly walk far in the streets of London without seeing some fantastic term of this sort paraded in the shop windows. The hair-dresser exhibits his ‘Auricomous’ Fluid; and the son of Crispin his ‘Antigropelos’ Boots. These meet us at every turn. One tradesman has lately advertised a machine which he thinks proper to call a ‘Dotosthene;’ by which, we may conjecture, he means, an instrument for strengthening the back.

Some years ago the writer, walking up Oxford Street, became aware of a fellow carrying on his back before him a huge placard, on which was inscribed the strange word ‘Therapolegeia.’ This was a decided poser. On rubbing up his Greek, however, he at length discovered that this curious word might possibly mean, ‘an office for the registry of servants;’ and so it turned out. But which of the two parties—the ladies who wished to hire the servants, or the servants who wanted to be hired—best understood the word ‘Therapolegeia’ is a problem still to be solved.

Tailors—I beg their pardon, Merchant Clothiers!—now persist in calling coats and waistcoats ‘tunics’ and ‘vests;’ and as for ‘trousers,’ the word is considered far too gross for ears polite! And what has become of ladies’ bonnets? They are gone—departed—vanished! but they have left their ghosts behind them, in the shape of a wretched little bunch of silk and ribbons, dignified by the name of ‘Head-dress!’

Some of these outlandish compounds are not very intelligible. One of them—‘Orthopœdic’—is a term applied to an institution lately established in Oxford Street, for operating on club-feet. The name is probably intended to raise the establishment in public estimation, but the form of the word has justly called forth the censure of some critics. If this word, as seems probable, is meant to convey the idea of ‘straight-footed,’ the third syllable should be formed from the Greek ποῦς, ποδός, a foot, and the whole word should stand ‘orthopodic,’ and not ‘orthopœdic.’

‘Stereotype,’ a term now commonly known to printers, and, indeed, to general readers, was invented and first used by Didot, the well-known French printer. This word will certainly maintain its place in English.

The adjective ‘inimical’ is said to owe its origin to Mr. Windham, who first introduced it in one of his speeches in the House of Commons about eighty years ago. It is useful to mark a distinction between private and public enmity; ‘inimical’ having the first, and ‘hostile’ the second, meaning. But the word is not very popular, in spite of its four syllables, and does not appear to make its way.

The great French Revolution of 1789, as might have been expected, brought forth many new words, some of which have been adopted in English. One, destined to become a very prominent feature of the times, was ‘Guillotine.’ This well-known instrument was named after its inventor, Dr. Guillotin. How or why they made it feminine, by adding to it an e, is not clear; but the word now stands ‘La Guillotine,’ and has secured for itself a permanent place in the French language.

Other words which were the offspring of those dreadful times have disappeared from common use and parlance, and are only occasionally referred to as memorials of the age which produced them. Such are the new names then given to the months; as ‘Brumaire,’ ‘Vendémiaire,’ ‘Fructidor,’ ‘Thermidor,’ &c. When the fury of the revolutionary spirit was at length exhausted, and things were brought back to their former condition, these words naturally fell into disuse, and at last disappeared. There were, however, others belonging to this period which seem to have taken a stronger hold on the people’s mind, and which form to this day part of the legitimate vocabulary of the French language. In this class may be named ‘fusillade’ and ‘noyade:’ those horrible wholesale shootings and drownings of the Vendéans which formed such a frightful picture of that awful period. ‘Terroriste’ first appeared under Robespierre’s administration; and the assassins of the unfortunate prisoners in September 1792 were termed ‘Septembriseurs.’

It is natural to suppose that political names would be born with the parties which they designate. The terms ‘Whig’ and ‘Tory’ were never heard of till the close of the seventeenth century; and it is curious that there is much obscurity concerning the etymology of both these words. All that is positively known on the subject is, that the first is of Scotch, and the second of Irish, origin. ‘Whig’ was first applied to the Scotch covenanters, and ‘Tory’ to the Popish outlaws who favoured the cause of King James II. in Ireland. It may be remarked, by the way, that these two words, though not wholly extinct, are now much less frequently heard than formerly. Different circumstances of political warfare have introduced new terms in both these cases. ‘Tories’ became ‘Protectionists’ during the great debates on the Corn-Laws; and now they call themselves ‘Conservatives.’ The Whigs, again, appeared on one occasion as ‘Reformers,’ and they are at present known as ‘Liberals.’

The name ‘Puritan,’ as applied to a religious sect, still flourishes in English. It was first heard of in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and then given as a nickname to a party which would have even reformed the Reformation. These ‘Puritans’ affected a superhuman purity of morals, and hence their name. They were also sometimes called ‘Precisians,’ from their excessive fastidiousness about insignificant matters (this latter word has now fallen out of use).

