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“To continue,” said John Common of Roscommon.
“To leave this class of impediments
of speech behind, and go further, we find many defects in
modern English, derived from the same parentage. For
example—there is no W in the French alphabet. If you
were to ask a Frenchman to pronounce the name of the
first President of the United States, he would say “Vashington,”
or he might, by a strong mental effort, get as
near to it as Guashington. Just as if you were to ask him
the name of the second President, he would be obliged to
reply “Hadams,” and so forth. Now there is not one
single word in the English language beginning with the
letter V that is not derived from the French, the Spanish,
the Italian, or some of the coguate branches of the Latin
family of words. There is no V in the Anglo-Saxon
alphabet, none in the Mæso-Gothic, from which two
tongues we derive our mother tongue, none in the earlier
editions of English authors; take, for example, Grafton's
or Hollinghead's Chronicles, or any other work of that

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period. Hence it is that we find such expression in the
modern British classics as: “Now, Shiny Villiam, give
the gen'lem'n the ribbons,”* “vell vot of it,” † or “vot's
the use of giving vay so long as you're 'appy;” of which
forms of expression numbers could be produced if one
could give his mind, his time, and his attention to it. I
do not mean to say that the substitution of the V for the
W is common to the upper classes of Great Britain. Far
from it; but I do mean to say that this innovation is
creeping up, and will, by and by, beget a class of words
foreign to the genius of the English tongue, just as the
dropping of the H has produced such words as ostler and
arbor.

In confirmation of this, let me state that a distinguished
traveler and philosopher, Mr. George Gibbs, of Long
Island, after a residence of a quarter of a century on the
Northwest coast of this continent, has written a dictionary
of the Chinook jargon, or Trade Language of Oregon, prepared
for the Smithsonian Institute, Washington, D. C.,‡
in which he shows conclusively that the Chinook, the
Nootkan, the Yakama, the Cathlasco, (which is a corrupted
form of the Watlala or Upper Chinook), the
Toquat (which he spells Tokwaht), and the Nittinak languages
have been corrupted by the mis-pronunciation of
the English of the Hudson's Bay Company. The consequence
is, that there is scarcely an H in its proper place

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in any of the dialects of the Northwestern tribes of the
Pacific, and W's are substituted for V's to such an extent,
that in his dictionary not one word beginning with the
latter consonant can be discovered. It is, however, a
consolation to know that these are the most prominent
innovations in those rich and beautiful occidental
tongues. After complaining that the Spanish and French
voyageurs have left traces of their languages in the earlier
Chinook, he says:

“It might have been expected, from the number of
Sandwich Islanders introduced by the Hudson's Bay
Company, that the Kanaka element would have found its
way into the language, but their utterance is so foreign to
an Indian car, that not a word has been adopted.”*

If this be so, we can imagine what a highly respectable
tone prevails in Kanaka society of Queen Emma.

But to return. The substitution of the French “V”
for the English “W” led to the retaliatory process, by
which every free born Englishman makes all things
hequal. Just in proportion to the cockneyism of the
upper classes in the middle ages arose the defiant attitude
of the cockneyism of the lower classes. The doubleyous
began to crowd into the lower ten million vocabulary.
“Weal pie” took the place of the other word:

“Even the tailors 'gan to brag,

And embroidered on their flag,

“Aut Wincere Aut Mori.”'†

[figure description] Page 094.[end figure description]

There was a stout battle between the starveling French
V and the broad bottomed English W, and to this day it
has continued. There is not a member of any English
legation in any part of the world, at this present time,
who dares to spell “Vaterloo” with a V. And this is in
obedience to the dictates of the lower, and, I might
almost say, the illiterate classes; for after all, a mob has
a great deal to do with fixing the expression as well as
the meaning of words.

Since I am so far committed to this subject, I must
continue a little longer; but let me say here, that if I tax
the old nation from which we are derived, with speaking
a very impure language, let me at least have the credit
of doing so in a friendly spirit. Let us with one hand
soothe the American Lexicographical Eagle, while with
the other we smooth the bristling mane of the British
Polyglot.

In further confirmation of what I have already advanced,
permit me to recall to every mind another phrase of the
language of the realm, in order to prove that the queen
speaks broken French. I do not mean to say that she
does so intentionally, for surely no one can have a higher
regard for that good lady than I have. In fact, we are
both of an age; both born on the same day of the same
month in the same year, perhaps in the same hour, if
degrees of longitude could be computed with accuracy,
(of different parentage, I admit). What I mean to say
is, that she speaks imperfect English, both of herself and

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through her ministers, through her parliaments, through
her lords and her lord mayors, through her ladies and her
laundresses, through her British museum, and her Billingsgate
market. After all this explanation, which might lead
to a digression, let me return to the point that I intended
to make when I said that the queen speaks broken
French.

