A Book About Words. G. F. Graham
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!’
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