Nor is it otherwise in respect of our English provincialisms. It is true that our country people who in the main employ them, have not been separated by distance of space, nor yet by insurmountable obstacles intervening, from the main body of their fellow-countrymen; but they have been quite as effectually divided by deficient education. They have been, if not locally, yet intellectually, kept at a distance from the onward march of the nation’s mind; and of them also it is true that many of their words, idioms, turns of speech, which we are ready to set down as vulgarisms, solecisms of speech, violations of the primary rules of grammar, do merely attest that those who employ them have not kept abreast with the advance of the language and nation, but have been left behind by it. The usages are only local in the fact that, having once been employed by the whole body of the English people, they have now receded from the lips of all except those in some certain country districts, who have been more faithful than others to the tradition of the past[138].

It is thus in respect of a multitude of isolated words, which were excellent Anglo-Saxon, which were excellent early English, and which only are not excellent present English, because use, which is the supreme arbiter in these matters, has decided against their further employment. Several of these I enumerated just now. It is thus also with several grammatical forms and flexions. For instance, where we decline the plural of “I sing”, “we sing”, “ye sing”, “they sing”, there are parts of England in which they would decline, “we singen”, “ye singen”, “they singen”. This is not indeed the original form of the plural, but it is that form of it which, coming up about Chaucer’s time, was just going out in Spenser’s; he, though we must ever keep in mind that he does not fairly represent the language of his time, or indeed of any time, affecting a certain artificial archaism both in words and forms, continually uses it[139]. After him it becomes ever rarer, the last of whom I am aware as occasionally using it being Fuller, until it quite disappears.

Of such as may now employ forms like these we must say, not that they violate the laws of the language, but only that they have taken their permanent stand at a point which was only a point of transition, and which it has now left behind, and overlived. Thus, to take examples which you may hear at the present day in almost any part of England—a countryman will say, “He made me afeard”; or “The price of corn ris last market day”; or “I will axe him his name”; or “I tell ye”. You would probably set these phrases down for barbarous English. They are not so at all; in one sense they are quite as good English as “He made me afraid”; or “The price of corn rose last market day”; or “I will ask him his name”. ‘Afeard’, used by Spenser, is the regular participle of the old verb to ‘affear’, still existing as a law term, as ‘afraid’ is of to ‘affray’, and just as good English[140]; ‘ris’ or ‘risse’ is an old prÆterite of ‘to rise’; to ‘axe’ is not a mispronunciation of ‘to ask’, but a genuine English form of the word, the form which in the earlier English it constantly assumed; in Wiclif’s Bible almost without exception; and indeed ‘axe’ occurs continually, I know not whether invariably, in Tyndale’s translation of the Scriptures; there was a time when ‘ye’ was an accusative, and to have used it as a nominative or vocative, the only permitted uses at present, would have been incorrect. Even such phrases as “Put them things away”; or “The man what owns the horse” are not bad, but only antiquated English[141]. Saying this, I would not in the least imply that these forms are open to you to employ, or that they would be good English for you. They would not; inasmuch as they are contrary to present use and custom, and these must be our standards in what we speak, and in what we write; just as in our buying and selling we are bound to employ the current coin of the realm, must not attempt to pass that which long since has been called in, whatever merits or intrinsic value it may possess. All which I affirm is that the phrases just brought forward represent past stages of the language, and are not barbarous violations of it.

The same may be asserted of certain ways of pronouncing words, which are now in use among the lower classes, but not among the higher; as, for example, ‘contrāry’, ‘mischiēvous’, ‘blasphēmous’, instead of ‘contrăry’, ‘mischiĕvous’, ‘blasphĕmous’. It would be abundantly easy to show by a multitude of quotations from our poets, and those reaching very far down, that these are merely the retention of the earlier pronunciation by the people, after the higher classes have abandoned it[142]. And on the strength of what has just been spoken, let me here suggest to you how well worth your while it will prove to be on the watch for provincial words and inflexions, local idioms and modes of pronunciation, and to take note of these. Count nothing in this kind beneath your notice. Luncheon, Nuncheon Do not at once ascribe anything which you hear to the ignorance or stupidity of the speaker. Thus if you hear ‘nuncheon’, do not at once set it down for a malformation of ‘luncheon’[143], nor ‘yeel’[144], of ‘eel’. Lists and collections of provincial usage, such as I have suggested, always have their value. If you are not able to turn them to any profit yourselves, and they may not stand in close enough connexion with your own studies for this, yet there always are those who will thank you for them; and to whom the humblest of these collections, carefully and intelligently made, will be in one way or another of real assistance[145]. And there is the more need to urge this at the present, because, notwithstanding the tenacity with which our country folk cling to their old forms and usages, still these forms and usages must now be rapidly growing fewer; and there are forces, moral and material, at work in England, which will probably cause that of those which now survive the greater part will within the next fifty years have disappeared[146].

Before quitting this subject, let me instance one example more of that which is commonly accounted ungrammatical usage, but which is really the retention of old grammar by some, where others have substituted new; I mean the constant application by our rustic population in the south, and I dare say through all parts of England, of ‘his’ to inanimate objects, and to these not personified, no less than to persons; where ‘its’ would be employed by others. This was once the manner of speech among all; for ‘its’ is a word of very recent introduction, many would be surprised to learn of how recent introduction, into the language. You will look for it in vain through the whole of our Authorized Version of the Bible; the office which it now fulfils being there accomplished, as our rustics accomplish it at the present, by ‘his’ (Gen. i. 11; Exod. xxxvii. 17; Matt. v. 15) or ‘her’ (Jon. i. 15; Rev. xxii. 2) applied as freely to inanimate things as to persons, or else by ‘thereof’ (Ps. lxv. 10) or ‘of it’ (Dan. vii. 5). Nor may Lev. xx. 5 be urged as invalidating this assertion; for reference to the exemplar edition of 1611, or indeed to any earlier editions of King James’ Bible, will show that in them the passage stood, “of it own accord”[147]. ‘Its’ occurs very rarely in Shakespeare, in many of his plays it will not once be found. Milton also for the most part avoids it, and this, though in his time others freely allowed it. How soon all this was forgotten we have striking evidence in the fact that when Dryden, in one of his fault-finding moods with the great men of the preceding generation, is taking Ben Jonson to task for general inaccuracy in his English diction, among other counts of his indictment, he quotes this line from Catiline

and proceeds, “heaven is ill syntax with his”; while in fact up to within forty or fifty years of the time when Dryden began to write, no other syntax was known; and to a much later date was exceedingly rare. Curious also, is it to note that in the earnest controversy which followed on Chatterton’s publication of the poems ascribed by him to a monk Rowlie, who should have lived in the fifteenth century, no one appealed to such lines as the following,

as at once deciding that the poems were not of the age which they pretended. Warton, who denied, though with some hesitation, the antiquity of the poems, giving many and sufficient reasons for this denial, failed to take note of this little word; while yet there needed no more than to point it out, for the disposing of the whole question; the forgery at once was betrayed.

What has been here affirmed concerning our provincial English, namely that it is often old English rather than bad English, may be affirmed with equal right of many so-called Americanisms. There are parts of America where ‘het’ is used, or was used a few years since, as the perfect of ‘to heat’; ‘holp’ as the perfect of ‘to help’; ‘stricken’ as the participle of ‘to strike’. Again there are the words which have become obsolete during the last two hundred years, which have not become obsolete there, although many of them probably retain only a provincial existence. Thus ‘slick’, which indeed is only another form of ‘sleek’, was employed by our good writers of the seventeenth century[148]. Other words again, which have remained current on both sides of the Atlantic, have yet on our side receded from their original use, while they have remained true to it on the other. ‘Plunder’ is a word in point[149].

