THE BRITISH SHIBBOLETH.
"Pantagruel then asked what sorts of people dwelled in that damn'd
island."--_Rabelais_ iv., chap. lxiv.
"If ever I should betake myself to swearing," says Sir John Hazlewood in
the play, "I shall give very little concern to the fashion of the oath.
Odd's bodikins will do well enough for me, and lack-a-daisy for my
wife." Many other persons have been much of the same mind as this Sir
John, and, possessing a certain esteem for the pomp and circumstance of
swearing, have been impelled to cherish some curious substitute so that
they might still get a little harmless amusement out of the vice. In
this way they have contrived so to compound with their consciences as to
become swearers in practice without being blasphemers in intention.
The characteristic of this good Hazlewood is his extreme tolerance and
neutrality. He is not among the swearers himself, but at a moment of
danger he is prepared to join that body, taking service in the ranks.
To disown allegiance altogether never for a moment coincides with his
sense of the becoming. The worthy man is too loyal to the set rules of
his acknowledged leaders, to harbour a notion so subversive and
dangerous. And in this particular we shall find he has been followed by
the greater number not only of his own degree and class but of all
orders and conditions.
A circumstance like this would seem to suggest some remarkable
underlying motive as accounting for the wonderful omnipotence of
swearing. It is possible that an occult virus congenial to its
development is so insinuated into the composition of the human mind as
to defy the power of ethics wholly to eradicate it. Can it be that the
habit owes its existence and source of delight to some soothing and
pleasureful qualities which, like the solace of the tobacco-leaf or the
balm of the nightshade, the world will not willingly forego?
We are disposed to think that the instinct of swearing is very deeply
rooted in the mental constitution. A very little experience of mankind
will incline one to the belief that the censors of morals have on the
whole done wisely in temporising with this strange humour. Of all the
philosophers who of old laid down rules for worldly guidance, Socrates
may be trusted to have held at a just appreciation the trips and sallies
of Athenian manhood. And yet even Socrates is understood to have sworn
deeply and volubly. Not, however, the Herculean oaths that were
resounded in the amphitheatre and at the festivals, but by the names of
more despicable objects, by the dog, the caper, and the plane-tree.[7]
The philosopher was too well versed in the ways of headstrong humanity
to run exactly counter to all the follies inspired by the grape of Chios
and Lesbos. On the contrary, he gains his momentary end and creates a
lasting remonstrance while seemingly sporting and dallying with the
abuse. In like manner, Aristophanes could afford to trifle with the
asseverations of his own Athenian audiences. In portraying the
wind-paved city of the feathered tribes, he transforms these oaths into
the milder shape of "by snares," "by nets," "by meshes." And further to
display the ludicrous side of Attic swearing, he records a time when "no
man used to swear by gods, but all by birds. And still Lampon swears by
the goose when he practises any deceit."[8]
It would seem almost as if all writers of this indulgent turn had
arrived at one perception, namely, that "bad language" is an
indispensable element in social life, an element to be only softened by
ridicule or perhaps be checked by dissuasion. To seek to suppress it
altogether is regarded as futile. The same impression has evidently
prevailed among the number of practical philosophers who in everyday
life are accustomed to handicap the ebullitions of this impetuous vice.
They may place nagging obstacles in the way of its career, and burdens
upon its back; but otherwise it is allowed to run its course. By means
of an accepted code of rules a kind of _modus vivendi_ in this respect
is obtained. Thus the conversation that is conceded in a club
smoking-room would be intolerable in the boudoir. In some sort men have
been permitted the enjoyment of swearing, and that with impunity,
provided they did not carry it beyond the prohibited pale. To turn again
to ancient Athens for illustration, we find that even children were
allowed to swear profanely by the name of Hercules, but with the single
restriction that they should do so in the open air. The oath was for
some singular reason deemed the especial privilege of young people, and
was only thought offensive and visited with punishment when invoked
within the curtilage of the dwelling.[9]
It has always seemed to us that vituperative swearing is too closely
allied to the passion of animosity to be ever successfully treated apart
from the human failing from which it takes its rise. Joy and hatred,
terror and surprise must indeed be very old and steadfast emotions in
the history of the world; and while we should prefer to find that joy is
the more universal of these perceptions, hatred is, we fear, the more
historic and the more enduring. Animosity is resolute even in its
caprices; it has few facilities for disguise and but little capacity for
assumption. The tones and gestures it employs are perfectly unequivocal,
and not easily mistaken. For although the vocabulary of hatred has from
time to time received handsome embellishment at the hands of ingenious
and illustrious haters, its wonted expression must always remain fixed.
