A Defense of Purism in Speech

IN the first century of our Christian era, Quintilian, a learned grammarian, said, ‘Language is established by reason, antiquity, authority, and custom.' It would seem from the general carelessness in our present use of language, that we show allegiance more often to custom than to common sense. No one denies that language is an attribute of reason, — the ‘peculiar ornament and distinction of man’; but man seldom shows a proper respect for this priceless heritage.

Some geniuses pretend to despise the trammels of grammar rules, as some men, other than geniuses, feel themselves too big for the limitations of man-made laws. Genius may often impart a line inborn sense of propriety in the use of language, and a life-long familiarity with the best in literature naturally develops a delicate taste and a keen sensitiveness to what is right and wrong in speech. But less favored mortals need guide-posts to keep them from stumbling into the pitfalls of ignorance. Reason, the rightful arbiter in matters of language, should not be dethroned by irresponsible usage.

Many believe with Horace, that usage is the deciding authority, binding law, and rightful rule of speech, but it seems to me that there is a prevailing slovenly use of language which is really abuse.

No amount of wisdom, genius, or usage can justify a singular noun with a plural verb, and we never hear, ‘The boy are gone’; but we so often hear from the lips of educated persons blunders like, ‘Every one must paddle their own canoe,’ that no less an authority than Professor Carpenter of Columbia says that in referring to every one, everybody, anybody, and the like, we may use the plural pronoun. He gives as illustrations: —

Fortunately for him he adds that the first form is preferred in literary English and that the last construction, condemned by rhetoricians, is to be avoided. But why, I make bold to ask, should this unreasonable form find any place in a grammar, or have any sanction? And what are we to think of the license given to students by Professor Carpenter, when he writes the following: “‘It is me” is an idiomatic colloquial expression used without hesitation by the mass of the people and shunned only by the fastidious.’ Professor Carpenter says further, ‘“It is I,” however, retains its place in literary English, as a more solemn and impressive expression, though not to the exclusion of the other phrase. It is also tenaciously preserved even in speech by those who have a strong feeling for consistency in grammar forms.’

When a college professor expresses the idea that correct speech is solemn and impressive, and that improprieties are excusable because of their frequent use, it seems to me timely and justifiable to suggest that our teachers of English be examined for their qualifications. No man would be judged competent to teach arithmetic who would be indifferent to a pupil’s statement, that 8×7=54. Is this error more deplorable than ‘It is me’? To be sure, arithmetic is an exact science. So is language in its fundamental principles, as in the relations of verbs to their subjects and objects. Shall we regard language as a go-as-you-please affair, with no laws, even though this complicated product of evolution is not fixed or final?

The growth of language is marked by many changes in the meanings and pronunciations of words, and by the introduction of new words where needed. Its decay is influenced by the ever-increasing tendency to slang and to colloquialisms, which form a ‘ peculiar kind of vagabond language, always hanging on the outskirts of legitimate speech, but continually straying or forcing its way into respectable company.’ Whatever the changes, constructive or destructive, can any professor or armies of wise and learned men make ‘It is me’ correct, any more than they can justify 4×8=36? Such teaching gives rise to the attitude of many school-girls who have the idea that it is affected to say, ‘ It is I.’ They expect to be laughed at when they use correct constructions. Even a lawyer of my acquaintance told me that if he were to speak correctly he would lose business with certain clients, men ‘in the rough,’ who would think he felt superior to them. Is it not sad that an intelligent use of language is so rare that it sets the accurate speaker apart?

Well may we ask, Is there any criterion of good English? To what source must we go if we wish to speak and write our mother tongue with purity and without affectation? How shall we choose when the men who write books on the subject disagree? How many of us, after reading Richard Grant White’s thirteen pages devoted to the unqualified condemnation of ‘had better, had rather, and hadn’t oughter,’ have made a real effort to accustom ourselves to ‘would rather’ and ‘might better’? Of course, only the most ignorant ever said, ‘had n’t oughter.’ And now we read Professor Lounsbury’s thirty pages of defense for ‘had liefer,’ ‘had rather,’ and ‘had better,’ three legitimate idioms, dating from the thirteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, respectively. He sanctions ‘would rather,’ but says that the use of ‘would better’ is distinctly repugnant if not absolutely improper, and that ‘when met with, it is apt to provoke a cry of pain from him who has been nurtured upon the great classics of our literature.’

Dare we say that sometimes Professor Lounsbury’s use of language might impress the critical student as inconsistent with the rules of rhetoric, for he allows great license to speech, and does not believe in sacrificing spontaneity to gain correctness. But whoever is endowed by nature with spontaneity, a quality which can hardly be cultivated, might well devote some energy toward making accuracy a habit. There need be no loss of spontaneity in the process.

This reminds us of Henry Ward Beecher, who, when a college youth presumed to point out errors in his speech, replied, ‘Young man, when the English language gets in my way, it does n’t stand a chance.’ Of course, the most rigid purists must acknowledge that it is not freedom from faults that marks either the great man or the great linguist. Each is distinguished rather by that commanding quality that takes no note of trifles.

But, inasmuch as many trifles make perfection, is it not incumbent upon the authors of English books to avoid faulty expressions? We are surprised to find in Professor Lounsbury’s excellent book, The Standard of Usage, the following sentences, for which, I presume to suggest, in parentheses, better constructions: —

The process is liable (likely) to take place in the future.

This was due (owing) to the ending.

How tame it would have been to have used (to use), etc.

Such a desirable (so desirable a) result.

The opposition to new forms is apt (likely) to assume, etcetera.

He accomplished feats full (fully or quite) as difficult.