In the contemplation of facts like these it has been sometimes asked, whether a day will ever arrive when the language spoken on this side of the Atlantic and on the other, will divide into two languages, an old English and a new. We may confidently answer, No. Doubtless, if those who went out from us to people and subdue a new continent, had left our shores two or three centuries earlier than they did, when the language was very much farther removed from that ideal after which it was unconsciously striving, and in which, once reached, it has in great measure acquiesced; if they had not carried with them to their distant homes their English Bible, and what else of worth had been already uttered in the English tongue; if, having once left us, the intercourse between Old and New England had been entirely broken off, or only rare and partial; there would then have unfolded themselves differences between the language spoken here and there, which in tract of time accumulating and multiplying, might in the end have justified the regarding of the languages as no longer one and the same. It could not have failed but that such differences should have displayed themselves; for while there is a law of necessity in the evolution of languages, while they pursue certain courses and in certain directions, from which they can be no more turned aside by the will of men than one of the heavenly bodies could be pushed from its orbit by any engines of ours, there is a law of liberty no less; and this liberty must inevitably have made itself in many ways felt. In the political and social condition of America, so far removed from our own, in the many natural objects which are not the same with those which surround us here, in efforts independently carried out to rid the language of imperfections, or to unfold its latent powers, even in the different effects of soil and climate on the organs of speech, there would have been causes enough to have provoked in the course of time not immaterial divergencies of language.

As it is, however, the joint operation of those three causes referred to already, namely, that the separation did not take place in the infancy or youth of the language, but only in its ripe manhood, that England and America owned a body of literature, to which they alike looked up and appealed as containing the authoritative standards of the language, that the intercourse between the one people and the other has been large and frequent, hereafter probably to be larger and more frequent still, has effectually wrought. It has been strong enough so to traverse, repress, and check all those causes which tended to divergence, that the written language of educated men on both sides of the water remains precisely the same, their spoken manifesting a few trivial differences of idiom; while even among those classes which do not consciously acknowledge any ideal standard of language, there are scarcely greater differences, in some respects far smaller, than exist between inhabitants of different provinces in this one island of England; and in the future we may reasonably anticipate that these differences, so far from multiplying, will rather diminish and disappear.

But I must return from this long digression. It seems often as if an almost unaccountable caprice presided over the fortunes of words, and determined which should live and which die. Thus in instances out of number a word lives on as a verb, but has ceased to be employed as a noun; we say ‘to embarrass’, but no longer an ‘embarrass’; ‘to revile’, but not, with Chapman and Milton, a ‘revile’; ‘to dispose’, but not a ‘dispose’[150]; ‘to retire’ but not a ‘retire’; ‘to wed’, but not a ‘wed’; we say ‘to infest’, but use no longer the adjective ‘infest’. Or with a reversed fortune a word lives on as a noun, but has perished as a verb—thus as a noun substantive, a ‘slug’, but no longer ‘to slug’ or render slothful; a ‘child’, but no longer ‘to child’, (“childing autumn”, Shakespeare); a ‘rape’, but not ‘to rape’ (South); a ‘rogue’, but not ‘to rogue’; ‘malice’, but not ‘to malice’; a ‘path’, but not ‘to path’; or as a noun adjective, ‘serene’, but not ‘to serene’, a beautiful word, which we have let go, as the French have ‘sereiner’[151]; ‘meek’, but not ‘to meek’ (Wiclif); ‘fond’, but not ‘to fond’ (Dryden); ‘dead’, but not ‘to dead’; ‘intricate’, but ‘to intricate’ (Jeremy Taylor) no longer.

Or again, the affirmative remains, but the negative is gone; thus ‘wisdom’, ‘bold’, ‘sad’, but not any more ‘unwisdom’, ‘unbold’, ‘unsad’ (all in Wiclif); ‘cunning’, but not ‘uncunning’; ‘manhood’, ‘wit’, ‘mighty’, ‘tall’, but not ‘unmanhood’, ‘unwit’, ‘unmighty’, ‘untall’ (all in Chaucer); ‘buxom’, but not ‘unbuxom’ (Dryden); ‘hasty’, but not ‘unhasty’ (Spenser); ‘blithe’, but not ‘unblithe’; ‘ease’, but not ‘unease’ (Hacket); ‘repentance’, but not ‘unrepentance’; ‘remission’, but not ‘irremission’ (Donne); ‘science’, but not ‘nescience’ (Glanvill)[152]; ‘to know’, but not ‘to unknow’ (Wiclif); ‘to give’, but not ‘to ungive’. Or once more, with a curious variation from this, the negative survives, while the affirmative is gone; thus ‘wieldy’ (Chaucer) survives only in ‘unwieldy’; ‘couth’ and ‘couthly’ (both in Spenser), only in ‘uncouth’ and ‘uncouthly’; ‘rule’ (Foxe) only in ‘unruly’; ‘gainly’ (Henry More) in ‘ungainly’; these last two were both of them serviceable words, and have been ill lost[153]; ‘gainly’ is indeed still common in the West Riding of Yorkshire; ‘exorable’ (Holland) and ‘evitable’ only in ‘inexorable’ and ‘inevitable’; ‘faultless’ remains, but hardly ‘faultful’ (Shakespeare). In like manner ‘semble’ (Foxe) has, except as a technical law term, disappeared; while ‘dissemble’ continues. So also of other pairs one has been taken and one left; ‘height’, or ‘highth’, as Milton better spelt it, remains, but ‘lowth’ (Becon) is gone; ‘righteousness’, or ‘rightwiseness’, as it would once more accurately have been written, for ‘righteous’ is a corruption of ‘rightwise’, remains, but its correspondent ‘wrongwiseness’ has been taken; ‘inroad’ continues, but ‘outroad’ (Holland) has disappeared; ‘levant’ lives, but ‘ponent’ (Holland) has died; ‘to extricate’ continues, but, as we saw just now, ‘to intricate’ does not; ‘parricide’, but not ‘filicide’ (Holland). Again, of whole groups of words formed on some particular scheme it may be only a single specimen will survive. Thus ‘gainsay’, that is, again say, survives; but ‘gainstrive’ (Foxe), ‘gainstand’, ‘gaincope’ (Golding), and other similarly formed words exist no longer. It is the same with ‘foolhardy’, which is but one, though now indeed the only one remaining, of at least five adjectives formed on the same principle; thus ‘foollarge’, quite as expressive a word as prodigal, occurs in Chaucer, and ‘foolhasty’, found also in him, lived on to the time of Holland; while ‘foolhappy’ is in Spencer; and ‘foolbold’ in Bale. ‘Steadfast’ remains, but ‘shamefast’, ‘rootfast’, ‘bedfast’ (=bedridden), ‘homefast’, ‘housefast’, ‘masterfast’ (Skelton), with others, are all gone. ‘Exhort’ remains; but ‘dehort’ a word whose place neither ‘dissuade’ nor any other exactly supplies, has escaped us[154]. We have ‘twilight’, but ‘twibill’ = bipennis (Chapman) is extinct.

Let me mention another real loss, where in like manner there remains in the present language something to remind us of that which is gone. The comparative ‘rather’ stands alone, having dropped on one side its positive ‘rathe’[155], and on the other its superlative ‘rathest’. ‘Rathe’, having the sense of early, though a graceful word, and not fallen quite out of popular remembrance, inasmuch as it is embalmed in the Lycidas of Milton,

might still be suffered without remark to share the common lot of so many words which have perished, though worthy to have lived; but the disuse of ‘rathest’ has left a real gap in the language, and the more so, seeing that ‘liefest’ is gone too. ‘Rather’ expresses the Latin ‘potius’; but ‘rathest’ being out of use, we have no word, unless ‘soonest’ may be accepted as such, to express ‘potissimum’, or the preference not of one way over another or over certain others, but of one over all; which we therefore effect by aid of various circumlocutions. Nor has ‘rathest’ been so long out of use, that it would be playing the antic to attempt to revive it. It occurs in the Sermons of Bishop Sanderson, who in the opening of that beautiful sermon from the text, “When my father and my mother forsake me, the Lord taketh me up”, puts the consideration, “why these”, that is, father and mother, “are named the rathest, and the rest to be included in them”[156].

