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

render other and further triumphs of art possible, oftentimes such as would prove quite unattainable without them. [Footnote: See Mill, System of Logic, iv. 6, 3.]

It is not merely the widening of men's intellectual horizon, which, bringing new thoughts within the range of their vision, compels the origination of corresponding words; but as often as regions of this outward world hitherto closed are laid open, the novel objects of interest which these contain will demand to find their names, and not merely to be catalogued in the nomenclature of science, but, so far as they present themselves to the popular eye, will require to be popularly named. When a new thing, a plant, or fruit, or animal, or whatever else it may be, is imported from some foreign land, or so comes within the sphere of knowledge that it needs to be thus named, there are various ways by which this may be done. The first and commonest way is to import the name and the thing together, incorporating the former, unchanged, or with slight modification, into the language. Thus we did with the potato, which is only another form of 'batata,' in which shape the original Indian word appears in our earlier voyagers. But this is not the only way of naming; and the example on which I have just lighted affords good illustration of various other methods which may be adopted. Thus a name belonging to something else, which the new object nearly resembles, may be transferred to it, and the confusion arising from calling different things by the same name disregarded. It was thus in German, 'kartoffel' being only a corruption, which found place in the last century, of 'tartuffel' from the Italian 'tartiiffolo'(Florio), properly the name of the truffle; but which not the less was transferred to the potato, on the ground of the many resemblances between them. [Footnote: [See Kluge, Etym. Dict. (s. v. Kartoffel).]] Or again this same transfer may take place, but with some qualifying or distinguishing addition. Thus in Italy also men called the potato 'tartufo,' but added 'bianco,' the white truffle; a name now giving way to 'patata.' Thus was it, too, with the French; who called it apple, but 'apple of the earth'; even as in many of the provincial dialects of Germany it bears the name of 'erdapfel' or earth-apple to this day.

It will sometimes happen that a language, having thus to provide a new name for a new thing, will seem for a season not to have made up its mind by which of these methods it shall do it. Two names will exist side by side, and only after a time will one gain the upper hand of the other. Thus when the pineapple was introduced into England, it brought with it the name of 'ananas' erroneously 'anana' under which last form it is celebrated by Thomson in his Seasons. [Footnote: [The word ananas is from a native Peruvian name nanas. The pineapple was first seen by Europeans in Peru; see the New English Dictionary (s. v.).]] This name has been nearly or quite superseded by 'pineapple' manifestly suggested by the likeness of the new fruit to the cone of the pine. It is not a very happy formation; for it is not likeness, but identity, which 'pineapple' suggests, and it gives some excuse to an error, which up to a very late day ran through all German-English and French-English dictionaries; I know not whether even now it has disappeared. In all of these 'pineapple' is rendered as though it signified not the anana, but this cone of the pine; and not very long ago, the Journal des Débats made some uncomplimentary observations on the voracity of the English, who could wind up a Lord Mayor's banquet with fir-cones for dessert.

Sometimes the name adopted will be one drawn from an intermediate language, through which we first became acquainted with the object requiring to be named. 'Alligator' is an example of this. When that ugly crocodile of the New World was first seen by the Spanish discoverers, they called it, with a true insight into its species, 'el lagarto,' the lizard, as being the largest of that lizard species to which it belonged, or sometimes 'el lagarto de las Indias,' the Indian lizard. In Sir Walter Raleigh's Discovery of Guiana the word still retains its Spanish form. Sailing up the Orinoco, 'we saw in it,' he says, 'divers sorts of strange fishes of marvellous bigness, but for lagartos it exceeded; for there were thousands of these ugly serpents, and the people call it, for the abundance of them, the river of lagartos, in their language.' We can explain the shape which with us the word gradually assumed, by supposing that English sailors who brought it home, and had continually heard, but may have never seen it written, blended, as in similar instances has often happened, the Spanish article 'el' with the name. In Ben Jonson's 'alligarta,' we note the word in process of transformation. [Footnote: 'Alcoran' supplies another example of this curious annexation of the article. Examples of a like absorption or incorporation of it are to be found in many languages; in our own, when we write 'a newt,' and not an ewt, or when our fathers wrote 'a nydiot' (Sir T. More), and not an idiot; in the Italian, which has 'lonza' for onza; but they are still more numerous in French. Thus 'lierre,' ivy, was written by Ronsard, 'l'hierre,' which is correct, being the Latin 'hedera.' 'Lingot' is our 'ingot,' but with fusion of the article; in 'larigot' and 'loriot' the word and the article have in the same manner grown together. In old French it was l'endemain,' or, le jour en demain: 'le lendemain,' as now written, is a barbarous excess of expression. 'La Pouille,' a name given to the southern extremity of Italy, and in which we recognize 'Apulia,' is another variety of error, but moving in the same sphere (Génin, Récréations Philologiques, vol. i. pp. 102-105); of the same variety is 'La Natolie,' which was written 'L'Anatolie' once. An Irish scholar has observed that in modern Irish 'an' (='the') is frequently thus absorbed in the names of places, as in 'Nenagh, 'Naul'; while sometimes an error exactly the reverse of this is committed, and a letter supposed to be the article, but in fact a part of the word, dropt: thus 'Oughaval,' instead of 'Noughhaval' or New Habitation. [See Joyce, Irish Local Names.]]

