COMPOUND WORDS.
One of the greatest advantages a language can possess, is the power
of forming compound words. This materially contributes to its
conciseness;--makes it comparatively easy to express much in few
words--and thus assists, by concentrating its force, in rendering
it vigorous and impressive. This power of compounding is found
chiefly in the Teutonic languages of Europe; and is comparatively
unknown in the Romance. In our own case, it was considerably
modified by the Norman Conquest, which introduced a French (or
Latin) element into English. We still, however, possess this power
to a considerable extent; and herein we enjoy certain advantages
unknown to French or Italian. German, the most cultivated of all
the Teutonic languages, has much more of this characteristic; and,
in point of closeness and compactness of expression, is superior
to English. But there are symptoms of its still further decrease
in our language, and it is worthy of observation that the general
tendency with us is to give up Saxon compounds, and to substitute
for them Latin or French terms. The old word ‘deathsman’ has its
present equivalent in ‘executioner;’ ‘mildheartedness’ has become
‘mercy;’ ‘long-suffering,’ ‘patience,’ &c. The verb ‘to gainsay’
still lingers in the language, but its place is now generally taken
by ‘to contradict.’ ‘To gainstrive’ is supplanted by ‘to oppose.’
‘To inspect’ is preferred before ‘to look into;’ and ‘to despise’
is used rather than ‘to look down upon.’
The first English poet who gave prominence to this power of
combination was Chapman, who applied it with wonderfully happy
effect in his Homer’s Iliad, in translating the compound Greek
epithets which so frequently occur in that poem; such as
‘swift-footed;’ ‘ivory-wristed;’ ‘white-armed;’ ‘many-headed;’
‘rosy-fingered,’ &c. Most of these were afterwards adopted by Pope.
There is a tendency in some modern English writers to carry this
compounding power to an unwarrantable extent, a practice which
should certainly be resisted, as being opposed to the genius of
our language, and also giving evidence of aping after Germanic
forms, and thus transgressing the proper limits of the language.
The late Madame d’Arblay, in her ‘Memoirs of Dr. Burney,’
speaks of the ‘very-handsome,-though-no-longer-in-her-bloom-Mrs.
Stevens!’ and this authoress also has the ‘sudden-at-the-moment-
though-from-lingering-illness-often-previously-expected-death.’
But this is really too bad. ‘It out-Herods Herod;’ and in these
cases is a mere piece of affectation.
The mania at one time for these long-tailed adjectives, was
very cleverly ridiculed by the brothers James and Horace
Smith, in their ‘Rejected Addresses.’ Here in caricaturing
the style of the ‘Morning Post,’ they speak of the
‘not-a-bit-the-less-on-that-account-to-be-universally-execrated-
monster-Bonaparte.’ Another of these extraordinary epithets
is:--‘That-deeply-to-be-abhorred-and-highly-to-be-blamed-stratagem-
the-Gunpowder-Plot!’ But the climax of the caricature is reached in
the following. Speaking of Covent-garden market, the writer calls it
‘The-in-general-strewn-with-cabbage-stalks-but-on-Saturday-night-
lighted-up-with-lamps-market-of-Covent-garden!!’ But such legitimate
compound forms as ‘ill-assorted,’ ‘cloud-capped,’ ‘far-darting,’
&c., are highly valuable, and of great service to the language. It
is to be observed that none of these are literally translatable into
French. For such an adjective as ‘broken-hearted,’ there is no
corresponding equivalent in that language. The only way to express,
in French, any approach to the meaning of our word, is to use a
ponderous circumlocution, which will require at least three or four
terms. The expression is thus enfeebled by being broken up into a
number of words, and it loses all the force and vigour of the
English. A ‘broken-hearted father’ would be probably expressed in
French by ‘un père qui a le cœur brisé’--exactly five words for our
one. And so of all other compound terms. In fact, French does not
lend itself to closeness and compactness of expression; and, in
this respect, is far inferior to any of the Teutonic languages.
One peculiarity of the Saxon part of English is its monosyllabic
nature. This was chiefly caused by the falling-off of the endings.
All our prepositions and conjunctions, beside most of the nouns,
verbs, and adjectives in common use, are monosyllables. These form
the staple of the English language, and are the chief elements
of closeness and brevity of expression. Our legitimate compound
words seldom consist of more than two, or at most three, elements.
The greater number are made up of monosyllables; as ‘milk-maid,’
‘oat-meal,’ ‘foot-boy,’ ‘hail-storm,’ &c. In a few cases, they are
compounded of three terms, as ‘out-of-doors,’ ‘matter-of-fact,’
‘out-of-the-way,’ &c.; but these are comparatively rare. There are
few, if perhaps any, cases of English words which have more than
seven syllables. This seems to be the length of our tether in this
respect. Perhaps it is as well that it should be so; for whatever
may be said of the use of the compounding principle, as giving
closeness and energy of expression, there is no doubt that, when
carried to excess, it has a directly contrary effect. When a very
large number of elements are fused together into one word, there is
naturally a difficulty in getting at the original root and primary
meaning of the whole; and the expression becomes cumbrous and
unintelligible.
This combining or compounding power is of different degrees in
different languages, but in the Mexican language it is carried to
an incredible extent. Here, combinations are admitted so easily,
that the simplest ideas are buried under a load of accessories.
For example, the word for a ‘priest,’ consists of eleven
syllables, and is there called ‘notlazomahuizleopixcatatzin,’
which means literally, ‘venerable minister of God, whom
I love as my father.’ A still more comprehensive word is
‘amatlacuilolitquitcatlaxtlahuitli,’ which means ‘the reward
given to a messenger who brings a hieroglyphical map conveying
intelligence.’
This system displays a most curious mechanism, which, by bringing
the greatest number of ideas into the smallest possible compass,
condenses whole sentences into a single word. Many of our older
writers indulged in derivatives and compound words to an extent
which the language does not now admit, in consequence of its having
lost part of its Saxon character. We still have ‘to undo;’ but to
‘unput’ (for to take away) and to ‘undestroy’ (for to rebuild) were
formerly used, and Fuller even employs the verb ‘_to ungrayhair_,’
in the sense of ‘to pull out gray hairs.’ He writes of a man being
‘ungrayhaired,’ when all his gray hairs were plucked out of his
head!