It is sometimes easy enough, but indeed oftener hard, and not seldom quite impossible, to trace the causes which have been at work to bring about that certain words, little by little, drop out of the language of men, come to be heard more and more rarely, and finally are not heard any more at all—to trace the motives which have induced a whole people thus to arrive at a tacit consent not to employ them any longer; for without this tacit consent they could never have thus become obsolete. That it is not accident, that there is a law here at work, however hidden it may be from us, is plain from the fact that certain families of words, words formed on certain patterns, have a tendency thus to fall into desuetude.

Thus, I think, we may trace a tendency in words ending in ‘some’, the Anglo-Saxon and early English ‘sum’, the German ‘sam’ (‘friedsam’, ‘seltsam’) to fall out of use. It is true that a vast number of these survive, as ‘gladsome’, ‘handsome’, ‘wearisome’, ‘buxom’ (this last spelt better ‘bucksome’, by our earlier writers, for its present spelling altogether disguises its true character, and the family to which it belongs); being the same word as the German ‘beugsam’ or ‘biegsam’, bendable, compliant[157]; but a larger number of these words than can be ascribed to accident, many more than the due proportion of them, are either quite or nearly extinct. Thus in Wiclif’s Bible alone you might note the following, ‘lovesum’, ‘hatesum’, ‘lustsum’, ‘gilsum’ (guilesome), ‘wealsum’, ‘heavysum’, ‘lightsum’, ‘delightsum’; of these ‘lightsome’ long survived, and indeed still survives in provincial dialects; but of the others all save ‘delightsome’ are gone; and that, although used in our Authorized Version (Mal. iii, 12), is now only employed in poetry. So too ‘mightsome’ (see Coleridge’s Glossary), ‘brightsome’ (Marlowe), ‘wieldsome’, and ‘unwieldsome’ (Golding), ‘unlightsome’ (Milton), ‘healthsome’ (Homilies), ‘ugsome’ and ‘ugglesome’ (both in Foxe), ‘laboursome’ (Shakespeare), ‘friendsome’, ‘longsome’ (Bacon), ‘quietsome’, ‘mirksome’ (both in Spenser), ‘toothsome’ (Beaumont and Fletcher), ‘gleesome’, ‘joysome’ (both in Browne’s Pastorals), ‘gaysome’ (Mirror for Magistrates), ‘roomsome’, ‘bigsome’, ‘awesome’, ‘timersome’, ‘winsome’, ‘viewsome’, ‘dosome’ (=prosperous), ‘flaysome’ (=fearful), ‘auntersome’ (=adventurous), ‘clamorsome’ (all these still surviving in the North), ‘playsome’ (employed by the historian Hume), ‘lissome’[158], have nearly or quite disappeared from our English speech. They seem to have held their ground in Scotland in considerably larger numbers than in the south of the Island[159].

Neither can I esteem it a mere accident that of a group of depreciatory and contemptuous words ending in ‘ard’, at least one half should have dropped out of use; I refer to that group of which ‘dotard’, ‘laggard’, ‘braggard’, now spelt ‘braggart’, ‘sluggard’, ‘buzzard’, ‘bastard’, ‘wizard’, may be taken as surviving specimens; ‘blinkard’ (Homilies), ‘dizzard’ (Burton), ‘dullard’ (Udal), ‘musard’ (Chaucer), ‘trichard’ (Political Songs), ‘shreward’ (Robert of Gloucester), ‘ballard’ (a bald-headed man, Wiclif); ‘puggard’, ‘stinkard’ (Ben Jonson), ‘haggard’, a worthless hawk, as extinct.

Thus too there is a very curious province of our language, in which we were once so rich, that extensive losses here have failed to make us poor; so many of its words still surviving, even after as many or more have disappeared. I refer to those double words which either contain within themselves a strong rhyming modulation, such for example as ‘willy-nilly’, ‘hocus-pocus’, ‘helter-skelter’, ‘tag-rag’, ‘namby-pamby’, ‘pell-mell’, ‘hodge-podge’; or with a slight difference from this, though belonging to the same group, those of which the characteristic feature is not this internal likeness with initial unlikeness, but initial likeness with internal unlikeness; not rhyming, but strongly alliterative, and in every case with a change of the interior vowel from a weak into a strong, generally from i into a or o; as ‘shilly-shally’, ‘mingle-mangle’, ‘tittle-tattle’, ‘prittle-prattle’, ‘riff-raff’, ‘see-saw’, ‘slip-slop’. No one who is not quite out of love with the homelier yet more vigorous portions of the language, but will acknowledge the life and strength which there is often in these and in others still current among us. But of the same sort what vast numbers have fallen out of use, some so fallen out of all remembrance that it may be difficult almost to find credence for them. Thus take of rhyming the following: ‘hugger-mugger’, ‘hurly-burly’, ‘kicksy-wicksy’ (all in Shakespeare); ‘hibber-gibber’, ‘rusty-dusty’, ‘horrel-lorrel’, ‘slaump paump’ (all in Gabriel Harvey), ‘royster-doyster’ (Old Play), ‘hoddy-doddy’ (Ben Jonson); while of alliterative might be instanced these: ‘skimble-skamble’, ‘bibble-babble’ (both in Shakespeare), ‘twittle-twattle’, ‘kim-kam’ (both in Holland), ‘hab-nab’ (Lilly), ‘trim-tram’, ‘trish-trash’, ‘swish-swash’ (all in Gabriel Harvey), ‘whim-wham’ (Beaumont and Fletcher), ‘mizz-mazz’ (Locke), ‘snip-snap’ (Pope), ‘flim-flam’ (Swift), ‘tric-trac’, and others[160].

Again, there was once a whole family of words whereof the greater number are now under ban; which seemed at one time to have been formed almost at pleasure, the only condition being that the combination should be a happy one—I mean all those singularly expressive words formed by a combination of verb and substantive, the former governing the latter; as ‘telltale’, ‘scapegrace’, ‘turncoat’, ‘turntail’, ‘skinflint’, ‘spendthrift’, ‘spitfire’, ‘lickspittle’, ‘daredevil’ (=wagehals), ‘makebate’ (=stÖrenfried), ‘marplot’, ‘killjoy’. These with a certain number of others, have held their ground, and may be said to be still more or less in use; but what a number more are forgotten; and yet, though not always elegant, they constituted a very vigorous portion of our language, and preserved some of its most genuine idioms[161]. It could not well be otherwise; they are almost all words of abuse, and the abusive words of a language are always among the most picturesque and vigorous and imaginative which it possesses. The whole man speaks out in them, and often the man under the influence of passion and excitement, which always lend force and fire to his speech. Let me remind you of a few of them; ‘smellfeast’, if not a better, is yet a more graphic, word than our foreign parasite; as graphic indeed for us as τρεχέδειπνος to Greek ears; ‘clawback’ (Hackett) is a stronger, if not a more graceful, word than flatterer or sycophant; ‘tosspot’ (Fuller), or less frequently ‘reel-pot’ (Middleton), tells its own tale as well as drunkard; and ‘pinchpenny’ (Holland), or ‘nipfarthing’ (Drant), as well as or better than miser. And then what a multitude more there are in like kind; ‘spintext’, ‘lacklatin’, ‘mumblematins’, all applied to ignorant clerics; ‘bitesheep’ (a favourite word with Foxe) to such of these as were rather wolves tearing, than shepherds feeding, the flock; ‘slip-string’ = pendard (Beaumont and Fletcher), ‘slip-gibbet’, ‘scapegallows’; all names given to those who, however they might have escaped, were justly owed to the gallows, and might still “go upstairs to bed”.