The keynote is the oath which, in all ages and in all languages, passion
seems to generate with but very little assistance.
Among a people who, perhaps unjustly, have been prided for the
choiceness of their swearing, the favourite growth and very spoilt-child
of animosity is the word of an exceedingly forcible kind. In
endeavouring to chronicle the amenities of the British "damn," we
believe we are dealing with a monosyllable possessing a remarkable fund
of application. The term has fairly puzzled the ingenuity of continental
neighbours to comprehend. Not only has it excited their ridicule, but we
are not sure that it has not even stimulated their envy. It has been
said by one of the sprightliest of Frenchmen, that a foreigner might
conveniently travel through England with the assistance only of this one
particle of speech.
The uses, or the misuses, of the word would seem to be twofold: first,
as an accessory of abuse, and secondly, as an accessory of geniality. In
some instances the two qualities are blended. Thus the knights of the
road who stopped coaches and filched purses on the heath of Newmarket or
Hounslow usually rode off "damning" their victims and advising them to
sue the hundred for the injury. Whereat it was customary to remark, in
the joking spirit of the age, that the villains showed themselves true
men of the law by taking their fee before they gave their advice.
Everyone who remembers the eleventh canto of Don Juan will recollect the
pugilistic conflict that took place upon that hero's first arrival at
the outskirts of London, a shower of blackguard oaths taking a
conspicuous part in the encounter. Juan, weary with travel, has arrived
at Shooter's Hill. He is meditating upon the vastness of the city
stretched in panorama at his feet. Suddenly his studious occupation is
interrupted by the onset of a gang of footpads. In the confusion that
ensues, his ignorance of the language places him at a momentary
disadvantage. The only English word he is acquainted with being, as he
phrases it, "their shibboleth, 'Goddamn.'" Even this Juan innocently
imagines to be a form of salutation, a sort of God-be-with-you, a
misconception which the poet professes to think not unnatural--
"... for half English as I am
(To my misfortune) never can I say
I heard them wish 'God with you,' save that way."
No stanza of the poem is more replete than this with a vein of painfully
sarcastic drollery. The insular failing is elsewhere frequently
displayed by the poet in the trying light cast from a misanthrope
genius.
But perhaps the severest hit, and not the less severe because tempered
with banter and good humour, is that which has been directed from the
pen of Beaumarchais.[10] "Diable! c'est une belle langue que l'anglais;
il en faut peu pour aller loin; avec Goddam en Angleterre on ne manque
de rien ... les Anglais a la verite, ajoutent par-ci par-la, quelques
autres mots en conversant; mais il est bien aise de voir que Goddam est
le fond de la langue."
The highest point of wit in this direction must be supposed to have been
reached when Evariste Parny, a poet of no mean celebrity, produced his
"Goddam! poeme en quatre chants, par un French-dog." This was in the
year XII. or, as we now should prefer to call it, 1804.
The countrymen, and in one remarkable instance, a countrywoman of
Beaumarchais, have been particularly industrious in fastening this
aspersion upon their English neighbours. So long ago as 1429, when the
arms of Shrewsbury and Bedford had well-nigh wrested the last jewel from
the diadem of France, and a peasant maiden of the Calvados had flung
herself into Orleans to stem the tide of the English advance, there
likewise came to the aid of the fainting cause a welcome supply of mirth
and invective. The Maid of Orleans, inspiriting the beleaguered army by
harangue, by entreaty, even by quips and jests, kept them constantly
reminded of the insular nickname. Rising from sleep and putting on her
armour to direct the memorable assault upon the Tournelles, a soldier of
her command ventured to produce a repast of fish, and prayed her to
break her fast. "Joan, let us eat this shad-fish before we set out."
The Maid indignantly put aside the proffered gift, "In the name of God,"
said she, "it shall not be eaten till supper, by which time we will
return by way of the bridge, and I will bring you back a Goddam to eat
it with." How the redoubtable Tournelles was taken by steel and
culverin, and how Joan succeeded in bringing back many hundred Goddams,
has become matter of history. As to the conclusion of the Maid's career,
there has been opened a wide field of controversy, but one incident in
the closing chapter of her life is supported by reliable testimony.
