On the Study of Words by Richard Chenevix Trench (great book club books .TXT) 📖

It was not well with Italy, she might fill the world with exquisite specimens of her skill in the arts, with pictures and statues of rarest loveliness, but all higher national life was wanting to her during those centuries in which she degraded 'virtuoso,' or the virtuous man, to signify one skilled in the appreciation of painting, music, and sculpture; for these, the ornamental fringe of a people's life, can never, without loss of all manliness of character, be its main texture and woof—not to say that excellence in them has been too often dissociated from all true virtue and moral worth. The opposite exaggeration of the Romans, for whom 'virtus' meant predominantly warlike courage, the truest 'manliness' of men, was more tolerable than this; for there is a sense in which a man's 'valour' is his value, is the measure of his worth; seeing that no virtue can exist among men who have not learned, in Milton's glorious phrase,' to hate the cowardice of doing wrong.' [Footnote: It did not escape Plutarch, imperfect Latin scholar as he was, that 'virtus' far more nearly corresponded to [Greek: andreia] than to [Greek: arete] (Coriol. I)] It could not but be morally ill with a people among whom 'morbidezza' was used as an epithet of praise, expressive of a beauty which on the score of its sickly softness demanded to be admired. There was too sure a witness here for the decay of moral strength and health, when these could not merely be dissevered from beauty, but implicitly put in opposition to it. Nor less must it have fared ill with Italians, there was little joy and little pride which they could have felt in their country, at a time when 'pellegrino,' meaning properly the strange or the foreign, came to be of itself a word of praise, and equivalent to beautiful. [Footnote: Compare Florio's Ital. Diet.: 'pelegrino, excellent, noble, rare, pregnant, singular and choice.'] Far better the pride and assumption of that ancient people who called all things and persons beyond their own pale barbarous and barbarians; far better our own 'outlandish,' used with something of the same contempt. There may be a certain intolerance in our use of these; yet this how much healthier than so far to have fallen out of conceit with one's own country, so far to affect things foreign, that these last, merely on the strength of being foreign, commend themselves as beautiful in our sight. How little, again, the Italians, until quite later years, can have lived in the spirit of their ancient worthies, or reverenced the most illustrious among these, we may argue from the fact that they should have endured so far to degrade the name of one among their noblest, that every glib and loquacious hireling who shows strangers about their picture- galleries, palaces, and ruins, is called 'cicerone,' or a Cicero! It is unfortunate that terms like these, having once sprung up, are not again, or are not easily again, got rid of. They remain, testifying to an ignoble past, and in some sort helping to maintain it, long after the temper and tone of mind that produced them has passed away. [Footnote: See on this matter Marsh, On the English Language, New York, 1860, p. 224.]

Happily it is nearly impossible for us in England to understand the mingled scorn, hatred, fear, suspicion, contempt, which in time past were associated with the word 'sbirri' in Italian. [Footnote: [Compare V. Hugo's allusion to Louis Napoleon in the Châtiments:

     'Qui pour la mettre en croix livra,
     Sbire cruel!
     Rome républicaine à Rome catholique!']]

These 'sbirri' were the humble, but with all this the acknowledged, ministers of justice; while yet everything which is mean and false and oppressive, which can make the name of justice hateful, was implied in this title of theirs, was associated with their name. There is no surer sign of a bad oppressive rule, than when the titles of the administrators of law, titles which should be in themselves so honourable, thus acquire a hateful undermeaning. What a world of concussions, chicane and fraud, must have found place, before tax- gatherer, or exciseman, 'publican,' as in our English Bible, could become a word steeped in hatred and scorn, as alike for Greek and Jew it was; while, on the other hand, however unwelcome the visits of the one or the interference of the other may be to us, yet the sense of the entire fairness and justice with which their exactions are made, acquits these names for us of the slightest sense of dishonour. 'Policeman' has no evil subaudition with us; though in the last century, when a Jonathan Wild was possible, 'catchpole,' a word in Wiclif's time of no dishonour at all, was abundantly tinged with this scorn and contempt. So too, if at this day any accidental profits fall or 'escheat' to the Crown, they are levied with so much fairness and more than fairness to the subject, that, were not the thing already accomplished, 'escheat' would never yield 'cheat,' nor 'escheator' 'cheater,' as through the extortions and injustices for which these dues were formerly a pretext, they actually have done.

It is worse, as marking that a still holier sanctuary than that of civil government has become profane in men's sight, when words which express sacred functions and offices become redolent of scorn. How thankful we may be that in England we have no equivalent to the German 'Pfaffe,' which, identical with 'papa' and 'pope,' and a name given at first to any priest, now carries with it the insinuation of almost every unworthiness in the forms of meanness, servility, and avarice which can render the priest's office and person base and contemptible.

Much may be learned by noting the words which nations have been obliged to borrow from other nations, as not having the same of home-growth— this in most cases, if not in all, testifying that the thing itself was not native, but an exotic, transplanted, like the word that indicated it, from a foreign soil. Thus it is singularly characteristic of the social and political life of England, as distinguished from that of the other European nations, that to it alone the word 'club' belongs; France and Germany, having been alike unable to grow a word of their own, have borrowed ours. That England should have been the birthplace of 'club' is nothing wonderful; for these voluntary associations of men for the furthering of such social or political ends as are near to the hearts of the associates could have only had their rise under such favourable circumstances as ours. In no country where there was not extreme personal freedom could they have sprung up; and as little in any where men did not know how to use this freedom with moderation and self-restraint, could they long have been endured. It was comparatively easy to adopt the word; but the ill success of the 'club' itself everywhere save here where it is native, has shown that it was not so easy to transplant or, having transplanted, to acclimatize the thing. While we have lent this and other words, political and industrial for the most part, to the French and Germans, it would not be less instructive, if time allowed, to trace our corresponding obligations to them.