How many of these words occur in Shakespeare. The following list makes no pretence to completeness; ‘martext’, ‘carrytale’, ‘pleaseman’, ‘sneakcup’, ‘mumblenews’, ‘wantwit’, ‘lackbrain’, ‘lackbeard’, ‘lacklove’, ‘ticklebrain’, ‘cutpurse’, ‘cutthroat’, ‘crackhemp’, ‘breedbate’, ‘swinge-buckler’, ‘pickpurse’, ‘pickthank’, ‘picklock’, ‘scarecrow’, ‘breakvow’, ‘breakpromise’, ‘makepeace’—this last and ‘telltruth’ (Fuller) being the only ones in the whole collection wherein reprobation or contempt is not implied. Nor is the list exhausted yet; there are further ‘dingthrift’ = prodigal (Herrick), ‘wastegood’ (Cotgrave), ‘stroygood’ (Golding), ‘wastethrift’ (Beaumont and Fletcher), ‘scapethrift’, ‘swashbuckler’ (both in Holinshed), ‘shakebuckler’, ‘rinsepitcher’ (both in Bacon), ‘crackrope’ (Howell), ‘waghalter’, ‘wagfeather’ (both in Cotgrave), ‘blabtale’ (Racket), ‘getnothing’ (Adams), ‘findfault’ (Florio), ‘tearthroat’ (Gayton), ‘marprelate’, ‘spitvenom’, ‘nipcheese’, ‘nipscreed’, ‘killman’ (Chapman), ‘lackland’, ‘pickquarrel’, ‘pickfaults’, ‘pickpenny’ (Henry More), ‘makefray’ (Bishop Hall), ‘make-debate’ (Richardson’s Letters), ‘kindlecoal’ (attise feu), ‘kindlefire’ (both in Gurnall), ‘turntippet’ (Cranmer), ‘swillbowl’ (Stubbs), ‘smell-smock’, ‘cumberwold’ (Drayton), ‘curryfavor’, ‘pinchfist’, ‘suckfist’, ‘hatepeace’ (Sylvester), ‘hategood’ (Bunyan), ‘clutchfist’, ‘sharkgull’ (both in Middleton), ‘makesport’ (Fuller), ‘hangdog’ (“Herod’s hangdogs in the tapestry”, Pope), ‘catchpoll’, ‘makeshift’ (used not impersonally as now), ‘pickgoose’ (“the bookworm was never but a pickgoose”)[162], ‘killcow’ (these three last in Gabriel Harvey), ‘rakeshame’ (Milton, prose), with others which it will be convenient to omit. ‘Rakehell’, which used to be spelt ‘rakel’ or ‘rakle’ (Chaucer), a good English word, would be only through an error included in this list, although Cowper, when he writes ‘rakehell’ (“rake-hell baronet”) evidently regarded it as belonging to this group[163].

Perhaps one of the most frequent causes which leads to the disuse of words is this: in some inexplicable way there comes to be attached something of ludicrous, or coarse, or vulgar to them, out of a feeling of which they are no longer used in earnest serious writing, and at the same time fall out of the discourse of those who desire to speak elegantly. Not indeed that this degradation which overtakes words is in all cases inexplicable. The unheroic character of most men’s minds, with their consequent intolerance of that heroic which they cannot understand, is constantly at work, too often with success, in taking down words of nobleness from their high pitch; and, as the most effectual way of doing this, in casting an air of mock-heroic about them. Thus ‘to dub’, a word resting on one of the noblest usages of chivalry, has now something of ludicrous about it; so too has ‘doughty’; they belong to that serio-comic, mock-heroic diction, the multiplication of which, as of all parodies on greatness, and the favour with which it is received, is always a sign of evil augury for a nation, is at present a sign of evil augury for our own.

‘Pate’ in the sense of head is now comic or ignoble; it was not so once; as is plain from its occurrence in the Prayer Book Version of the Psalms (Ps. vii. 17); as little was ‘noddle’, which occurs in one of the few poetical passages in Hawes. The same may be said of ‘sconce’, in this sense at least; of ‘nowl’ or ‘noll’, which Wiclif uses; of ‘slops’ for trousers (Marlowe’s Lucan); of ‘cocksure’ (Rogers), of ‘smug’, which once meant no more than adorned (“the smug bridegroom”, Shakespeare). ‘To nap’ is now a word without dignity; while yet in Wiclif’s Bible it is said, “Lo he schall not nappe, nether slepe that kepeth Israel” (Ps. cxxi. 4). ‘To punch’, ‘to thump’, both of which, and in serious writing, occur in Spenser, could not now obtain the same use, nor yet ‘to wag’, or ‘to buss’. Neither would any one now say that at Lystra Barnabas and Paul “rent their clothes and skipped out among the people” (Acts xiv. 14), which is the language that Wiclif employs; nor yet that “the Lord trounced Sisera and all his host” as it stands in the Bible of 1551. “A sight of angels”, for which phrase see Cranmer’s Bible (Heb. xii. 22), would be felt as a vulgarism now. We should scarcely call now a delusion of Satan a “flam of the devil” (Henry More). It is not otherwise in regard of phrases. “Through thick and thin”, occurring in Spenser, “cheek by jowl” in Dubartas[164], do not now belong to serious poetry. In the glorious ballad of Chevy Chase, a noble warrior whose legs are hewn off, is described as being “in doleful dumps”; just as, in Holland’s Livy, the Romans are set forth as being “in the dumps” as a consequence of their disastrous defeat at CannÆ. In Golding’s Ovid, one fears that he will “go to pot”. In one of the beautiful letters of John Careless, preserved in Foxe’s Martyrs, a persecutor, who expects a recantation from him, is described as “in the wrong box”. And in the sermons of Barrow, who certainly intended to write an elevated style, and did not seek familiar, still less vulgar, expressions, we constantly meet such terms as ‘to rate’, ‘to snub’, ‘to gull’, ‘to pudder’, ‘dumpish’, and the like; which we may confidently affirm were not vulgar when he used them.

Then too the advance of refinement causes words to be forgone, which are felt to speak too plainly. It is not here merely that one age has more delicate ears than another; and that matters are freely spoken of at one time which at another are withdrawn from conversation. This is something; but besides this, and even if this delicacy were at a standstill, there would still be a continual process going on, by which the words, which for a certain while have been employed to designate coarse or disagreeable facts or things, would be disallowed, or at all events relinquished to the lower class of society, and others adopted in their place. The former by long use being felt to have come into too direct and close relation with that which they designate, to summon it up too distinctly before the mind’s eye, they are thereupon exchanged for others, which, at first at least, indicate more lightly and allusively the offensive thing, rather hint and suggest than paint and describe it: although by and by these new will also in their turn be discarded, and for exactly the same reasons which brought about the dismissal of those which they themselves superseded. It lies in the necessity of things that I must leave this part of my subject, very curious as it is, without illustration[165]. But no one, even moderately acquainted with the early literature of the Reformation, can be ignorant of words freely used in it, which now are not merely coarse and as such under ban, but which no one would employ who did not mean to speak impurely and vilely.

Thus much in respect of the words, and the character of the words, which we have lost or let go. Of these, indeed, if a language, as it travels onwards, loses some, it also acquires others, and probably many more than it loses; they are leaves on the tree of language, of which if some fall away, a new succession takes their place. But it is not so, as I already observed, with the forms or powers of a language, that is, with the various inflections, moods, duplicate or triplicate formation of tenses; which the speakers of a language come gradually to perceive that they can do without, and therefore cease to employ; seeking to suppress grammatical intricacies, and to obtain grammatical simplicity and so far as possible a pervading uniformity, sometimes even at the hazard of letting go what had real worth, and contributed to the more lively, if not to the clearer, setting forth of the inner thought or feeling of the mind. Here there is only loss, with no compensating gain; or, at all events, diminution only, and never addition. In regard of these inner forces and potencies of a language, there is no creative energy at work in its later periods, in any, indeed, but quite the earliest. They are not as the leaves, but may be likened to the stem and leading branches of a tree, whose shape, mould and direction are determined at a very early stage of its growth; and which age, or accident, or violence may diminish, but which can never be multiplied. I have already slightly referred to a notable example of this, namely, to the dropping of the dual number in the Greek language. Thus in all the New Testament it does not once occur, having quite fallen out of the common dialect in which that is composed. Elsewhere too it has been felt that the dual was not worth preserving, or at any rate, that no serious inconvenience would follow on its loss. There is no such number in the modern German, Danish or Swedish; in the old German and Norse there was.

