Americanisms

IV.

A CERTAIN new fashion in names— the use of two christening names or prænomens — is very generally regarded in England as an Americanism. Many years ago I heard Englishmen scoff at what they called the “three-barreled names ” of Americans; and more recently, at a country house in Essex, a gentleman— he was a Cambridge don, and although young a man of note, altogether a person of whom greater accuracy or more discretion might have been expected— said to me, apropos of some American who was named, “ How is it you Americans always have those triple names? It is quite an American thing.” “ Yes, I ’ve remarked that myself,” was my reply: “there are those well-known Englishmen, Washington Irving, and George Bancroft, and Nathaniel Hawthorne, and his son Julian Hawthorne, and Abraham Lincoln, and Jefferson Davis; and then those Yankees, William Ewart Gladstone, and Thomas Babington Macaulay, and William Makepeace Thackeray, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, and Walter Savage Landor, and Percy Bysshe Shelley; ” and I might have added Arthur Penrhyn Stanley, Martin Farquhar Tupper, and Charles Haddon Spurgeon, if I had happened to think of them, and not nearly have exhausted the list of notable triple-named Englishmen. He winced a little, but jauntily suggested that a few exceptions one way or the other were of little import. Thereupon I went to the booktable, and found that more than two thirds of the authors represented there — all British — had two names besides the surname. Then taking up the Pall Mall Budget, which was also on the table, I turned to the long list of births, marriages, and deaths, which filled two pages of the paper in very small letter; and in these the proportion of single and double prænomens was found to be about the same; which also proved to be true of the names in the Gazette, that filled two pages in the same letter. This discovery was received with surprise, which faded away in a smile half deprecating, half confessing. Of course there was nothing to be said. Afterwards I looked through the Army and Navy Register, and the list of the members of the House of Commons, with substantially the same result. Yet the belief in England that a three-barreled name is an American distinction is so general as to be almost universal. Mr. Trollope, when be introduces an American character, always decorates him with a triple name, which he courteously makes ridiculous in sound and sense; and even in the case of a lady he does not omit the middle name or initial, calling, for example, the doctress in his last book Olivia Q. Fleabody.

The giving of two christening names is, as I have mentioned, a comparatively new fashion among English-speaking people. It is not two centuries old, and indeed did not come into vogue in either country until within the present century. Not only was one christening name regarded as quite enough by our forefathers, but sometimes two members of one family would have the same christening name. In the Paston family there were living at one time two Johns, sons of the same father and mother; and the same name was in like manner repeated some three hundred years ago in a family now in this country, whose records I examined not long ago. The new fashion is one of the accompaniments of democracy. It is one of the signs of the rise of the middle class. There are likely to be many Johns and Jameses of the same surname in that class; and as, instead of being known only to a few neighbors, after the old way, they have now a wide business connection, travel the world over, and are recorded in city directories, it has become highly desirable to distinguish them. This is conveniently done by the addition of a second christening name, which accomplishes its purpose the better, and pleases a godfather besides, if it is a surname. Now this giving of two christening names is as common, or almost as common, in England as in America. Yet there is a reason for the notion which prevails there upon the subject. It is this. If a man has half a dozen names, if his full register is, like that of a witness in the Tichborne trial, Frederick Augustus Talbot Clifford Constable, he is called at home and by his friends by one of these names only: he is Frederick, or he is Tom, or Dick, or Harry; and this is the same in both countries. But in England, with very few exceptions, a man carries into public and business and social life only the name he bears at home; and a George Washington Brown is spoken of and addressed, for example, as George Brown or Washington Brown, not as George W. Brown; whereas in America the initial letter of the “ middle name " is very often specified, even in familiar speech. This, again, is for the sake of making a clear and sure distinction between persons of the same surname, and possibly of the same first christening name; a purpose which it effects. In England the need of such a distinction is not so great, and there is a more enduring conformity to the old fashion.