Nothing is more striking to an American when he first
visits London than the constant misuse of the French
“A” pronounced aw by the high school of cockneys.
The lower classes of her majesty's subjects use the plain
old fashioned English “A” as an expletive, as well as an
offset to the other (a fashion, by the way, derived from
the Greeks, for their language is full of expletives), in
this manner—I was “a-going,” or, I was “a-thinking,”
or, I was “a-'oping,” or, I was “a-hironing,” and so on
through the whole family of verbs. Now this misuse of
the vowel is so common to the common people, that to
hear it from the lips of any person is sufficient to suggest
that his education has been quite imperfect. This being
so, is it quite fair that we should acquit Lord Brobdignag
of a similar charge, when we hear him read from a master
of style, thus: “They say-aw that it was aw-Liston's firm
belief, that he-aw was aw-great and neglected tragic actaw.
They say-aw that ev-aw-ry one of us believes, in
his heart, or would like-aw to have others believe, that
he-aw is something which he is aw-not!”

It is very true, as Dr. Samuel Johnson says in his little

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article on Orpiment, that “talk is elastic.” But even talk
he mis-spells, (for he means “talc,” a mineral), nevertheless
we will accept the mistake as being truer than his
definition in every way. Talk is elastic! but what shall
be said of the petrifiers of the living words of our language?
What shall we say, for example, of the abuses
of Webster's Dictionary? When an elastic language
becomes a concretion of fossils—when its life has gone
out, and lexicographers have left nothing of it but its
organic remains—what should be done with them? To
compel them to speak plain English would be impossible,
for that they do not comprehend. What should be done
with them? Surely the Cadmus teeth they sow should
rise up and reap them.

I suppose, in time, that the good old English word
“Beef-eater,” as applied to those broad-backed warders
of the Tower of London, will degenerate into “Buffetier”
(French), as now a revolution is being effected in a similar
word—and “cur,” which some writers claim as a
Hindoo word, “Ischur.”* Blackstone, (a famous law
writer of the last century), has endeavored to elevate the
tone of the British bar by changing the honest old name
of “bum-bailey” in this wise: He says “that the special
bailiffs are usually bound in a bond for the due execution
of their office, and thence are called `bound-bailiffs,'

[figure description] Page 097.[end figure description]

which the common people have corrupted into a much
more homely appellation,!”*

I cannot here avoid expressing my regret that a very
creditable weekly paper in the British booksellers' interest
in London should have its classical name corrupted into
“a much more homely appellation.” I mention this the
more cheerfully from the fact that it has always abused
American authors, and, therefore, when I say that I regret
it, you will understand that it is an act of generosity on
my part. I allude to the Athenœum, which has never
recovered from the punishment that Bulwer inflicted
upon it when he called it the “Ass-i-neum,” a name by
which it has been known to cultivated people in all parts
of the world, from the days of Paul Clifford down to this
time.

But these corruptions of the language we must frown
down. Let us take a bold stand against other cockneyisms
creeping into public use, such as “cab” for cabriolet,
“pants” for pantaloons, “canter” from the Canterbury
pilgrimages at the good old-fashioned ambling pace, and
the like; for, if we do not, the age of progress will make
the word “gentleman” a dead language, and only its
cockney substitute, the “gent,” will be known in dictionaries
and newspapers.

A few more words and I shall wind up my squid.

There is a slang phrase of Parisian-French, which I

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cannot recall at this moment, that expresses a peculiar
way of shortening words, and running one into another,
in use among the fashionable people of the continental
metropolis, so that it is very difficult for a novice to understand
their aristocratic argot.

This shrinkage, this corrugation, this wrinkling up of
words, so that a good long sentence which should be
sonorous and expressive, becomes as shrivelled as a washerwoman's
thumb, is beautifully implanted in the modern
English. Go to the House of Lords and hear the debate
between Lord Brobdignag and the Marquis of Lilliput!
Only by the skill of the practised reporter can that tongued
and grooved dialect be interpreted. I shall not give you
a sentence by way of example, but only a few specimen
bricks of this modern Babel.