How many niceties, delicacies, subtleties of language, we, speakers of the English tongue, in the course of centuries have got rid of; how bare (whether too bare is another question) we have stripped ourselves; what simplicity for better or for worse reigns in the present English, as compared with the old Anglo-Saxon. That had six declensions, our present English but one; that had three genders, English, if we except one or two words, has none; that formed the genitive in a variety of ways, we only in one; and the same fact meets us, wherever we compare the grammars of the two languages. At the same time, it can scarcely be repeated too often, that in the estimate of the gain or loss thereupon ensuing, we must by no means put certainly to loss everything which the language has dismissed, any more than everything to gain which it has acquired. It is no real wealth in a language to have needless and superfluous forms. They are often an embarrassment and an encumbrance to it rather than a help. The Finnish language has fourteen cases. Without pretending to know exactly what it is able to effect, I yet feel confident that it cannot effect more, nor indeed so much, with its fourteen as the Greek is able to do with its five. It therefore seems to me that some words of Otfried MÜller, in many ways admirable, do yet exaggerate the losses consequent on the reduction of the forms of a language. “It may be observed”, he says, “that in the lapse of ages, from the time that the progress of language can be observed, grammatical forms, such as the signs of cases, moods and tenses have never been increased in number, but have been constantly diminishing. The history of the Romance, as well as of the Germanic, languages shows in the clearest manner how a grammar, once powerful and copious, has been gradually weakened and impoverished, until at last it preserves only a few fragments of its ancient inflections. Now there is no doubt that this luxuriance of grammatical forms is not an essential part of a language, considered merely as a vehicle of thought. It is well known that the Chinese language, which is merely a collection of radical words destitute of grammatical forms, can express even philosophical ideas with tolerable precision; and the English, which, from the mode of its formation by a mixture of different tongues, has been stripped of its grammatical inflections more completely than any other European language, seems, nevertheless, even to a foreigner, to be distinguished by its energetic eloquence. All this must be admitted by every unprejudiced inquirer; but yet it cannot be overlooked, that this copiousness of grammatical forms, and the fine shades of meaning which they express, evince a nicety of observation, and a faculty of distinguishing, which unquestionably prove that the race of mankind among whom these languages arose was characterized by a remarkable correctness and subtlety of thought. Nor can any modern European, who forms in his mind a lively image of the classical languages in their ancient grammatical luxuriance, and compares them with his mother tongue, conceal from himself that in the ancient languages the words, with their inflections, clothed as it were with muscles and sinews, come forward like living bodies, full of expression and character, while in the modern tongues the words seem shrunk up into mere skeletons”[166].

Whether languages are as much impoverished by this process as is here assumed, may, I think, be a question. I will endeavour to give you some materials which shall assist you in forming your own judgment in the matter. And here I am sure that I shall do best in considering not forms which the language has relinquished long ago, but mainly such as it is relinquishing now; which, touching us more nearly, will have a far more lively interest for us all. For example, the female termination which we employ in certain words, such as from ‘heir’ ‘heiress’, from ‘prophet’ ‘prophetess’, from ‘sorcerer’ ‘sorceress’, was once far more widely extended than at present; the words which retain it are daily becoming fewer. It has already fallen away in so many, and is evidently becoming of less frequent use in so many others, that, if we may augur of the future from the analogy of the past, it will one day altogether vanish from our tongue. Thus all these occur in Wiclif’s Bible; ‘techeress’ as the female teacher (2 Chron. xxxv. 25); ‘friendess’ (Prov. vii. 4); ‘servantess’ (Gen. xvi. 2); ‘leperess’ (=saltatrix, Ecclus. ix. 4); ‘daunceress’ (Ecclus. ix. 4); ‘neighbouress’ (Exod. iii. 22); ‘sinneress’ (Luke vii. 37); ‘purpuress’ (Acts xvi. 14); ‘cousiness’ (Luke i. 36); ‘slayeress’ (Tob. iii. 9); ‘devouress’ (Ezek. xxxvi. 13); ‘spousess’ (Prov. v. 19); ‘thralless’ (Jer. xxxiv. 16); ‘dwelleress’ (Jer. xxi. 13); ‘waileress’ (Jer. ix. 17); ‘cheseress’ (=electrix, Wisd. viii. 4); ‘singeress’, ‘breakeress’, ‘waiteress’, this last indeed having recently come up again. Add to these ‘chideress’, the female chider, ‘herdess’, ‘constabless’, ‘moveress’, ‘jangleress’, ‘soudaness’ (=sultana), ‘guideress’, ‘charmeress’ (all in Chaucer); and others, which however we may have now let them fall, reached to far later periods of the language; thus ‘vanqueress’ (Fabyan); ‘poisoneress’ (Greneway); ‘knightess’ (Udal); ‘pedleress’, ‘championess’, ‘vassaless’, ‘avengeress’, ‘warriouress’, ‘victoress’, ‘creatress’ (all in Spenser); ‘fornicatress’, ‘cloistress’, ‘jointress’ (all in Shakespeare); ‘vowess’ (Holinshed); ‘ministress’, ‘flatteress’ (both in Holland); ‘captainess’ (Sidney); ‘saintess’ (Sir T. Urquhart); ‘heroess’, ‘dragoness’, ‘butleress’, ‘contendress’, ‘waggoness’, ‘rectress’ (all in Chapman); ‘shootress’ (Fairfax); ‘archeress’ (Fanshawe); ‘clientess’, ‘pandress’ (both in Middleton); ‘papess’, ‘Jesuitess’ (Bishop Hall); ‘incitress’ (Gayton); ‘soldieress’, ‘guardianess’, ‘votaress’ (all in Beaumont and Fletcher); ‘comfortress’, ‘fosteress’ (Ben Jonson); ‘soveraintess’ (Sylvester); ‘preserveress’ (Daniel); ‘solicitress’, ‘impostress’, ‘buildress’, ‘intrudress’ (all in Fuller); ‘favouress’ (Hakewell); ‘commandress’ (Burton); ‘monarchess’, ‘discipless’ (Speed); ‘auditress’, ‘cateress’, ‘chantress’, ‘tyranness’ (all in Milton); ‘citess’, ‘divineress’ (both in Dryden); ‘deaness’ (Sterne); ‘detractress’ (Addison); ‘hucksteress’ (Howell); ‘tutoress’ (Shaftesbury); ‘farmeress’ (Lord Peterborough, Letter to Pope); ‘laddess’, which however still survives in the contracted form of ‘lass’[167]; with more which, I doubt not, it would not be very hard to bring together[168].

Exactly the same thing has happened with another feminine affix. I refer to ‘ster’, taking the place of ‘er’ where a feminine doer is intended[169]. ‘Spinner’ and ‘spinster’ are the only pair of such words, which still survive. There were formerly many such; thus ‘baker’ had ‘bakester’, being the female who baked: ‘brewer’ ‘brewster’; ‘sewer’ ‘sewster’; ‘reader’ ‘readster’; ‘seamer’ ‘seamster’; ‘fruiterer’ ‘fruitester’; ‘tumbler’ ‘tumblester’; ‘hopper’ ‘hoppester’ (these last three in Chaucer; “the shippes hoppesteres”, about which so much difficulty has been made, are the ships dancing, i.e., on the waves)[170], ‘knitter’ ‘knitster’ (a word, I am told, still alive in Devon). Add to these ‘whitster’ (female bleacher, Shakespeare), ‘kempster’ (pectrix), ‘dryster’ (siccatrix), ‘brawdster’, (I suppose embroideress)[171], and ‘salster’ (salinaria)[172]. It is a singular example of the richness of a language in forms at the earlier stages of its existence, that not a few of the words which had, as we have just seen, a feminine termination in ‘ess’, had also a second in ‘ster’. Thus ‘daunser’, beside ‘daunseress’, had also ‘daunster’ (Ecclus. ix. 4); ‘wailer’, beside ‘waileress’, had ‘wailster’ (Jer. ix. 17); ‘dweller’ ‘dwelster’ (Jer. xxi. 13); and ‘singer’ ‘singster’ (2 Kin. xix. 35); so too, ‘chider’ had ‘chidester’ (Chaucer), as well as ‘chideress’, ‘slayer’ ‘slayster’ (Tob. iii. 9), as well as ‘slayeress’, ‘chooser’ ‘chesister’, (Wisd. viii. 4), as well as ‘cheseress’, with others that might be named.