‘Donate’ has been pretty regularly shunned — (why ‘pretty’?).

One example is so curious (queer).

No one seemed to think of or care for the other adjectives — (no one seemed to think of the other adjectives or care for them).

It was not for the like of me (such as I) to contend.

We find also, ‘two last words’ (last two). This suggests the frequent misuse of last for latest, and calls to mind the clever girl who, because of her discriminating use of the words, won the coveted autograph of a blasé popular author. In his formal, unsigned, typewritten reply to her request were these words, ‘Have you read my last book?’ Her bright retort. ‘I hope so,’ brought the desired autograph from the author, who, of course, meant to say, ‘latest’ book.

In the English book mentioned, appears also, ‘every now and then,’ which like ‘every once in a while,’ is hardly a reasonable use of language, since ‘every ’ applies to what may be count - ed, and since there are no periods of time known as ‘now and then’ which may be enumerated. ‘Every’ is again misused in, ‘I have every confidence in this man,’ when we mean entire or full confidence.

Another clause which arrests our attention is, ‘He was the one above all,’ etc. Would not a better construction be, ‘ It was he, who, above (or more than) all others, made it his business,’ etc.? Most rhetorics warn us against using ‘one ’ and ‘ ones,’ and what need is there of saying, ‘This is the one I mean ’ when a book is the object meant, or ‘Are these the ones you wish?’ when we mean gloves?

In Bechtel’s Slips in Speech, a useful little volume of ‘Don’ts’ in language, we read with amazement the following: —

‘ “I ain’t pleased,” “ You ain’t kind,” “They ain’t; gentlemen,” serve to illustrate the proper use of “ain’t,” if it is ever proper to use such an inelegant (so inelegant a) word.’ What a damaging influence such a statement (or so shocking a statement) must have upon the student!

Even the much-praised Richard Grant White did not live up to the standards of purism that he advocated, when he wrote, —

‘Most all of the writer’s argument’ — (almost the entire argument of the writer).

‘We hear that all around us among well-educated people, but who know better’ — (why ‘but who’ when ‘who’ suffices?)

He is also guilty of ‘so perfect,’ even though ‘ perfect,’ like ‘ unique,’ ‘square,’ ‘round,’ ‘universal,’ ‘unanimous,’ and many other adjectives, requires no modifying adverb to express degree.

Again, we have so long cherished that old familiar rule in the words, ‘We cannot look or feel I — y, ly,’ that we do not like to excuse Professor Hill for shattering one of our pet idols by authorizing ‘I felt badly,’ the excuse being that ‘ bad ’ has two senses.

So long as the propriety of any word or expression is questioned, one is wise to seek a substitute which has received the approval of polite society. Such a procedure would enrich our vocabulary, prevent our speech from becoming monotonous, and aid us in forming the estimable habit of using speech to convey fine shades of thought rather than to set people to guessing.

Let us continue to look beautiful (not beautifully) and feel indisposed, weary, or well (not nicely or finely), leaving ‘bad’ and ‘badly’ to fall into disuse. It may be helpful to note that the ‘I — y, ly’ rule offers an exception in the case of ‘feeling friendly,’ for here is an adjective in ‘ly.’ It is the adverbs that must be avoided after ‘ look,’ ‘ feel,’ ‘seem,’ ‘appear,’ and such verbs, which may be replaced by some form of the verb ‘to be.’ We prove the correctness of such sentences as, ‘The sun shines bright,’ and ‘The child stands erect,’ by substituting ‘is’ for the verb: the sun is bright; the boy is erect. And we arrive safe and sound (not safely), the idea being that we are safe.

The fact that people appreciate in language the excellencies to be imitated, more readily than they discover the blunders to be avoided, may excuse my pointing out the few flaws selected from many pages of forceful and expressive English, — the object being to arouse us to a realization of our own inaccuracies. Any one who attempts to criticize another’s language is sure to realize the truth in Shakespeare’s words, — ‘I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the twenty to follow mine own teachings.’

In view of the facts noted, that our most eminent teachers of English give the sanction of usage to ungrammatical locutions, that slipshod methods of expression abound in the speech of the majority, as well as in the writings of good authors, may we not say in Professor Lounsbury’s own words that grammatical sentinels are needed in the watch-towers, ready to attack the numerous linguistic foes? Though he may class with these the ‘purists, whom, like the poor, we have always with us,’ some of us will rather agree with Professor Kittredge of Harvard that the purist is a necessary factor in the development of a cultivated tongue.

The cry of several centuries has been that the English language is on the road to ruin, and periodically a Swift, a Bentley, or a Johnson has appeared with the hope of fixing language, a hope futile so long as the language is alive, — so to speak. Every living thing grows and changes. Latin and Greek, belonging to books rather than to living speech, are called ‘dead languages.’ They are therefore fixed.

But the influence of a Swift, whose passion was purity of speech, does stem the tide of corruptions threatening to ruin the language. Though his efforts toward the foundation of an academy to regulate and protect speech failed, and though other purists since the Restoration have carried the project no further than plans and proposals, an English Richelieu may yet create an institution similar to the French Academy. Though one of our purist-haters underestimates the efficacy of such a ‘linguistic hospital, equipped with physicians and supplied with remedies to cure all the ills resulting from ignorance and heedlessness,’ there is reason to believe that the influence of such a body of scholars would tend to awaken interest in English, and to stimulate our respect for the tongue we speak.

We need a Hume or a Dryden to erect danger signals along the rocky road of speech, as warnings to those who think it safer to sin with the elect (authors of renown) than to be righteous with the purist.