While undergoing close imprisonment pending the decision of her fate,
two English noblemen, the Earls of Warwick and Stafford, came to visit
her in gaol, and would seem to have held out hopes of ransom; Joan,
irritated at the specious language of her visitors, retorted on them
sharply: "I know you well," she cried, "you have neither the will nor
the power to ransom me. You think when you have slain me, you will
conquer France; but that you will never bring about. No! although there
were one hundred thousand Goddams in this land more than there
are!"[11]
With the assumption of the soldier's tunic, it did not follow that she
adopted the manners of the military fire-eater, or suited herself to the
wild talk of camps. The epithet "Goddam" in the mouth of La Pucelle was
expressive only of acrimony towards the oppressor, and even assuming it
to have been irreverent and ungainly, was not the least in accord with
the language that usually distinguished her. So far from condoning the
irregularities of military life, Joan seems to have laid her strongest
commands upon the soldiery to abstain from oath-taking, and in one
instance would appear to have made a convert of an illustrious kind.
Stories are told, which we need not here repeat, of the licence in
expression of the celebrated La Hire, who may be likened to a Boanerges
among swearers. With him the habit was perfectly indispensable. At last
Joan came to a compromise. He was to retain to the full his privilege of
swearing, provided he referred in his oaths to no other substantive than
his marshal's baton, and thenceforward this sturdy soldier betook
himself to this emasculated form of swearing.
According to an authority that is entitled to credit, a very similar
subterfuge would seem to have been attempted at a still earlier period
of French history. The courtiers of Louis IX. were wont to indulge in
what may be described as a very flippant and volatile description of
swearing. The indignation of their master, the beloved St. Louis, may of
itself have been no inconsiderable punishment, but a still worse one was
provided in the statute-book, which prescribed the penalty of branding
the tongue with a red-hot iron upon every commission of the offence. The
oaths which at this period were the cause of the greatest mortification
to the saintly king were the _cordieus_, the _tetedieus_, the _pardieus_
and the numerous offshoots, the effigies of which still survive in the
pages of Rabelais and Moliere--the "Moyen de Parvenir" and the "Baron de
Foeneste". With the airy nonchalance of practised sophistry, these
apologists of swearing conceived a device that to themselves at least
proved eminently satisfactory. At this time there was at the palace a
pet dog, known by the name of Bleu. To elude the harsh sentence of the
law that might for ever deprive these gay swearers of the power of
taking oaths, they determine to substitute for _dieu_ the name of the
favourite dog. Thus _cordieu_ became CORBLEU and _tetedieu_ became
TETEBLEU, and so on throughout the entire series. Unlike the rigid St.
Louis, a later French monarch, Henry IV. was himself a notorious
offender in this respect. On every occasion of annoyance, he was heard
to give utterance to his favourite oath "Jarnidieu!" To him once came
his confessor, Coton. "Sire," said the confessor, "it is a great sin to
mention the holy name in these terms." "You are right," said Henry, "in
future I will say 'Jarnicoton.'"
It is singular to turn for a moment from the extravagant exuberance of a
polished French court to find the same device existing in a very
different era of the world's history. The educated Athenian vented his
"Mon Dieus" like any Frenchman on the boulevard, and in like manner
learned to soften his "[Greek: Ma ton theon]" to a simple "[Greek: Ma
ton]" in deference to ears polite. Socrates himself, never altogether
free from a predilection for jocose forms of swearing, also took the
palace dog, so to speak, as his colloquial stalking-horse, and, like the
courtiers of St. Louis, swore [Greek: ne ton kuna].
The framework of the story dealing with the conversion of La Hire has
not been lost upon the writers of the theatre. A _petite comedie_ well
known on the boards of the Theatre Francais as 'Les Jurons de Cadillac,'
is occupied with the sufferings of a naval officer who is constrained by
feminine influence to relinquish his customary expletives. "How is it,"
asks La Comtesse, "that you have contracted this horrible habit; you, a
scion of an old stock, one of our first Gascon gentlemen?" Cadillac's
answer is spirited. "Comtesse, I was brought up by my grandfather, an
old sea dog, corbleu! With him I learnt to swear before I learnt to
read, and if he has not taught me the language of courts, it is because,
sacrebleu! he did not know it. He made me a true sailor, ventre mahon!"