It is difficult to understand how Marsh, with these examples before him should affirm, “I find no positive evidence to show that the termination ‘ster’ was ever regarded as a feminine termination in English”. It may be, and indeed has been, urged that the existence of such words as ‘seamstress’, ‘songstress’, is decisive proof that the ending ‘ster’ of itself was not counted sufficient to designate persons as female; for if, it has been said, ‘seamster’ and ‘songster’ had been felt to be already feminine, no one would have ever thought of doubling on this, and adding a second female termination; ‘seamstress’, ‘songstress’. But all which can justly be concluded from hence is, that when this final ‘ess’ was added to these already feminine forms, and examples of it will not, I think, be found till a comparatively late period of the language, the true principle and law of the words had been lost sight of and forgotten[173]. The same may be affirmed of such other of these feminine forms as are now applied to men, such as ‘gamester’, ‘youngster’, ‘oldster’, ‘drugster’ (South), ‘huckster’, ‘hackster’, (=swordsman, Milton, prose), ‘teamster’, ‘throwster’, ‘rhymester’, ‘punster’ (Spectator), ‘tapster’, ‘whipster’ (Shakespeare), ‘trickster’. Either, like ‘teamster’, and ‘punster’, the words first came into being, when the true significance of this form was altogether lost[174]; or like ‘tapster’, which was female in Chaucer (“the gay tapstere”), as it is still in Dutch and Frisian, and distinguished from ‘tapper’, the man who keeps the inn, or has charge of the tap, or as ‘bakester’, at this day used in Scotland for ‘baker’, as ‘dyester’ for ‘dyer’, the word did originally belong of right and exclusively to women; but with the gradual transfer of the occupation to men, and an increasing forgetfulness of what this termination implied, there went also a transfer of the name[175], just as in other words, and out of the same causes, the exact converse has found place; and ‘baker’ or ‘brewer’, not ‘bakester’ or ‘brewster’[176], would be now in England applied to the woman baking or brewing. So entirely has this power of the language died out, that it survives more apparently than really even in ‘spinner’ and ‘spinster’; seeing that ‘spinster’ has obtained now quite another meaning than that of a woman spinning, whom, as well as the man, we should call not a ‘spinster’, but a ‘spinner’[177]. Deceptive Analogies It would indeed be hard to believe, if we had not constant experience of the fact, how soon and how easily the true law and significance of some form, which has never ceased to be in everybody’s mouth, may yet be lost sight of by all. No more curious chapter in the history of language could be written than one which should trace the violations of analogy, the transgressions of the most primary laws of a language, which follow hereupon; the plurals like ‘welkin’ (=wolken, the clouds)[178], ‘chicken’[179], which are dealt with as singulars, the singulars, like ‘riches’ (richesse)[180], ‘pease’ (pisum, pois)[181], ‘alms’, ‘eaves’[182], which are assumed to be plurals.

There is one example of this, familiar to us all; probably so familiar that it would not be worth while adverting to it, if it did not illustrate, as no other word could, this forgetfulness which may overtake a whole people, of the true meaning of a grammatical form which they have never ceased to employ. I refer to the mistaken assumption that the ‘s’ of the genitive, as ‘the king’s countenance’, was merely a more rapid way of pronouncing ‘the king his countenance’, and that the final ‘s’ in ‘king’s’ was in fact an elided ‘his’. This explanation for a long time prevailed almost universally; I believe there are many who accept it still. It was in vain that here and there a deeper knower of our tongue protested against this “monstrous syntax”, as Ben Jonson in his Grammar justly calls it[183]. It was in vain that Wallis, another English scholar of the seventeenth century, pointed out in his Grammar that the slightest examination of the facts revealed the untenable character of this explanation, seeing that we do not merely say “the king’s countenance”, but “the queen’s countenance”; and in this case the final ‘s’ cannot stand for ‘his’, for “the queen his countenance” cannot be intended[184]; we do not say merely “the child’s bread”, but “the children’s bread”, where it is no less impossible to resolve the phrase into “the children his bread”[185]. Despite of these protests the error held its ground. This much indeed of a plea it could make for itself, that such an actual employment of ‘his’ had found its way into the language, as early as the fourteenth century, and had been in occasional, though rare use, from that time downward[186]. Yet this, which has only been elicited by the researches of recent scholars, does not in the least justify those who assumed that in the habitual ‘s’ of the genitive were to be found the remains of ‘his’—an error from which the books of scholars in the seventeenth, and in the early decades of the eighteenth, century are not a whit clearer than those of others. Spenser, Donne, Fuller, Jeremy Taylor, all fall into it; I cannot say confidently whether Milton does. Dryden more than once helps out his verse with an additional syllable gained by its aid. It has even forced its way into our Prayer Book itself, where in the “Prayer for all sorts and conditions of men”, added by Bishop Sanderson at the last revision of the Liturgy in 1661, we are bidden to say, “And this we beg for Jesus Christ his sake”[187]. I need hardly tell you that this ‘s’ is in fact the one remnant of flexion surviving in the singular number of our English noun substantives; it is in all the Indo-Germanic languages the original sign of the genitive, or at any rate the earliest of which we can take cognizance; and just as in Latin ‘lapis’ makes ‘lapidis’ in the genitive, so ‘king’, ‘queen’, ‘child’, make severally ‘kings’, ‘queens’, ‘childs’, the comma, an apparent note of elision, being a mere modern expedient, “a late refinement”, as Ash calls it[188], to distinguish the genitive singular from the plural cases[189].

Notice another example of this willingness to dispense with inflection, of this endeavour on the part of the speakers of a language to reduce its forms to the fewest possible, consistent with the accurate communication of thought. Of our adjectives in ‘en’, formed on substantives, and expressing the material or substance of a thing, some have gone, others are going, out of use; while we content ourselves with the bare juxtaposition of the substantive itself, as sufficiently expressing our meaning. Thus instead of “golden pin” we say “gold pin”; instead of “earthen works” we say “earth works”. ‘Golden’ and ‘earthen’, it is true, still belong to our living speech, though mainly as part of our poetic diction, or of the solemn and thus stereotyped language of Scripture; but a whole company of such words have nearly or quite disappeared; some lately, some long ago. ‘Steelen’ and ‘flowren’ belong only to the earliest period of the language; ‘rosen’ also went early. Chaucer is my latest authority for it (“rosen chapelet”). ‘Hairen’ is in Wiclif and in Chaucer; ‘stonen’ in the former (John iii. 6)[190]. ‘Silvern’ stood originally in Wiclif’s Bible (“silverne housis to Diane”, Acts xix. 24); but already in the second recension of this was exchanged for ‘silver’; ‘hornen’, still in provincial use, he also employs, and ‘clayen’ (Job iv. 19) no less. ‘Tinnen’ occurs in Sylvester’s Du Bartas; where also we meet with “Jove’s milken alley”, as a name for the Via Lactea, in Bacon also not “the Milky”, but “the Milken Way”. In the coarse polemics of the Reformation the phrase, “breaden god”, provoked by the Romish doctrine of transubstantiation, was of frequent employment, and occurs as late as in Oldham. “Mothen parchments” is in Fulke; “twiggen bottle” in Shakespeare; ‘yewen’, or, according to earlier spelling, “ewghen bow”, in Spenser; “cedarn alley”, and “azurn sheen” are both in Milton; “boxen leaves” in Dryden; “a treen cup” in Jeremy Taylor; “eldern popguns” in Sir Thomas Overbury; “a glassen breast”, in Whitlock; “a reeden hat” in Coryat; ‘yarnen’ occurs in Turberville; ‘furzen’ in Holland; ‘threaden’ in Shakespeare; and ‘bricken’, ‘papern’ appear in our provincial glossaries as still in use.