And scarcely less significant and instructive than the presence of a word in a language, will be occasionally its absence. Thus Fronto, a Greek orator in Roman times, finds evidence of an absence of strong family affection on the part of the Romans in the absence of any word in the Latin language corresponding to the Greek [Greek: philostorgos] How curious, from the same point of view, are the conclusions which Cicero in his high Roman fashion draws from the absence of any word in the Greek answering to the Latin 'ineptus'; not from this concluding, as we might have anticipated, that the character designated by the word was wanting, but rather that the fault was so common, so universal with the Greeks, that they failed to recognize it as a fault at all. [Footnote: De Orat. ii. 4: Quem enim nos ineptum vocamus, is mihi videtur ab hoc nomen habere ductum, quod non sit aptus. Idque in sermonis nostri consuetudine perlate patet. Nam qui aut tempus quid postulet, non videt, aut plura loquitur, aut se ostentat, aut eorum quibuscum est vel dignitatis vel commodi rationem non habet, aut denique in aliquo genere aut inconcinnus aut multus est, is ineptus esse dicitur. Hoc vitio cumulata est eruditissima illa Graecorum natio. Itaque quod vim hujus mali Graeci non vident, ne nomen quidem ei vitio imposuerunt. Ut enim quasras omnia, quomodo Graeci ineptum appellent, non invenies.] Very instructive you may find it to note these words, which one people possess, but to which others have nothing to correspond, so that they have no choice but to borrow these, or else to go without altogether. Here are some French words for which it would not be easy, nay, in most cases it would be impossible, to find exact equivalents in English or in German, or probably in any language: 'aplomb,' 'badinage,' 'borné,' 'chic,' 'chicane,' 'cossu,' 'coterie,' 'égarement,' 'élan,' 'espièglerie,' 'etourderie,' 'friponnerie,' 'gentil,' 'ingénue,' 'liaison,' 'malice,' 'parvenu,' 'persiflage,' 'prévenant,' 'ruse,' 'tournure,' 'tracasserie,' 'verve.' It is evident that the words just named have to do with shades of thought which are to a great extent unfamiliar to us; for which, at any rate, we have not found a name, have hardly felt that they needed one. But fine and subtle as in many instances are the thoughts which these words embody, there are deeper thoughts struggling in the bosom of a people, who have devised for themselves such words as the following: 'gemüth,' 'heimweh,' 'innigkeit,' 'sehnsucht,' 'tiefsinn,' 'sittsamkeit,' 'verhängniss,' 'weltschmerz,' 'zucht'; all these being German words which, in a similar manner, partially or wholly fail to find their equivalents in French.

The petty spite which unhappily so often reigns between nations dwelling side by side with one another, as it embodies itself in many shapes, so it finds vent in the words which they borrow from one another, and the use to which they put them. Thus the French, borrowing 'hablár' from the Spaniards, with whom it means simply to speak, give it in 'hâbler' the sense of to brag; the Spaniards paying them off in exactly their own coin, for of 'parler' which in like manner is but to speak in French, they make 'parlár,' which means to prate, to chat. [Footnote: See Darmesteter, The Life of Words, Eng. ed. p. 100.]

But it is time to bring this lecture to an end. These illustrations, to which it would be easy to add more, justify all that has been asserted of a moral element existing in words; so that they do not hold themselves neutral in that great conflict between good and evil, light and darkness, which is dividing the world; that they are not satisfied to be passionless vehicles, now of the truth, and now of lies. We see, on the contrary, that they continually take their side, are some of them children of light, others children of this world, or even of darkness; they beat with the pulses of our life; they stir with our passions; we clothe them with light; we steep them in scorn; they receive from us the impressions of our good and of our evil, which again they are most active still further to propagate and diffuse. [Footnote: Two or three examples of what we have been affirming, drawn from the Latin, may fitly here find place. Thus Cicero (Tusc. iii. 7) laments of 'confidens' that it should have acquired an evil signification, and come to mean bold, over-confident in oneself, unduly pushing (compare Virgil,Georg. iv. 444), a meaning which little by little had been superinduced on the word, but etymologically was not inherent in it at all. In the same way 'latro,' having left two earlier meanings behind, one of these current so late as in Virgil (Aen. xii. 7), settles down at last in the meaning of robber. Not otherwise 'facinus' begins with being simply a fact or act, something done; but ends with being some act of outrageous wickedness. 'Pronuba' starts with meaning a bridesmaid it ignobly ends with suggesting a procuress.] Must we not own then that there is a wondrous and mysterious world, of which we may hitherto have taken too little account, around us and about us? Is there not something very solemn and very awful in wielding such an instrument as this of language is, with such power to wound or to heal, to kill or to make alive? and may not a deeper meaning than hitherto we have attached to it, lie in that saying, 'By thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned'?

Language, being ever in flux and flow, and, for