The distinction between ‘Roundhead’ and ‘Cavalier’ first appeared during the civil war between Charles I. and his Parliament. The ‘Roundhead,’ in his sour and sullen spirit, condemned all outward ornament, and wore his hair cropped close; thus showing the round form of his head; in contradistinction to the chivalrous tone, the romantic spirit, and the flowing locks of the Cavalier.

The opprobrious term ‘Gueux’ (Beggars) was adopted in 1566 by the Dutch revolters against the rule of Philip II. Margaret of Parma, then governor of the Netherlands, being somewhat disconcerted at the numbers of that party, was reassured by her minister, Barlaimont, who remarked to her, that there was nothing to be feared from a crowd of ‘beggars.’ The party of confederates accepted this name, and prided themselves on it; and in every language in which the history of the revolt of the Netherlands has been written, this French term, ‘gueux,’ is used to designate these malcontents.

Many popular authors, presuming on their own authority, have endeavoured to introduce new and strange terms into the English language. Coleridge, in his work ‘On Church and State,’ makes use of the following extraordinary words:—‘Influencive,’ ‘extroitive, ‘retroitive,’ and ‘productivity.’ Bentley uses:—‘Commentitious,’ ‘aliene,’ ‘negoce,’ and ‘exscribe.’ But no other writers adopted these words: a clear proof that they were not wanted.

Charles Lamb used, in his writings, several words which have not succeeded in maintaining a place in the language. Among them may be named, ‘agnise,’ ‘burgeon,’ and ‘arride.’

Again, any subject of temporary excitement will generally give birth to some new words. The Indian Mutiny gave us ‘to loot;’ and during the American civil war, we made our first acquaintance with ‘secesh,’ ‘skedaddle,’ and ‘stampede.’ Words born under such circumstances may be long- or short-lived: some maintain a place in the language, others have but a brief existence; they ‘fret their hour upon the stage,’ and then are heard no more.

We have also many examples of words which originated in some question of passing interest, and which, though the causes of their first appearance have long since passed away, still remain in our language, and do us excellent service there. The general belief in astrology in the Middle Ages left us several words of this class. Though we no longer believe that the position of the stars can affect our fortunes, we still use the word ‘disaster,’ in the sense of a calamity or misfortune. From the same source come the adjectives, ‘jovial,’ ‘mercurial,’ ‘martial,’ and ‘saturnine.’ These express qualities supposed to belong to those heathen gods whose names were given to the constellation under which any one was born. In astrological phraseology a man’s fortune is still said to be in the ascendant, or to culminate. Both these expressions were first used by the astrologers, and referred to certain stars which, when they had risen to their greatest height, were believed to portend prosperity. The word ‘aspect,’ though now expressing the general appearance of things, was first applied, astrologically, to the physical appearance or outward view of the heavens; and ‘lunatic’ was first used in the sense of one supposed to be mentally affected by a change of the moon.

Other superstitions have produced words of a like nature. The ancient Roman divination may be still traced in our English words ‘augur,’ ‘auspice,’ ‘omen,’ &c. The left hand was always regarded by the ancients as portending ill-luck; and hence our modern word ‘sinister,’ which at first meant simply ‘left-handed,’ has now come to signify ‘foreboding evil.’

‘Its,’ the possessive form of the neuter personal pronoun, is of comparatively late introduction into our language. In Anglo-Saxon, the same form served for both the masculine and neuter possessive; thus:—

	m.	f.	n.
Nom.	He	heo	hit.
Gen.	His	hire	his.

At first, the nominative neuter, ‘it,’ was used for the possessive neuter, of which many instances occur in Shakspere. See ‘King John,’ act. ii. sc. 1: ‘Go to it grandame, child.’ The same may be found in the authorised version of the Scriptures (of 1611); see Leviticus xxv. 5: ‘That which groweth of “it” own accord.’ But in this translation the word ‘its’ is not once found. Genesis i. 11: ‘The tree yielding fruit after his kind.’ Mark. ix. 50: ‘If the salt have lost his saltness,’ &c. Milton avoids the use of ‘its.’ It seldom occurs in his prose works, and there are not more than three or four instances of it in his poems. The precise date and occasion of the first introduction of ‘its’ into the English language have not been ascertained, but it was probably early in the seventeenth century. It is said that the ‘Rowley’s Poems’ of Chatterton was detected to be a forgery by the presence of the word ‘its’ several times in the MS. Rowley was represented as a monk of the fifteenth century, when the word was certainly not in the language.