GRAND WORDS.
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 ‘_re_placed’ 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.