Errors like this one in regard to names are very common as to so-called Americanisms, both in England and America. Some very trifling and altogether unessential difference in the wearing of rue is remarked upon by some traveler in one country or the other, and it is seized upon as a distinctive trait, and assumed to be so, and talked of until a belief that it is so comes to be established and undisputed. Mistakes of this kind are often made with the profoundest and most amusing ignorance of the subject. In the trial to which I have already referred one of the witnesses, a governess, having accounted for some peculiarities of language in the letters of the impostorclaimant by his supposed and pretended early French education, was asked what she thought of “ worrit ” (for worry), which appeared in them frequently. She replied that she should “ consider that peculiarity as colonial.” But on the contrary worrit is a perversion of worry which is distinctive of the lowest class of English life, and is as common in London as “ heggs ” or “ hale.” Yet this prim maiden Philistine, because it was a word that she and her pupils did not use, must set it down as “ colonial.”

It is one of the objects of this series of papers to expose such errors as these, and to guard against their consequences. I am far from supposing myself to be free from the liability to such errors; indeed, I shall point out anon one into which I have fallen. But the British critic whom I have referred to in previous articles, and who has favored me with another letter, illustrates this point for me with candor too rare in word controversy. He writes: " There is so much truth in what you say in the beginning of your May article as to the necessity of a wide knowledge of the literature and the society of both countries, that although I do not plead guilty to the charge of ' unlimited self-confidence,’ yet my range of knowledge is so very limited that I require to be constantly guarding myself against making positive assertions which a closer investigation might prove to be only partially correct. Only the other day I came across a phrase which I had always considered an Americanism, namely, to home, which is put into the mouth of a Lincolnshire farmer in a novel, and which I suppose is an okl Lincolnshire expression. (I fancy it is very old English indeed, as it is the same as the German zu hause.) A month ago, therefore, I should have said confidently that to home was an Americanism.”

As to another phrase which is more and more coming into vogue, “on the street ” for “ in the street,” a very bad phrase, the change being indicative of a low, coarse apprehension of language, which I hinted in passing a month or two ago, he says: “I notice that you put down on (as ' on Broadway ’) as a Scotticism as well as a Southernism. I presume you would not have made this statement without good grounds for doing so; but it must be a rare Scotticism, as I have never heard it in use except in America. Although I have been brought up among Scotticisms, to my sorrow, I always considered it an undeniable Americanism.” My observation and my memory leave me in no doubt as to the Scots use of this phrase. But in support of them I put in evidence the following passages, written by a Scotsman of some distinction, Thomas Carlyle, in his translation of Wilhelm Meister: —

“ Their soft, sweet dreams were broken in upon by a noise which arose on the street. . . . Barbara said the disturbance arose from a set of jolly companions,” etc. (Book I., chap. iii.)

“ Wilhelm sprang through the door; and a strong smoke came rushing down upon him from the upper story. On the street he heard the cry of fire.” (Book V., chap. xiii.)

Wilhelm Meister was published in 1823, when Carlyle, a Dumfriesshire man, was only twenty-eight years old, before he had been in England, and ten years before he went to live in London.

As to bureau my correspondent says: “ I cannot recollect having heard a chest of drawers called a bureau on any single occasion.” And he and a distinguished dissenting English clergyman, now in this country, who has shown some interest in these articles, although they admit the weight of my citations (and I have others to the same effect), still show great faith in the value of their ignorance of, or I should prefer to call it their unacquaintance with, the usage in question. I shall not carry the discussion further than to direct attention to the fact that in Walker’s Dictionary, London, ed. 1805 (the last published in the author’s life), bureau has for its only definition " a chest of drawers;” which I saw to my surprise, for I did not expect to find its primitive and legitimate meaning entirely passed over. But I will here remark upon an Americanism in regard to this word as to which there can be no doubt, — its pronunciation, of which there is no hint in Webster. In England it is still pronounced as a French word, bu-rów; in America it has become thoroughly englished, and is bú-ro. In this respect it is like trait, which is pronounced in England as if it were still a French word, tray; but in America trait has the English sound, with the final t. These two words are, with the British jug for pitcher, the only sure verbal tests that I know between speakers of the two countries. In England they say a quarter to one o’clock, in America a quarter of one o’clock; there, railway station, here railroad depot (deep, oh !); that is, these are severally the general fashions in each country. Many here, however, say a quarter to one, and very many, I am happy to admit, railway station; but as far as my observation goes an American never pronounces bureau and trait as if they were French words; and in this, according to reason in regard to words that have been so long adopted into the English language, he seems to be right.