The Comtesse insists that, as a proof of the captain's professions of
regard, he should abstain from indulging in this habit for the space of
one single hour. Should the ordeal be successfully passed, she consents
that he shall receive her hand as his reward. Cadillac is fairly driven
to desperation. "Ask of me anything but that!" he exclaims; "only let me
swear, or I shall go mad!" Finally he sees no help for it but to accept
the challenge, and the audience is detained in a state of amusing
suspense while witnessing the contrivances with which the honest captain
endeavours to overcome the difficulty. He tampers with the hands of the
clock in the hope of abridging the hour of trial, and this ruse being
discovered he unworthily seeks safety in sullen silence. "No, no,
captain," objects the Comtesse, "unless you converse it is not fair
play." His tormentor lures him with all her skill to let slip one of his
unpremeditated expletives, and a hundred times the worthy fellow is on
the point of giving way. At last, beguiled into a description of one of
his most thrilling sea-fights, and with the recollection of the wild
scenes of carnage passing vividly before his eyes, he is no longer able
to maintain composure. He bursts into a volume of his old sea terms, but
the lady, moved, as it would seem, by the _elan_ and spirit of the
recital, finds it in her heart to be merciful. The play concludes with a
modest _sacrebleu_, this time spoken by La Comtesse. It will be seen
from the evidence of this performance alone that in ascribing to our
nationality a monopoly of energetic language, public report has hardly
been discriminating.
Not desiring, however, to turn the tables upon our aspersers, we propose
to still further pursue the fortunes of the Britannic shibboleth from
when we left it upon the lips of La Pucelle. The aspersion cast upon the
English on the Picard battle-fields continued to be handed down in camp
story and in rugged _vaux-de-vire_. Neither did it cease to provoke
derision and merriment when it had entered into the common parlance of
the Paris cabaret, and became the stock property of the Palais Royal
farce.[12] The "Goddam" that greeted British officers rollicking
through the city of pleasure in the days succeeding Waterloo was the
same term of opprobrium that assailed the English archers at Agincourt
and Honfleur.
To what "mute inglorious" satirist we are indebted for this lasting
compliment we shall probably never now determine. The word is at least
discovered in the collection of Norman ballads subjoined to the
'Vaux-de-Vire' of Master Oliver Basselin published at Caen, 1821. This
work dates from the early part of the sixteenth century, but has
reference to the events of the preceding one. It more particularly
speaks of Henry V. as dying _par le mal de St. Fiacre_ and of Henry VI.
as ascending the throne. It is the latter monarch who is referred to in
these verses as "little King Goddam"--
"Ils out charge l'artillerye sus mer,
Force bisquit et chascun ung bydon,
Et par la mer jusqu'en Biscaye aller,
Pour couronner leur petit roy godon."
We might search in vain for mention of the expression in English
writings of the same period. In France however the epithet is repeated
with equal malignancy in the angry verses which Guillaume Cretin was
pleased to write upon the 'Battle of the Spurs':
"Cryant: Qui vive aux Godons d'Angleterre.
* * * * *
Seigneurs du sang, barons et chevaliers,
Tous seculiers d'illustre parentage,
Permettez vous a ses Godons, galliers,
Gros godaillers, houspalliers, poullalliers,
Prendre palliers au francoys heritaige?"
The aspersion however did not always rest with Frenchmen. Lord Hailes,
in a criticism written about the year 1770, incidentally gives it as his
experience that in Holland the children when they espy any English
people say, "There come the Goddams," and that the Portuguese, as soon
as they acquire a smattering of the tongue, exclaim, "How do you do,
Jack? damn you!"[13]
We have attentively considered the tone of contemporary English writings
to ascertain whether by a hazard the nickname was appropriately
bestowed. In the result we have not been able to discover anything to
lead to the supposition that this particular form of speech was, upon
these shores at least, very generally indulged in. Either the tall
soldiers who accompanied Henry of Monmouth to the wars were so
stimulated by the unaccustomed juice of the grape as to then and there
originate this vigorous epithet, unspoken at home, or else there was
little or no justification for the taunting expression. We are inclined
to think that the former surmise is approximately correct. The habit was
not an Englishman's but a soldier's vice, and when the foreign troubles
were at an end it may very well have been drafted back to this country
with the rest of the fighting contingent.
Although in its usage it is now considered essentially British, there is
no reason to impute to it any other than an etymology decidedly French.
Its similarity with the numerous derivatives of the verb _damno_ have
probably obscured the true derivation of the word. For its real
parentage we must have recourse to the Latin _dominus_ or _domina_ which
produced the Gallic _dame_. This again was used equally to denote a
potentate of either sex, until at last we find the interjection _dame!_
applied in the same sense as _Seigneur!_ or our own _Lord!_ When,
therefore, we go still further, and meet with _dame Dieu!_ occurring
frequently in ancient texts we are helped at once to the source of our
adopted expletive. By one of those combinations so often to be found
where there is a confusion or admixture of tongues, the English
soldiery rendered their _dame!_ or _dame Dieu!_ in the way we have seen,
and a hybrid term was thus produced which has not even yet been found
waning in popularity. The derivation we have here suggested is
sufficient of itself to account for the amusement that was displayed by
laughter-loving Frenchmen, who twitted the invader in that he was unable
to pronounce the irrepressible _Dieu_, and was forced to anglicise it to
fit it to the remainder of the oath. It will be perceived that, taking
this view of the case, the British shibboleth is rather more of a
shibboleth than has previously been supposed.
