PLAY UPON WORDS.
There are, in all languages, certain words which may be called
equivocal. Such are either those which are spelled exactly alike
and have different meanings, or are spelled differently and yet
have the same pronunciation. In most of these cases the two terms
have no necessary connection with each other, though it has
probably puzzled many a reader that the same word should have such
a variety of meanings so distinctly different from each other.
This phenomenon may be accounted for in English by the condition
of our language, especially its mixed nature. English draws words
from a multiplicity of sources. It frequently happens that several
distinctly different forms of foreign words fall into one and the
same form when incorporated into English, each of them retaining
its original signification. This may explain how the word ‘_light_’
may mean something that burns bright, and may also have the
sense of ‘not heavy.’ In the first case, it is derived from the
Anglo-Saxon verb ‘leohtan;’ but, as an adjective, it comes from
the Saxon ‘liht,’ whence also is derived the verb ‘to light’ (or
‘to alight’), i.e. to come down gently. The verb ‘to lighten,’ in
an electrical sense, is connected with the first meaning; but ‘to
lighten,’ meaning to make less heavy, is from the second.
But it sometimes happens that the same root will produce two
different meanings; and of this the word ‘_court_’ will furnish
an example. In the Middle Ages, the yard or court attached to
every castle (so called from the French ‘_cour_’) was used for two
purposes: 1st, as a place for games or amusements; and, 2nd, where
criminals were tried and sentenced. This is why a king’s palace is
still called ‘a Court.’ We say ‘the Court of St. James,’ or ‘the
Court of the Tuileries,’ &c.; and this is also why buildings where
law proceedings are carried on have the same name; as in ‘the Court
of Queen’s Bench,’ ‘the Court of Exchequer,’ &c.
The adjective ‘fine,’ in the sense of handsome or beautiful, is
from the Saxon ‘fein,’ where it had the same meaning; but, in the
expression ‘in fine,’ it is from the French ‘enfin,’ and the Latin
‘finis,’ an end or boundary. Again, the noun ‘fine,’ meaning a sum
of money paid as a compensation for a misdemeanour, is from the
same source, ‘finis;’ for here it means the limit or _end_ to which
the law con_fin_es the magistrate in determining that sum--‘_Not
more_ than forty shillings,’ &c.
Another of this class is the noun ‘_sack_.’ In its ordinary
acceptation it means a large bag, and is derived from the
Anglo-Saxon ‘sacc’ and the Latin ‘saccus.’ Hence comes the verb. To
‘sack’ a city is to carry off the plunder in a ‘bag.’ But another
meaning of this word is found in ‘sack,’ a sort of wine. Here it is
a corruption of the French ‘sec’ (originally the Latin ‘siccus’),
dry. ‘Un vin sec’ is what we should call ‘a _dry_ wine.’
These double meanings have probably in all nations given rise
to various perversions and corruptions of the language. One of
these--viz. punning--has been particularly prominent in modern
times, and has, in some degree, infected the great majority
of writers. Though the nations of antiquity seem to have been
comparatively free from this literary vice, there are not wanting
examples of it in the ancient classics. There is a collection
of so-called jokes, or silly sayings of pedants, attributed to
Hierocles, though it is now believed to have been the work of
another hand. Most of these would be now considered intolerably
stupid; and the only one among them that has the least approach to
wit is the story of the father who writes to his son urging him
to study hard, as he would have to _live_ by his books. To this
the son replies, that he had been already _living_ by his books
for some time, as he had been obliged to sell them. In Latin a
softened expression for ‘a thief’ was ‘homo trium literarum,’ a man
of three letters (f. u. r.); and Disraeli the elder mentions in his
‘Curiosities of Literature’ two puns attributed to Cicero.
But the true source of modern punning must be looked for in Italy,
where it took rise after the revival of learning in the fifteenth
century, and whence this practice afterwards spread into all the
languages of Europe. In English, the vice of playing on words
infected all the writers of the Elizabethan period. Puns are sown
broadcast in Shakspere’s plays--even Milton is by no means free
from them; and it is hardly necessary to state that they form a
prominent feature in the drama and light literature of the present
day.
Addison defines a pun, in the sixty-first number of the
‘Spectator,’ as ‘a conceit arising from the use of two words that
agree in the sound, but differ in the sense.’ Now the punster deals
in these equivocal words; and his whole art consists in using them
in one sense where we should naturally expect another. There are in
English several classes of equivocal words:--
I. Where the same form has several meanings, as 1. ‘Fair’
(beautiful, or light-coloured). 2. ‘Fair’ (just, or equitable). 3.
‘Fair’ (a market-place).
II. Where two words of different meaning are pronounced alike,
though spelled differently; as ‘son’ and ‘sun,’ ‘some’ and ‘sum,’
‘sole’ and ‘soul,’ ‘peer’ and ‘pier,’ &c.
