The almost universal mania for violent excitement and craving after novelty, which is so marked a feature of modern society, is, perhaps, in no instance more offensively obtrusive than in the style of most of our present periodical writers. It seems impossible for them to call things by their proper names. They reject all simple words, and are continually soaring above their subject into the regions of the sublime and magnificent. As long as a word is out-of-the-way, unusual, or far-fetched, it is apparently of little or no consequence to them whether it be applicable to the case or not. The commonest and most familiar objects are thus raised to a dignity quite out of keeping with their real nature; and here, if anywhere, is verified the saying that ‘from the sublime to the ridiculous there is but one step.’ Everything is sacrificed to a false glare and glitter of language, and sense is always made subservient to sound. Those beautiful English words ‘boys’ and ‘girls’ are almost banished from our modern vocabulary. ‘Boys’ and ‘girls’ are transformed into ‘juveniles;’ ‘workmen’ have become ‘operatives;’ and ‘people’ in general are now ‘individuals.’ These ‘individuals,’ be it observed, are never ‘dressed,’ but always ‘attired’ or ‘arrayed;’ they are never ‘angry,’ but often ‘irate;’ they never ‘go into a shop,’ though they sometimes condescend to ‘enter an emporium,’ or perhaps a ‘depÔt;’ and when they return home, they never ‘take off their things,’ but ‘divest themselves of their habiliments.’ Another practice with these writers is to substitute for single terms milk-and-water definitions of them. With them, a ‘fire’ is always ‘the devouring element;’ a ‘man’ is ‘an individual of the masculine gender;’ a ‘footman’ is a ‘superb menial;’ and a ‘schoolmaster’ is the ‘principal of a collegiate institution.’

This style originated in the penny-a-line system. It abounds in our second and third-rate magazines, and, with some few honourable exceptions, has infected all the periodical and light literature of the day. The word ‘individual’ has the merit of possessing five syllables; whereas ‘man,’ or ‘person,’ has but one or two, and for this reason alone is rejected for the other word. But if Dean Swift’s definition of a good style—‘Proper words in their proper places’—is to have any weight as an authority, it is certainly here not carried into practice. These high-flown terms are very well in their proper places, but they are not adapted to the cases to which they are applied, and therefore they are neither proper words nor in their proper places. The worst of this practice is, that it deprives all the sound sterling part of the English language of its peculiar force and significance. Words that are seldom used will at length inevitably disappear, and thus, if not checked in time, this extravagance of expression will do an irreparable injury to the English language.

Another habit of these periodical writers is to sacrifice the idiom of the language to their love for some particular word. Two verbs, of which they seem especially fond, are, ‘to commence’ and ‘to essay.’ These are French words, and are always preferred before their corresponding Saxon synonyms, ‘to begin’ and ‘to try.’ But in their liking for them, these writers are often betrayed into an incorrect phraseology. To ‘begin’ may be followed by an infinitive or a gerund. We may say, ‘he began to read,’ or ‘he began reading.’ Not so may the verbs ‘to commence’ and ‘to essay’ be used. These do not, correctly, take an infinitive as an object. We cannot say, properly, ‘he commenced to read,’ or ‘he essayed to do well.’ In such cases we must use ‘begin’ and ‘try.’ But the latter are not sufficiently elevated to suit the views of the penny-a-liners, and are therefore rejected.

Another of these grand words is ‘intoxicated.’ In the newspapers, for once that we read of a man being drunk, we find at least nine or ten times that he is intoxicated. The word ‘drunk’ is unfortunately too often required in our police reports; but the reporters are either too squeamish, or too much inclined to the long word, to hesitate in their choice. ‘Intoxicated’ has five syllables; ‘drunk’ has but one: so that the odds in favour of the former are literally as five to one. But even then they are not satisfied: they add to it ‘with drink,’ thus putting two more syllables to the phrase. We generally read that ‘the prisoner was intoxicated with drink.’ This form of expression must occupy at least a line of the printed matter, and is therefore worth to the writer—exactly one penny!

The use of the verb ‘replace,’ as frequently seen in the writings of the periodical press, is open to objection. When anyone (we will suppose) quits his office, they write that he was ‘replaced’ by another, meaning that some one else filled his place. But the verb ‘to replace’ has not, correctly, this meaning. It signifies ‘to put back in its place.’ If I take a book from the library shelf, and, after reading it, put it back again, I replace it; but I cannot properly say that one man ‘replaced’ another in his office, if I mean that he took his place. There seems to be here a confusion between the two French verbs, ‘remplacer’ and ‘replacer.’ The first means ‘to put in the place of another,’ i.e. to furnish a substitute; and the second is, ‘to put back in its own place.’

Another common fault is the use of the word ‘abstractedly’ for ‘abstractly.’ A man speaks ‘abstractedly’ when his mind is drawn away from the subject before him; here, his manner is abstracted. But a man speaks ‘abstractly’ when he treats of the ideal and not the real—the abstract, and not the concrete. Here his subject is abstract. Again: ‘to choose,’ or ‘to decide,’ is much too common a term to suit the taste of these modern article-writers. According to them, people never ‘choose:’ they always elect. We continually read, for example, that some one ‘elected’ to go abroad, rather than that he decided or determined on taking that step.

Three words of suspicious length and somewhat mysterious meaning have been lately added to our vocabulary, viz. ‘rehabilitate,’ ‘solidarity,’ and ‘desirability.’ These seem to be great favourites, especially with news-writers. They talk of the ‘desirability’ of ‘rehabilitating’ our relations with a certain continental State, in order to effect a ‘solidarity’ between the two nations!

One phase of this leaning to the grandiose style is an affectation of foreign words and phrases. The extent to which this practice is carried by some writers is extraordinary. They can scarcely call anything by its proper English name, but must apply to it some Italian or French word. Such writers describe people as ‘blasÉs,’ or perhaps as having ‘un air distinguÉ;’ and these people are said to do everything ‘À merveille.’ Some few Italian phrases are also occasionally introduced, such as ‘in petto,’ the ‘dolce far niente,’ &c.; and the style of many writers learned in the ancient classics is in like manner infected with Greek and Latin words and idioms.