It is true that many of these adjectives still hold their ground; but it is curious to note how the roots which sustain even these are being gradually cut away from beneath them. Thus ‘brazen’ might at first sight seem as strongly established in the language as ever; it is far from so being; its supports are being cut from beneath it. Even now it only lives in a tropical and secondary sense, as ‘a brazen face’; or if in a literal, in poetic diction or in the consecrated language of Scripture, as ‘the brazen serpent’; otherwise we say ‘a brass farthing’, ‘a brass candlestick’. It is the same with ‘oaten’, ‘birchen’, ‘beechen’, ‘strawen’, and many more, whereof some are obsolescent, some obsolete, the language manifestly tending now, as it has tended for a long time past, to the getting quit of these, and to the satisfying of itself with an adjectival apposition of the substantive in their stead.

Let me illustrate by another example the way in which a language, as it travels onward, simplifies itself, approaches more and more to a grammatical and logical uniformity, seeks to do the same thing always in the same manner; where it has two or three ways of conducting a single operation, lets all of them go but one; and thus becomes, no doubt, easier to be mastered, more handy, more manageable; for its very riches were to many an embarrassment and a perplexity; but at the same time imposes limits and restraints on its own freedom of action, and is in danger of forfeiting elements of strength, variety and beauty, which it once possessed. I refer to the tendency of our verbs to let go their strong prÆterites, and to substitute weak ones in their room; or, where they have two or three prÆterites, to retain only one of them, and that invariably the weak one. Though many of us no doubt are familiar with the terms ‘strong’ and ‘weak’ prÆterites, which in all our better grammars have put out of use the wholly misleading terms, ‘irregular’ and ‘regular’, I may perhaps as well remind you of the exact meaning of the terms. A strong prÆterite is one formed by an internal vowel change; for instance the verb ‘to drive’ forms the prÆterite ‘drove’ by an internal change of the vowel ‘i’ into ‘o’. But why, it may be asked, called ‘strong’? In respect of the vigour and indwelling energy in the word, enabling it to form its past tense from its own resources, and with no calling in of help from without. On the other hand ‘lift’ forms its prÆterite ‘lifted’, not by any internal change, but by the addition of ‘ed’; ‘grieve’ in like manner has ‘grieved’. Here are weak tenses; as strength was ascribed to the other verbs, so weakness to these, which can form their prÆterites only by external aid and addition. You will see at once that these strong prÆterites, while they witness to a vital energy in the words which are able to put them forth, do also, as must be allowed by all, contribute much to the variety and charm of a language[191].

The point, however, which I am urging now is this,—that these are becoming fewer every day; multitudes of them having disappeared, while others are in the act of disappearing. Nor is the balance redressed and compensation found in any new creations of the kind. The power of forming strong prÆterites is long ago extinct; probably no verb which has come into the language since the Conquest has asserted this power, while a whole legion have let it go. For example, ‘shape’ has now a weak prÆterite, ‘shaped’, it had once a strong one, ‘shope’; ‘bake’ has now a weak prÆterite, ‘baked’, it had once a strong one, ‘boke’; the prÆterite of ‘glide’ is now ‘glided’, it was once ‘glode’ or ‘glid’; ‘help’ makes now ‘helped’, it made once ‘halp’ and ‘holp’. ‘Creep’ made ‘crope’, still current in the north of England; ‘weep’ ‘wope’; ‘yell’ ‘yoll’ (both in Chaucer); ‘seethe’ ‘soth’ or ‘sod’ (Gen. xxv. 29); ‘sheer’ in like manner once made ‘shore’; as ‘leap’ made ‘lope’; ‘wash’ ‘wishe’ (Chaucer); ‘snow’ ‘snew’; ‘sow’ ‘sew’; ‘delve’ ‘dalf’ and ‘dolve’; ‘sweat’ ‘swat’; ‘yield’ ‘yold’ (both in Spenser); ‘mete’ ‘mat’ (Wiclif); ‘stretch’ ‘straught’; ‘melt’ ‘molt’; ‘wax’ ‘wex’ and ‘wox’; ‘laugh’ ‘leugh’; with others more than can be enumerated here[192].

Observe further that where verbs have not actually renounced their strong prÆterites, and contented themselves with weak in their room, yet, once possessing two, or, it might be three of these strong, they now retain only one. The others, on the principle of dismissing whatever can be dismissed, they have let go. Thus ‘chide’ had once ‘chid’ and ‘chode’, but though ‘chode’ is in our Bible (Gen. xxxi. 36), it has not maintained itself in our speech; ‘sling’ had ‘slung’ and ‘slang’ (1 Sam. xvii. 49); only ‘slung’ remains; ‘fling’ had once ‘flung’ and ‘flang’; ‘strive’ had ‘strove’ and ‘strave’; ‘stick’ had ‘stuck’ and ‘stack’; ‘hang’ had ‘hung’ and ‘hing’ (Golding); ‘tread’ had ‘trod’ and ‘trad’; ‘choose’ had ‘chose’ and ‘chase’; ‘give’ had ‘gave’ and ‘gove’; ‘lead’ had ‘led’ ‘lad’ and ‘lode’; ‘write’ had ‘wrote’ ‘writ’ and ‘wrate’. In all these cases, and more might easily be cited, only [of] the prÆterites which I have named the first remains in use.

Observe too that in every instance where a conflict is now going on between weak and strong forms, which shall continue, the battle is not to the strong; on the contrary the weak is carrying the day, is getting the better of its stronger competitor. Thus ‘climbed’ is gaining the upper hand of ‘clomb’, ‘swelled’ of ‘swoll’, ‘hanged’ of ‘hung’. It is not too much to anticipate that a time will come, although it may be still far off, when all English verbs will form their prÆterites weakly; not without serious damage to the fulness and force which in this respect the language even now displays, and once far more eminently displayed[193].

Take another proof of this tendency in our own language to drop its forms and renounce its own inherent powers; though here also the renunciation, threatening one day to be complete, is only partial at the present. I refer to the formation of our comparatives and superlatives; and I will ask you again to observe here that curious law of language, namely, that wherever there are two or more ways of attaining the same result, there is always a disposition to drop and dismiss all of these but one, so that the alternative or choice of ways once existing, shall not exist any more. If only it can attain a greater simplicity, it seems to grudge no self-impoverishment by which this result may be brought about. We have two ways of forming our comparatives and superlatives, one dwelling in the word itself, which we have inherited from our old Gothic stock, as ‘bright’, ‘brighter’, ‘brightest’, the other supplementary to this, by prefixing the auxiliaries ‘more’ and ‘most’. The first, organic we might call it, the indwelling power of the word to mark its own degrees, must needs be esteemed the more excellent way; which yet, already disallowed in almost all adjectives of more than two syllables in length, is daily becoming of narrower and more restrained application. Compare in this matter our present with our past. Wiclif for example forms such comparatives as ‘grievouser’, ‘gloriouser’, ‘patienter’, ‘profitabler’, such superlatives as ‘grievousest’, ‘famousest’; this last occurring also in Bacon. We meet in Tyndale, ‘excellenter’, ‘miserablest’; in Shakespeare, ‘violentest’; in Gabriel Harvey, ‘vendiblest’, ‘substantialest’, ‘insolentest’; in Rogers, ‘insufficienter’, ‘goldener’; in Beaumont and Fletcher, ‘valiantest’. Milton uses ‘virtuosest’, and in prose ‘vitiosest’, ‘elegantest’, ‘artificialest’, ‘servilest’, ‘sheepishest’, ‘resolutest’, ‘sensualest’; Fuller has ‘fertilest’; Baxter ‘tediousest’; Butler ‘preciousest’, ‘intolerablest’; Burnet ‘copiousest’, Gray ‘impudentest’. Of these forms, and it would be easy to adduce almost any number, we should hardly employ any now. In participles and adverbs in ‘ly’, these organic comparatives and superlatives hardly survive at all. We do not say ‘willinger’ or ‘lovinger’, and still less ‘flourishingest’, or ‘shiningest’, or ‘surmountingest’, all which Gabriel Harvey, a foremost master of the English of his time, employs; ‘plenteouslyer’, ‘fulliest’ (Wiclif), ‘easiliest’ (Fuller), ‘plainliest’ (Dryden), would be all inadmissible at present.