It is true that in a scarce work we find it is recorded that the
expression originated with Richard III., but this is easily confuted by
the examples we have given. The 'Comedy of Errors' contains one isolated
allusion to it:--"_God damn me!_ that's as much as to say, God make me a
light wench." Here the term is dearly interpolated as a kind of
newly-coined catchword. We suspect that the true era of the oath being
absorbed into common speech is indicated by a passage in the epigrams of
Sir John Harrington. This work, which appeared in 1613, is much
concerned at the abusive element that had at that time entered into
English conversation. No longer, says Sir John, do men swear devoutly
by the cross and mass, or by such innocent oaths as the pyx or the
mousefoot. Now they invite damnation as their pledge of sincerity.
"Goddamn-me," he repines, had then become the customary oath. This
appears to us to be the first intimation of the fact that we find in
English literature.[14]
Neither was amusement neglected to be created out of this new
word-sally. In one of the comedies which throw so much light upon the
manners of the time, a piece called 'Amends for Ladies,' from the pen of
Nat Field, we are introduced among a so-called society of roarers. The
experiment had been already tried by Thomas Middleton, who, in his
'Faire Quarrel,' had initiated his audience into the exercises of a
pretended roaring-school. The notion was simply that the young idlers
about town met together to acquire perfection in the arts of bombast and
exaggeration. In the former production, a Lord Feesimple is supposed to
be enjoying the coveted distinction of being drilled into becoming a
roarer. As was usual in these performances, the characters pass from one
insolence to another, until at last swords are drawn and general uproar
prevails. But what upon the present occasion has given rise to the
misunderstanding, is the unlucky assumption by Feesimple of one of the
roysterers' private and particular oaths. In an ill-omened moment he has
presumed to exclaim, "Damn me!" whereupon a certain Tearchaps who has
been noticeable through the play as the improprietor of the term, very
loudly objects--"Use your own words, damn me is mine; I am known by it
all the town o'er. D'ye hear?"
Feesimple, although disposed to contest the other's title, is happily
brought to order by the timely interference of one Welltried, whose
knowledge of such matters enables him to bear out the truth of the
assertion. This play, produced in 1618 and acted upon the stage of the
Blackfriars, tallies in substance with Harrington's verses produced in
the earlier year.
Allied to this expression is a phrase which may even be said to have a
kind of literary merit. "Don't care a damn" is indicative of about the
utmost possible amount of unconcern. It would be in vain to seek for any
object more intrinsically inconsiderable with which to liken a
condition of indifference. Anstey seizes upon it in his 'Bath Guide':--
"Absurd as I am,
I don't care a damn
Either for you or your valet-de-sham."
But curiously enough this figure of speech was originally as independent
of the "shibboleth" as we have seen that was of the classic "damno."
There is in India a piece of money of the minutest value, which is known
as a _dam_. The phrase, therefore, so far from originating in a fanciful
comparison, really does nothing more than announce a prosaic fact. It
has been said that the expression was occasionally used by the "great
Duke," a circumstance for which the Indian experiences of the victor of
Assaye has been held sufficient to account. Mr. Trevelyan, indeed, in
his 'Life of Lord Macaulay' (ii. 257) states positively that the Duke of
Wellington invented this oath.
Etymology, which has thus brushed away what one might have taken to be a
thoroughly characteristic expression, also supplies a matter-of-fact
explanation for another modification of the phrase. "Don't care a
curse," or "Not worth a curse," we might fondly imagine to possess
something of poetic imagery. The learned in derivations undeceive us.
They say that the word _curse_ is here identical with the plant
"cress." In that sense, "not worth a curse" will be found in Piers
Ploughman's Vision, the remarkable work of the fourteenth century.
* * * * *
Since the days when City madams and Fleet Street apprentices flocked
round the dusty scaffold of the Blackfriars play-house, and laughed and
rallied one another, or possibly took passing umbrage at the satire that
was being levelled at this newly-nurtured word, what a remarkable, what
an astounding ascendancy has it not enjoyed? No mint has ever issued its
metal more swiftly than has this exchequer of bad language, or given it
a more unmistakable impression. And yet there is nothing healthful,
nothing good in it. From the disorders which first environed it, it has
never yet recovered. It lives only by disease and unhealthiness, and
when it has rid itself of disease and unhealthiness it will die.