It is merely as verbal tests of Americanism in speech that these words have their peculiar distinction; but they can be rarely applied because they are rarely used. Unfortunately, however, there remain, in intonation, pitch of voice, pronunciation, and phraseology, countless and ceaseless aberrations from the usage of the best English speakers; and even from that of those who are not the best, and who yet are better in this respect than the person who is somewhat vaguely and yet significantly described as the average American. But it must not be supposed that what is generally regarded as education, that is, book-learning or other professional acquirement, lifts its possessor in this respect above the infection of speech which lies along this level. Quite the contrary. A man may be very learned, and yet speak English very badly, and write it very awkwardly. An eminent English phonologist told me, somewhat to my surprise, that he had found all the most unpleasant peculiarities of American speech, in their most striking and obtrusive form, in a distinguished American scholar; and every competent observer who has preferences in language must have noticed that the purest and best English is spoken in the most agreeable manner by women who have no learning and little liking for books.

Reserving other parts of these letters for future comment, I will call attention to the following remark: “ Whisker, it is said, “ is used in the West (you will know whether it is confined to the West) as it used to be used by us until within about forty years, to mean hair growing upon any part of the face. We, and I rather think educated Americans as a rule, only apply the term to hair growing on the cheeks.” I must admit that this is new to me; nor has the omnivorous research of Mr. Bartlett apparently enabled him to pounce upon this Americanism. I have never in my life heard whisker applied to any other part of the beard than that which grows upon the cheeks. But, having never been farther westward than Niagara, I can only accept my correspondent’s testimony, which of course is all-sufficient. As to the use of whisker for the beard generally in England until forty years ago, I am disposed to doubt that such was ever the best usage; for Addison, as quoted by Johnson in illustration of the use of the word, writes, “ A painter added a pair of whiskers to the face.” The examples which I know might be adduced of the use, by writers of the latter part of the last century and the beginning of this, of whisker to mean the beard on any part of the face I should attribute to an ignorance due to absolute unacquaintance with the beard in any form, except as an unpleasant something to be scraped off daily. From 1700 to 1825 the appearance of beard on any part of an Englishman’s or an American’s face was, strangely enough, so rare as to be regarded as a monstrosity. However, to call the beard on a man’s chin or lips whiskers is not so bad as the other Western and Southwestern barbarism of applying suit to the hair: thus, “ She has a beautiful suit of hair.” This is an unmitigated Americanism, and very properly appears in Mr. Bartlett’s dictionary. It is a ridiculous use of the word. A suit is a succession or system of things, different, and yet conforming to each other: as a suit (not a sweet) of rooms; a suit of clothes; a suit of sails, for a ship. A suit of hair is preposterous. Much better say a suit of fingers or of toes. I think that I can hardly err in attributing the origin of this absurd phrase to that desire to be elegant in speech which is the cause of so much vulgarism. It must have been started by folk too fine to speak simple English and say a head of hair.