III. A third class is of those which are spelled differently, and
pronounced nearly, though not quite, alike; such as ‘baron’ and
‘barren,’ ‘season’ and ‘seizing,’ &c.; though these more frequently
produce Malaprops than puns.
IV. There are also many cases in which a phrase or idiom,
consisting of two or three words, may be used equivocally, and
these may be fairly considered as puns.
Of the first class the following are specimens:--
1. ... beauty’s purchased by the _weight_,
Which therein works a miracle in nature,
Making them _lightest_ that wear most of it.
_Merchant of Venice_, Act iii. sc. 2.
2. At one light _bound_ high overleaped all _bound_.
_Paradise Lost_, Book iv.
3. Dean Ramsay tells a story of a Scotch minister who, having to
preach at some distance from home, was caught in a shower of rain.
On arriving at his kirk, he got a friend to rub down his clothes,
anxiously asking if he thought he was _dry_ enough. The latter
replied, ‘Never fear; you’ll be _dry_ enough when you get into the
pulpit!’
Under the second division may be placed such puns as the
following:--
1. Not on thy _sole_, but on thy _soul_, harsh Jew,
Thou makest thy knife keen.
_Merchant of Venice_, Act iv. sc. 1.
2. I should be still
_Peering_ in maps for ports, and _piers_, and roads.
_Ib._, Act i. sc. 1.
3. A story being told in the presence of Theodore Hook of an author
who invited his publisher to dinner, and treated him to a great
variety of wines--‘Then,’ said the wit, ‘I suppose he poured his
wine-_cellar_ into his book-_seller_.’
4. They went and _told_ the sexton,
And the sexton _tolled_ the bell.--_Hood._
5. I find
The shadow of myself formed in her eye,
Which, being but the shadow of your _son_,
Becomes a _sun_, and makes your _son_ a shadow.
_King John_, Act i. sc. 2.
To the third class belong such cases as:--
1. That of the lady who said that her doctor had put her on a new
_regiment_, and allowed her to drink nothing but water. ‘Ah!’
replied some one present, ‘that must have been the _coldstream_.’
2. Under this head also come the sayings of Mrs. Malaprop in
the ‘Rivals,’ who talks of the ‘_contagious_’ (for contiguous)
countries; and who recommends a nice _derangement_ (arrangement) of
_epitaphs_ (epithets), &c.
3. It is a positive vulgarism to confound ‘_genus_’ (a class, or
sort) with ‘_genius_’ (a high intellectual power). This is exactly
what Goldsmith meant, when he put into Tony Lumpkin’s mouth:--
Good liquor, I’ll stoutly maintain,
Gives _genus_ a better discerning.
In the fourth class may be placed punning by the use of an
equivocal phrase.
1. It was this form of the pun that Sydney Smith used when, hearing
of a boy who always read the word ‘patriarchs’ as ‘partridges,’
declared it was too bad _to make game_ of them in that way.
2. In this class we may also place Douglas Jerrold’s well-known
reply to a friend who told him he was afraid he was going to have a
_brain_ fever. ‘Never fear, my friend,’ said the wit, ‘_there is no
foundation for the fact_.’
3. The story related of Sydney Smith, who recommended the bishops
_laying their heads together_ to make a wooden pavement, may be
placed in the same category, and here the wit is quite as pungent
as in the other cases.
4. For if the Jew do but cut deep enough,
I’ll pay it instantly _with all my heart_.
_Merchant of Venice._
The instances of a play on words we meet with in Milton are not so
much puns, properly so called, as what the Italians called conceits
(concetti). This poet was deeply imbued with the spirit of Italian
literature; and this form of it often appears in his verses. The
following passages are examples:--
1. _Highly_ they raged against the _Highest_.
2. _Surer_ to _prosper_ than _prosperity_ could have _assured_ us.
3. The same form appears occasionally in other poets. Cowper in his
‘Conversation’ has
His only _pleasure_ is to be _displeased_.
One form of the pun which is just now not so frequently used is the
following:--
1. ‘There’s _something in that_,’ as the cat said when she peeped
into the milk-jug.
2. ‘I’m _transported_ to see you,’ as the convict said to the
kangaroo.
3. ‘_You are very pressing_,’ as the nut said to the nutcracker, &c.
Punning has been generally considered a low form of wit; and some
have taken so unfavourable a view of it as even to declare that
‘he who will make a pun will pick a pocket.’ But all this is hardly
just; for it may be easily shown that the highest minds have not
hesitated to adopt it, and that in some writers it is a prominent
feature of their style. It is true that critics have frequently
condemned punning as a flaw in Shakspere’s style and manner; but
it should be remembered that it was one form of that Italian tone
which coloured all the English literature of the Elizabethan age,
and from which no writer of those times was wholly free. We surely
cannot utterly condemn any form of expression adopted by so great
a master; and though it may be admitted that an immoderate use of
puns should not usurp the place of the higher and more important
qualities of style, there seems no good reason why they should be
wholly excluded.