It is well known that in the glorious old English
tongue every word carries a meaning with it; a little
history in its womb, such as those beautiful phrases
“belly-timber,” as applied to food, and “bread-basket,”
as applied to its receptacle. So the lord of thousands of
broad acres in Merrie England—

“Lovely in England's fadeless green.”—

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history of that royal and ragged refugee, in Boscobell, so
a vast number of words in English once represented ideas.
They were words with poetry and history locked up within
them, like flies, in perpetual amber. The river “Alne”
in Cumberland, the stream celebrated in many a border
foray, has upon its banks the ancient town of Alnecester,
and the “home of the Percy's high-born race,” Alnwick
Castle. Should you inquire for either place, there is not
a man in England who would understand you. But just
ask for Anster and Annick, and there is not a red-coated
boot-brushing boy in the neighborhood of Temple Bar
that cannot tell you where to find the train that will carry
you to the residence of the Lord's of Northumberland. I
remember once that I hired a post and pair to go down to
Stratford-upon-Avon. A jaunty postilion in spotless, white
dimity knee breeches, white top boots, silver-rimmed hatband,
and a whole carillon of bell buttons on his jacket,
touched his hat as I stepped into the “shay.” “Drive me
round,” said I, “by the way of Charlecote Hall!” for I
wished to see the place where Shakspeare was tried for
deer-stealing. That was a puzzler. The friendly landlord
of the “Warwick Arms,” the aged Pensioner of the Bear
and Ragged Staff; the obsequious waiter; the radical
tailor, who made red riding coats for fox-hunting squires
and d—d them in the bitterness of his sartorial soul;
the small boy that always followed a stranger as the mitefly
follows a cheese; the parochial Beadle with his bell;
the blue eyes of the chambermaid, from an upper story

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of the Warwick Arms; all, in dire suspense, in that dewy
morning, waited to hear the reply of the post-boy. There
was no reply. Presently an underhostler, who had been
hovering around the horses like a spiritual gad-fly, whose
wings were horse-brush, and curry-comb, spoke out in a
foggy voice: “P'raps the gemman means Chawcut?”
Shade of Shakspeare! And chawcut it was, as everybody
understood it there. So it is that in this puckered-up
English,—Warwick, itself a splendidly significant name,
becomes Waric. The Beauchamp Chapel is Beecham.
Charlesbury has lost its ancient significance in Chawbree.
Cholmondely is Chumlee. Berwick of old renown,
“royal Berwick's beach of sand,” is now Berric; Candlewick
Street in London, is Cannick; Gloucester is Gloster,
Smithfield is Smiffld, and Worcester—Wooster! So, too,
that word dear to every domestic tie, “housewife,” is
“hussif,” subtle is “suttle,” and High Holburn, I-oburn.

Can anybody doubt that the corruption of these good
old expressive English words into bastard French is not
undermining the Queen's English?

And the mis-spelling of these and many other words
will soon follow the mis-pronunciation, as, indeed, some
do now—witness “Gloster!” I once hired an English
hackman to take me from a once-celebrated hotel in New
York to a once-celebrated Hudson river steamboat. It
chanced that when we reached the wharf the boat was
casting off, and the driver called out to me, “You 'ad
better 'urry up, sir, or she'll be h'off, and you can pay me

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the fare when you get 'ome agin.” So when I did get
back again, and asked for my little account, he referred
to his pocket remembrancer—“Mr. C., June 14th, 1842.
m. o. to e. u.” “What does that mean?” “'Merican'
Otel to 'Endrick 'Udson, sir!”

“And what,” said little Tweedle, “are we to do. If
we go to England, are we to fly in the face of every man
there? are we to insist upon our own pronunciation, and
endeavor to find out famous localities by naming them in
the language used in the Saxon Heptarchy?”

“Certainly,” said John Common of Roscommon, “I
would advise you to agitate this subject; to call things by
their right names in that benighted kingdom; to inquire
for places that nobody can tell you anything about, so
that you can teach the ignorant natives what should be the
names of their choicest, their dearest, their most cherished
localities. You can do this thing, for you have a genius
for disturbing the old herring-bone foundations of ancient
edifices. And I will give you all the glory of being the
pioneer, if you choose to take this matter of reform of
the tongue upon your own shoulders. I may adopt it
also. But I shall not trumpet forth my claims upon the
world until I find that you have succeeded. I think I
feel a fresh breeze creeping up. Haul away on the jib
halyards! Let us see if we can't work up the creek.
The champagne has been in the cooler over there for five
hours now and the meats only go to the brander upon
signal. So haul up the dinner signal! Ah, here comes
the breeze! Up sails, and now to dinner.”

p528-119

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