With regard in pshaw, I was surprised to find the English clergyman before mentioned rather inclined to the opinion of this correspondent. He, too, is disposed to regard this exclamation as veryold-fashioned; and to my plea that it is found in English books of the day he rejoins that the language of books is always a little behind that of every-day talk. This is an intelligent objection, and one which would be of force in regard to certain words and phrases and certain books. In serious writings of a didactic nature, in scientific, political, theological, critical, controversial books, essays, and the like, the vocabulary and the phraseology of the writer are naturally pretty sure to be well within the limits of the thoroughly established, not to say commonplace, language of his day, except upon emergencies, when he may be led by necessity or good taste to take something old or to make something new. The language of such books is therefore generally a little behind that of daily talk, even among the best speakers. But this criticism does not apply to novels; and it is particularly inapplicable to the dialogues which form so large a part of the novels of the day. These are intended to represent — and with novelists of opportunity and skill they do represent very faithfully—the actual speech of the day in the circles of society to which the personages who speak belong. Thackeray’s novels are almost phonographic in this respect; and so are Anthony Trollope’s. It is futile to urge the objection of precision and old-fashioned primness in language against the evidence of a writer who makes well-bred people (correctly) talk thus, —as Mr. Trollope does in his last novel. Charles De Baron says to Miss Mildmay, who proposes marriage to him, and rather insists upon it than otherwise, “There was a little fun to be had when we could spoon together, —when I hardly knew how to ask for it, and you hardly knew how to grant it.” (Popenjoy, chap. xv.) And Dean Lovelace says to his daughter, “ Look here, Mary, you ’ll have no happiness in life unless you can make up your mind not to allow those old ladies at Manor Cross to sit upon you.” (Idem, chap. xi.) Now in this book, published this year, and thus representing the free speech of society even to the minutiæ of such slang as “spoon” and “sit upon,” we have pshaw three times. “ Psha ! ” exclaimed Miss Mildmay, the young lady whose intentions are strictly honorable, “ it is nothing to me whether you are married or single.” (Chap. xxvii.) And that ornament to her sex, Adelaide De Baron, says to her old lover, Lord George, whom she is grappling for again, and who reminds her that she had married, “ Psha ! Married! Of course I had married. Everybody marries.” (Chap. xxxv.) Again, Miss Mildmay, when the impecunious captain of her affections shrinks coyly from her suggestion of marriage behind the vision of “hashed mutton and cradles,” with the true ardor of a female lover, exclaims, “ Psha! ” (Chap. li.) Were evidence needed upon the point, it seems to me that this could not be rejected as showing that psha is no more obsolete or obsolescent than spoon or sit upon. This seems all the more to be depended upon because, when Dean Lovelace is moved to an exclamation of impatience, he, who says " sit upon,”does not say psha. " Pish ! ” he ejaculated, “I hate these attempted restrictions.” (Chap. xxxix.) It is quite in character that a dean should use the older form of the word; it suits with his shovel-hat and his gaiters.

The reader will probably remember that, in the last of these articles, it was shown that the use of elect with a following infinitive was not an Americanism, with the added remark that it was in any case not admirable. One Correspondent thanks me very heartily for this, and says, “ Nothing irritates me quite so much; and I wish you would say something upon the want of intellectual discrimination which makes the error possible. So far as I observe, Mrs. Henry Wood is responsible for this use of elect.'' I also remarked that it was probably of recent origin, although it was known to me far away beyond Mrs. Henry Wood. Its use in general speech may be very modern ; but a judge of one of our higher courts has been kind enough to call my attention to the fact that in law the infinitive has long been used after election and elect, of which he sends me the following examples, coming, it will be seen, from rather high quarters: —

“ The grantee hath election to bring a writ of annuity.” (Coke upon Littleton, 1628.)

“Further, the grantor hath election at the day to deliver which he would.” (Ibid.)

“ She must elect to take under the will or against the will.” (Lord Chancellor Thurlow, 1785.)

“The defendant obtained an order that he should elect to proceed either at law or in equity.” (Lord Eldon, 1815.)

My learned correspondent points out to me that in the quotations from Coke the noun election alone is used, and says that he has not been able to find that Coke used the verb in any of its tenses followed by an infinitive, although an examination of his Reports of Cases at Law may show that he did so. But here is enough to settle the question as to usage, and to favor the supposition that the phrase came into general speech from the law, in which it has a quasi-technical meaning.