The late poet Thomas Hood was so remarkable for the way in which
he used puns, that they formed an essential characteristic of his
style. Though looked upon by the purist as a contemptible figure
in literature, the pun proved in his hands a source of genuine
humour, and sometimes of deepest pathos. It is a received axiom,
that a keen perception of the ridiculous is a conclusive proof of
real genius; and this opinion certainly holds good in his case.
In him it was perfectly compatible with the deepest sympathy and
intensity of feeling. In every form of wit the effect consists
chiefly in the novelty of the application presented by the figure.
This always produces surprise--a naturally pleasing sensation,
especially when caused by a ludicrous or grotesque image. But,
in some instances, a pun suggests a far higher tone of thought
than the mere ludicrous: it may be connected with or produce very
sober reflections, or even occasionally lead the mind to a deeply
philosophical speculation:--
... ridentem dicere verum
Quid vetat?
In the popular conundrum which has been attributed to Burke, ‘What
is (m)ajest(y), when deprived of its externals, but a jest?’ this
effect may be observed, as well as in many of Hood’s puns.
In the literary history of all nations, we find languages
affected by various peculiarities. Of these several, more or less
connected with punning, have, at different periods, prevailed in
English, viz. Alliteration, Rhyme, Euphuism, &c. Alliteration
was the principle on which the Anglo-Saxon poets founded their
versification. This has been called ‘head-rhyme,’ as distinguished
from end-rhyme, which is a more modern practice. The lines were
arranged in couplets grouped, not according to the sense, but to
the alliteration, which required that _two_ accented syllables
in the first, and _one_ in the second line, should begin with
the same letter when a consonant; and a different, if possible,
when a vowel. These three initial letters were called ‘rhyming
letters,’ the one in the second line being the _chief_ letter,
according to which the two in the first line of the couplet must be
regulated. These two, though they come first, are therefore called
‘_sub_-letters.’ In a couplet, there should not be more than three
accented syllables beginning with this letter; and the _chief_
letter must begin the first accented syllable or word of the second
line.
Finally: in very short verse, especially when the rhyming letters
are double, such as _sc_, _st_, _sw_, &c., there need be but
one _sub_-letter. This is the general doctrine of alliteration,
invariably adopted in Saxon poetry.
The following specimen of alliteration, extracted from Rask’s
Anglo-Saxon Grammar, may serve to illustrate this explanation:--
In _Caines_ _c_ynne In Cain’s kin
Þone _c_wealm gewrǽc The murder avenged
_É_ce Drihten The Eternal Lord
Þaes þe he _A_bel slóg Because he slew Abel
Ne ge_f_eah he þære _f_aehde He got no joy from his hatred
Ac he hine _f_eor forwráec But he (the Creator) drove him
_M_etod for þý _m_áne For that misdeed
_M_ancynne fram Far from the human race
But though no longer considered as an essential element in English
verse, alliteration was often employed by all our poets from
Chaucer to Spenser, though not according to the strict rules above
laid down. Spenser used it, in some cases, with much effect, as
shown in the following lines from the ‘Faëry Queen’:--
In _w_ilderness and _w_asteful deserts strayed.
Through _w_oods and _w_asteness _w_ild him daily sought.
_F_rom her _f_air head her _f_illet she undight.
And with the sight amazed, _f_orgot his _f_urious _f_orce.
There is more alliteration in our modern poets than most readers
suspect; and though an immoderate use of this figure makes it
degenerate into a mere fantastic puerility, many examples may be
quoted where it adds a wonderful force to the expression. For
example, in the following lines from Macbeth:--
That shall, to all our days and nights to come,
Give _s_olely _s_overeign _s_way and masterdom.
The grandeur of the effect is here powerfully assisted by the
repetition of the letter _s_.
But the fondness of certain rhymesters for this figure was cleverly
caricatured by the brothers Horace and James Smith, in their
well-known ‘Rejected Addresses’:--
Lo! from _L_emnos _l_imping _l_ame_l_y,
_L_ags the _l_ow_l_y _L_ord of Fire!
Rhyme may be almost considered a modern invention; it is seldom met
with in Greek or Latin, and was unknown to the Saxon poets. This
repetition of the same sound at the ends of verses was introduced
into England by the Anglo-Norman ballad-writers at, or soon after,
the Conquest. Since that time it has been regarded as one of the
greatest embellishments of poetical expression, and it is now
used in almost every form of poetry except blank verse. There is
no doubt that it deserves this reputation, though here, as in
other decorations, much of the effect depends on the judgment and
taste with which it is applied. Many a beautiful thought has been
probably sacrificed to the rigid requirements of rhyme; at the same
time many so-called rhymes are so unlike each other in sound as
scarcely to deserve the name.