Less honourable causes than some which I have mentioned, give birth to new words; which will sometimes reflect back a very fearful light on the moral condition of that epoch in which first they saw the light. Of the Roman emperor, Tiberius, one of those 'inventors of evil things,' of whom St. Paul speaks (Rom. i. 30), Tacitus informs us that under his hateful dominion words, unknown before, emerged in the Latin tongue, for the setting out of wickednesses, happily also previously unknown, which he had invented. It was the same frightful time which gave birth to 'delator,' alike to the thing and to the word.

The atrocious attempt of Lewis XIV. to convert the Protestants in his dominions to the Roman Catholic faith by quartering dragoons upon them, with license to misuse to the uttermost those who refused to conform, this 'booted mission' (mission bottée), as it was facetiously called at the time, has bequeathed 'dragonnade' to the French language. 'Refugee' had at the same time its rise, and owed it to the same event. They were called 'réfugiés' or 'refugees' who took refuge in some land less inhospitable than their own, so as to escape the tender mercies of these missionaries. 'Convertisseur' belongs to the same period. The spiritual factor was so named who undertook to convert the Protestants on a large scale, receiving so much a head for the converts whom he made.

Our present use of 'roué' throws light on another curious and shameful page of French history. The 'roué,' by which word now is meant a man of profligate character and conduct, is properly and primarily one broken on the wheel. Its present and secondary meaning it derived from that Duke of Orleans who was Regent of France after the death of Lewis XIV. It was his miserable ambition to gather round him companions worse, if possible, and wickeder than himself. These, as the Duke of St. Simon assures us, he was wont to call his 'roués'; every one of them abundantly deserving to be broken on the wheel,—which was the punishment then reserved in France for the worst malefactors. [Footnote: The 'roués' themselves declared that the word expressed rather their readiness to give any proof of their affection, even to the being broken upon the wheel, to their protector and friend.] When we have learned the pedigree of the word, the man and the age rise up before us, glorying in their shame, and not caring to pay to virtue even that hypocritical homage which vice finds it sometimes convenient to render.

The great French Revolution made, as might be expected, characteristic contributions to the French language. It gives us some insight into its ugliest side to know that, among other words, it produced the following: 'guillotine,' 'incivisme,' 'lanterner,' 'noyade,' 'sansculotte,' 'terrorisme.' Still later, the French conquests in North Africa, and the pitiless severities with which every attempt at resistance on the part of the free tribes of the interior was put down and punished, have left their mark on it as well; 'razzia' which is properly an Arabic word, having been added to it, to express the swift and sudden sweeping away of a tribe, with its herds, its crops, and all that belongs to it. The Communist insurrection of 1871 bequeathed one contribution almost as hideous as itself, namely 'pétroleuse,' to the language. It is quite recently that we have made any acquaintance with 'recidivist'—one, that is, who falls back once more on criminal courses.

But it would ill become us to look only abroad for examples in this kind, when perhaps an equal abundance might be found much nearer home. Words of our own keep record of passages in our history in which we have little reason to glory. Thus 'mob' and 'sham' had their birth in that most disgraceful period of English history, the interval between the Restoration and the Revolution. 'I may note,' says one writing towards the end of the reign of Charles II., 'that the rabble first changed their title, and were called "the mob" in the assemblies of this [The Green Ribbon] Club. It was their beast of burden, and called first "mobile vulgus," but fell naturally into the contraction of one syllable, and ever since is become proper English.' [Footnote: North, Examen, p. 574; for the origin of 'sham' see p. 231. Compare Swift in The Tatler, No. ccxxx. 'I have done the utmost,' he there says, 'for some years past to stop the progress of "mob" and "banter"; but have been plainly borne down by numbers, and betrayed by those who promised to assist me.'] At a much later date a writer in The Spectator speaks of 'mob' as still only struggling into existence. 'I dare not answer,' he says, 'that mob, rap, pos, incog., and the like, will not in time be looked at as part of our tongue.' In regard of 'mob,' the mobile multitude, swayed hither and thither by each gust of passion or caprice, this, which The Spectator hardly expected, while he confessed it possible, has actually come to pass. 'It is one of the many words formerly slang, which are now used by our best writers, and received, like pardoned outlaws, into the body of respectable citizens.' Again, though the murdering of poor helpless lodgers, afterwards to sell their bodies for dissection, can only be regarded as the monstrous wickedness of one or two, yet the verb 'to burke,' drawn from the name of a wretch who long pursued this hideous traffic, will be evidence in all after times, unless indeed its origin should be forgotten, to how strange a crime this age of ours could give birth. Nor less must it be acknowledged that 'to ratten' is no pleasant acquisition which the language within the last few years has made; and as little 'to boycott,' which is of still later birth. [Footnote: This word has found its way into most European languages, see the New English Dictionary (s. v.)]

We must not count as new words properly so called, although they may delay us for a minute, those comic words, most often comic combinations formed at will, wherein, as plays and displays of power, writers ancient and modern have delighted. These for the most part are meant to do service for the moment, and, this done, to pass into oblivion; the inventors of them themselves having no intention of fastening them permanently on the language. Thus Aristophanes coined [Greek: mellonikiao], to loiter like Nicias, with allusion to the delays by whose aid this prudent