In the manifest tendency of English at the present moment to reduce the number of words in which this more vigorous scheme of expressing degrees is allowed, we must recognize an evidence that the energy which the language had in its youth is in some measure abating, and the stiffness of age overtaking it. Still it is with us here only as it is with all languages, in which at a certain time of their life auxiliary words, leaving the main word unaltered, are preferred to inflections of this last. Such preference makes itself ever more strongly felt; and, judging from analogy, I cannot doubt that a day, however distant now, will arrive, when the only way of forming comparatives and superlatives in the English language will be by prefixing ‘more’ and ‘most’; or, if the other survive, it will be in poetry alone.

It will fare not otherwise, as I am bold to predict, with the flexional genitive, formed in ‘s’ or ‘es’ (see p. 161). This too will finally disappear altogether from the language, or will survive only in poetry, and as much an archaic form there as the ‘pictaÏ’ of Virgil. A time will come when it will not any longer be free to say, as now, either, “the king’s sons”, or “the sons of the king”, but when the latter will be the only admissible form. Tokens of this are already evident. The region in which the alternative forms are equally good is narrowing. We should not now any more write, “When man’s son shall come” (Wiclif), but “When the Son of man shall come”, nor yet, “The hypocrite’s hope shall perish” (Job viii. 13, Authorized Version), but, “The hope of the hypocrite shall perish”; not with Barrow, “No man can be ignorant of human life’s brevity and uncertainty”, but “No man can be ignorant of the brevity and uncertainty of human life”. The consummation which I anticipate may be centuries off, but will assuredly arrive[194].

Then too diminutives are fast disappearing from the language. If we desire to express smallness, we prefer to do it by an auxiliary word; thus a little fist, and not a ‘fistock’ (Golding), a little lad, and not a ‘ladkin’, a little worm, rather than a ‘wormling’ (Sylvester). It is true that of diminutives very many still survive, in all our four terminations of such, as ‘hillock’, ‘streamlet’, ‘lambkin’, ‘gosling’; but those which have perished are many more. Where now is ‘kingling’ (Holland), ‘whimling’ (Beaumont and Fletcher), ‘godling’, ‘loveling’, ‘dwarfling’, ‘shepherdling’ (all in Sylvester), ‘chasteling’ (Bacon), ‘niceling’ (Stubbs), ‘fosterling’ (Ben Johnson), and ‘masterling’? Where now ‘porelet’ (=paupercula, Isai. x. 30, Vulg.), ‘bundelet’, (both in Wiclif); ‘cushionet’ (Henry More), ‘havenet’, or little ‘haven’, ‘pistolet’, ‘bulkin’ (Holland), and a hundred more? Even of those which remain many are putting off, or have long since put off, their diminutive sense; a ‘pocket’ being no longer a small poke, nor a ‘latchet’ a small lace, nor a ‘trumpet’ a small trump, as once they were.

Once more—in the entire dropping among the higher classes of ‘thou’, except in poetry or in addresses to the Deity, and as a necessary consequence, the dropping also of the second singular of the verb with its strongly marked flexion, as ‘lovest’, ‘lovedst’, we have another example of a force once existing in the language, which has been, or is being, allowed to expire. In the seventeenth century ‘thou’ in English, as at the present ‘du’ in German, ‘tu’ in French, was the sign of familiarity, whether that familiarity was of love, or of contempt and scorn[195]. It was not unfrequently the latter. Thus at Sir Walter Raleigh’s trial (1603), Coke, when argument and evidence failed him, insulted the defendant by applying to him the term ‘thou’:—“All that Lord Cobham did was at thy instigation, thou viper, for I thou thee, thou traitor”. And when Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night is urging Sir Andrew Aguecheek to send a sufficiently provocative challenge to Viola, he suggests to him that he “taunt him with the licence of ink; if thou thou’st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss”. To keep this in mind will throw much light on one peculiarity of the Quakers, and give a certain dignity to it, as once maintained, which at present it is very far from possessing. However needless and unwise their determination to ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ the whole world was, yet this had a significance. It was not, as now to us it seems, and, through the silent changes which language has undergone, as now it indeed is, a gratuitous departure from the ordinary usage of society. Right or wrong, it meant something, and had an ethical motive: being indeed a testimony upon their parts, however misplaced, that they would not have high or great or rich men’s persons in admiration; nor give the observance to some which they withheld from others. It was a testimony too which cost them something; at present we can very little understand the amount of courage which this ‘thou-ing’ and ‘thee-ing’ of all men must have demanded on their parts, nor yet the amount of indignation and offence which it stirred up in them who were not aware of, or would not allow for, the scruples which obliged them to it[196]. It is, however, in its other aspect that we must chiefly regret the dying out of the use of ‘thou’—that is, as the pledge of peculiar intimacy and special affection, as between husband and wife, parents and children, and such other as might be knit together by bands of more than common affection.

I have preferred during this lecture to find my theme in changes which are now going forward in English, but I cannot finish it without drawing one illustration from its remoter periods, and bidding you to note a force not now waning and failing from it, but extinct long ago. I cannot well pass it by; being as it is by far the boldest step which in this direction of simplification the English language has at any time taken. I refer to the renouncing of the distribution of its nouns into masculine, feminine, and neuter, as in German, or even into masculine and feminine, as in French; and with this, and as a necessary consequence of this, the dropping of any flexional modification in the adjectives connected with them. Natural sex of course remains, being inherent in all language; but grammatical gender, with the exception of ‘he’, ‘she’, and ‘it’, and perhaps one or two other fragmentary instances, the language has altogether forgone. An example will make clear the distinction between these. Thus it is not the word ‘poetess’ which is feminine, but the person indicated who is female. So too ‘daughter’, ‘queen’, are in English not feminine nouns, but nouns designating female persons. Take on the contrary ‘filia’ or ‘regina’, ‘fille’ or ‘reine’; there you have feminine nouns as well as female persons. I need hardly say to you that we did not inherit this simplicity from others, but, like the Danes, in so far as they have done the like, have made it for ourselves. Whether we turn to the Latin, or, which is for us more important, to the old Gothic, we find gender; and in all daughter languages which have descended from the Latin, in most of those which have descended from the ancient Gothic stock, it is fully established to this day. The practical, business-like character of the English mind asserted itself in the rejection of a distinction, which in a vast proportion of words, that is, in all which are the signs of inanimate objects, and as such incapable of sex, rested upon a fiction, and had no ground in the real nature of things. It is only by an act and effort of the imagination that sex, and thus gender, can be attributed to a table, a ship, or a tree; and there are aspects, this being one, in which the English is among the least imaginative of all languages even while it has been employed in some of the mightiest works of imagination which the world has ever seen[197].

What, it may be asked, is the meaning and explanation of all this? It is that at certain earlier periods of a nation’s life its genius is synthetic, and at later becomes analytic. At earlier periods all is by synthesis; and men love to contemplate the thing, and the mode of the thing, together, as a single idea, bound up in one. But a time arrives when the intellectual obtains the upper hand of the imaginative, when the tendency of those that speak the language is to analyse, to distinguish between these two, and not only to distinguish but to divide, to have one word for the thing itself, and another for the quality of the thing; and this, as it would appear, is true not of some languages only, but of all.

FOOTNOTES

[165] As not, however, turning on a very coarse matter, and illustrating the subject with infinite wit and humour, I might refer the Spanish scholar to the discussion between Don Quixote and his squire on the dismissal of ‘regoldar’, from the language of good society, and the substitution of ‘erutar’ in its room (Don Quixote, 4. 7. 43). In a letter of Cicero to PÆtus (Fam. ix. 22) there is a subtle and interesting disquisition on forbidden words, and their philosophy.