The foregoing examples of error illustrate and enforce what has been said heretofore in these articles, as to the necessity of extremest caution in receiving assertions, even by professed students of language, or by intelligent and welleducated English men and women, as to the Americanism or the provincialism of words or phrases, which cannot be too strongly insisted upon or too continuously kept in mind. Mr. Bartlett has given this subject the benefit of his laborious research for more than thirty years, and we may all be sure that he means to be careful and accurate in his statements. The present edition of his dictionary is the fourth, and it bears evidence, as its predecessors have done, of careful and thoughtful revision; and yet it not only presents the use of elect for choose as an Americanism, but specifies with particularity that “ the Americanism consists in the construction of this verb with the following infinitive,” when that construction in English is at least as old as the days of James I.’s chief-justice, and is commonly used by reputable British writers of the day. Whatever the intrinsic or relative character of a word or phrase, there can be no better proof that it is not American or provincial, but is English in origin and association, than its use by Coke, Thurlow, and Eldon in the past, and by Trollope, Thackeray, Ruskin, the London Times, and the Saturday Review in the present.¹

And how significant are the errors of my intelligent and accomplished correspondent, and of the dissenting clergyman, his quasi supporter! They, too, on their side, I am sure, will laugh at the Tichborne governess, an intelligent and educated woman, not too high in station to be lifted out of knowledge of the talk of common people, who could regard worrit as a colonial peculiarity. And yet her error and theirs were due to the same simple causes: limited knowledge, and a disposition to regard what was beyond their ken or out of their memories as obsolete or provincial.

It is also to be remarked that mere slips in the use of words (due to various and sometimes to undiscoverable causes) are often seized upon as provincialisms. Dr. Hall falls often into this pit, which is usually of his own digging. Thus he speaks of the use of aside for apart (for example, “aside from this ”) as an Americanism. Now there is no doubt that in such sentences apart is generally the better word; but there is also no doubt, as might be shown were such a trifling matter worth the while, that apart is commonly used by most American writers, even in newspapers, and that, which is even more to the purpose, British writers slip now and then, just as American writers do, into the use of aside, when apart would be better. Moreover, the most eminent of them err conversely, and use apart when they should use aside, as for example Bulwer: “ He then drew her apart and whispered to her for some moments” (The Caxtons, Book XIV., chap. vi.), where apart should plainly be aside, and where the former word has a somewhat laughable ambiguity. But who shall therefore revile Bulwer, and set him down as no writer of English, — except him before excepted?

How can such a question as this be settled, if it is worth settling? Of course many examples might be produced of the use of apart by British writers, and of aside by American writers. But then the converse could also be shown. There will remain only the individual opinion of the critic, whoever he may be; and in the case of the critic last in question we have seen on former occasions what opinion ex cathedrâ is worth, and we shall see more hereafter. Verbal criticism is not the most elevating or satisfying literary work; but if it is worth any attention, this part of it may well receive a little of ours. Otherwise, we may have bread and butter and roast beef set down as Americanisms. And if it were done, and those phrases appeared so duly catalogued and indexed, there is no telling how many people would accept them as such, particularly if the philologist who thus classified them should support his assertion by a few pages of examples of their use by American writers. Than this what could be more convincing?

I observe that the discussion as to the propriety of an accent over the a in chalet goes in the Contributors’ Club. The matter is far from my terraine, but not very foreign to my present subject; and I venture to put in my oar as the Columbia boys did theirs at Henley. On a question of French orthography or etymology is not Littré as nearly an absolute authority as there can be? I have not his dictionary, nor is it at present accessible to me, and I do not know what he has said about the word. I am sure, however, that it is not French, but mere Swiss patois; and therefore not subject to those dreadful rules of accent, grave, aigu, and circonflex, with which the French language is afflicted.

Richard Grant White.