The effect of rhyme is materially heightened when there is a real
or fancied connection in meaning between the rhyming words; such
as ‘wine’ and ‘divine,’ ‘life’ and ‘strife,’ ‘fish’ and ‘dish,’
‘lone’ and ‘moan,’ &c. It is also curious to observe how often
familiar proverbs are formed upon this principle. We have ‘Birds of
a _feather_ flock _together_;’ ‘’Twixt cup and _lip_ there’s many
a _slip_;’ ‘Fast _bind_, fast _find_;’ ‘No _pains_, no _gains_;’
&c. And this is not confined to English proverbs. In the same way
the Italians have, ‘Chi va pi_ano_, va _sano_, e va lont_ano_;’ and
the Germans, ‘Morgenst_und_ hat Gold im _Mund_;’ ‘Ueber _Nacht_ ist
wohl ge_dacht_;’ ‘Wer _neidet_, der _leidet_,’ &c. The object in
these cases was, probably, to produce a pleasing effect, and, at
the same time, to assist the learner’s memory.
Another proof of the popularity of rhyme may be found in many
double terms which are evidently formed on that principle. These,
though not often met with in the higher styles of composition,
are legitimate words in every-day and familiar conversation, and
have every right to be so considered. Such are ‘helter-skelter,’
‘namby-pamby,’ ‘hoity-toity,’ ‘roly-poly,’ ‘harum-scarum,’
‘willy-nilly,’ ‘nolens-volens,’ ‘hugger-mugger,’ and a host of
others.
A particularly ludicrous effect is frequently presented by double
rhymes, which properly belong to the comic or burlesque in verse.
Here there is often as much wit and humour in the rhyme as in the
sentiment; and here, also, the rhyme frequently approaches to the
nature of a pun.
Butler was distinguished for his double rhymes, and in his
‘Hudibras’ he displays a positive genius for comic rhyme, some
specimens of which follow:--
As if religion were in_tended_
For nothing else than to be _mended_.
Madam, I do, as is my _duty_,
Honour the shadow of your _shoe tie_.
An ignis fatuus that be_witches_,
And leads men into pools and _ditches_.
He was, in logic, a great _critic_,
Profoundly skilled in ana_lytic_.
Besides, he was a shrewd phi_losopher_,
And had read every text and _gloss over_.
Compound for sins they are in_clined to_,
By damning those they have no _mind to_.
Another form of comic verse is where the rhyme is made by dividing
the word, being formed by a similar sound in the middle syllables;
as for example:--
Thou wast the daughter of my _Tu_-
tor, Law professor in the _U_-
niversity of Göttingen.--_Canning._
At first I caught hold of the _wing_,
And kept away; but Mr. _Thing_-
umbob, the prompter man,
Gave with his hand my chaise a shove,
And said, ‘Go on, my pretty love,
Speak to ’em, little Nan.’--_Smith._
John Lyly, a dramatist and poet of the Elizabethan period, is
said to have originated a singular affectation of language known
as ‘Euphuism.’ He was the author of a romance entitled ‘Euphues;’
in which the ‘pure and reformed English,’ as he called it, first
appeared. It became the fashion with the beauties of the court
to ‘parley Euphuism,’ which was soon considered a necessary
accomplishment for every one who had any pretensions to fashion or
good taste. Euphuism was made up of almost every sort of folly of
language combined, a mincing prettiness, alliteration, punning,
pedantry, elaborate nonsense, and far-fetched expression; in fine,
of almost every conceivable form of puerility. This was a mere
passing absurdity, and the only remains of it still left in the
language are said to be certain new modes of pronunciation then
first introduced.
Language has been, like most other things, subject to many and
various abuses. Anagrams, chronograms, acrostics, &c., have,
each and all, ‘fretted their hour upon the stage, and now are
heard no more.’ But the pun seems likely to maintain its place,
both in conversation and in written composition. Let us not be
misunderstood. It is not the practice, but the abuse of it, that
is to be condemned. We are strongly of opinion that there can be
no greater pest to society than the inveterate and professional
punster--a man who sets traps for you, who lies in wait for every
phrase you utter, to twist and turn it into a meaning of his own,
and who is continually stopping the natural flow of discourse, and
bringing it to some ‘lame and impotent conclusion.’ But, as we
have endeavoured to show, the pun, when ‘telling’ and well-applied,
is as legitimate a form of wit as any other, and quite as conducive
to good feeling and good fellowship.