[Footnote 1: deface]
[Footnote 2: her]
[Footnote 3: that]
[Footnote 4: himself up]
[Footnote 5: that]
[Footnote 6: shaved]
* * * * *
No. 165. Saturday, September 8, 1711. Addison.
'... Si fortè necesse est,
Fingere cinctutis non exaudita Cethegis
Continget: dabiturque licentia sumpta pudenter.' [1]
Hor.
I have often wished, that as in our Constitution there are several
Persons whose Business it is to watch over our Laws, our Liberties and
Commerce, certain Men might be set apart as Superintendants of our
Language, to hinder any Words of a Foreign Coin from passing among us;
and in particular to prohibit any _French_ Phrases from becoming Current
in this Kingdom, when those of our own Stamp are altogether as valuable.
The present War has so Adulterated our Tongue with strange Words that it
would be impossible for one of our Great Grandfathers to know what his
Posterity have been doing, were he to read their Exploits in a Modern
News Paper. Our Warriors are very industrious in propagating the
_French_ Language, at the same time that they are so gloriously
successful in beating down their Power. Our Soldiers are Men of strong
Heads for Action, and perform such Feats as they are not able to
express. They want Words in their own Tongue to tell us what it is they
Atchieve, and therefore send us over Accounts of their Performances in a
Jargon of Phrases, which they learn among their Conquered Enemies. They
ought however to be provided with Secretaries, and assisted by our
Foreign Ministers, to tell their Story for them in plain _English_, and
to let us know in our Mother-Tongue what it is our brave Country-Men are
about. The _French_ would indeed be in the right to publish the News of
the present War in _English_ Phrases, and make their Campaigns
unintelligible. Their People might flatter themselves that Things are
not so bad as they really are, were they thus palliated with Foreign
Terms, and thrown into Shades and Obscurity: but the _English_ cannot be
too clear in their Narrative of those Actions, which have raised their
Country to a higher Pitch of Glory than it ever yet arrived at, and
which will be still the more admired the better they are explained.
For my part, by that time a Siege is carried on two or three Days, I am
altogether lost and bewildered in it, and meet with so many inexplicable
Difficulties, that I scarce know what Side has the better of it, till I
am informed by the Tower Guns that the Place is surrendered. I do indeed
make some Allowances for this Part of the War, Fortifications having
been foreign Inventions, and upon that Account abounding in foreign
Terms. But when we have won Battels [which [2]] may be described in our
own Language, why are our Papers filled with so many unintelligible
Exploits, and the _French_ obliged to lend us a Part of their Tongue
before we can know how they are Conquered? They must be made accessory
to their own Disgrace, as the _Britons_ were formerly so artificially
wrought in the Curtain of the _Roman_ Theatre, that they seemed to draw
it up in order to give the Spectators an Opportunity of seeing their own
Defeat celebrated upon the Stage: For so Mr. _Dryden_ has translated
that Verse in _Virgil_.
[_Purpurea intexti_ [3]] _tollunt auloea Britanni_.
(Georg. 3, v. 25.)
_Which interwoven_ Britains _seem to raise_,
_And shew the Triumph that their Shame displays_.
The Histories of all our former Wars are transmitted to us in our
Vernacular Idiom, to use the Phrase of a great Modern Critick. [4] I do
not find in any of our Chronicles, that _Edward_ the Third ever
reconnoitred the Enemy, tho' he often discovered the Posture of the
_French_, and as often vanquished them in Battel. The _Black Prince_
passed many a River without the help of Pontoons, and filled a Ditch
with Faggots as successfully as the Generals of our Times do it with
Fascines. Our Commanders lose half their Praise, and our People half
their Joy, by means of those hard Words and dark Expressions in which
our News Papers do so much abound. I have seen many a prudent Citizen,
after having read every Article, inquire of his next Neighbour what News
the Mail had brought.
I remember in that remarkable Year when our Country was delivered from
the greatest Fears and Apprehensions, and raised to the greatest Height
of Gladness it had ever felt since it was a Nation, I mean the Year of
_Blenheim_, I had the Copy of a Letter sent me out of the Country, which
was written from a young Gentleman in the Army to his Father, a Man of a
good Estate and plain Sense: As the Letter was very modishly chequered
with this Modern Military Eloquence, I shall present my Reader with a
Copy of it.
_SIR_,
Upon the Junction of the _French_ and _Bavarian_ Armies they took Post
behind a great Morass which they thought impracticable. Our General
the next Day sent a Party of Horse to reconnoitre them from a little
Hauteur, at about a [Quarter of an Hour's [5]] distance from the Army,
who returned again to the Camp unobserved through several Defiles, in
one of which they met with a Party of _French_ that had been
Marauding, and made them all Prisoners at Discretion. The Day after a
Drum arrived at our Camp, with a Message which he would communicate to
none but the General; he was followed by a Trumpet, who they say
behaved himself very saucily, with a Message from the Duke of
_Bavaria_. The next Morning our Army being divided into two Corps,
made a Movement towards the Enemy: You will hear in the Publick Prints
how we treated them, with the other Circumstances of that glorious
Day. I had the good Fortune to be in that Regiment that pushed the
_Gens d'Arms_. Several _French_ Battalions, who some say were a Corps
de Reserve, made a Show of Resistance; but it only proved a Gasconade,
for upon our preparing to fill up a little Fossé, in order to attack
them, they beat the Chamade, and sent us _Charte Blanche_. Their
Commandant, with a great many other General Officers, and Troops
without number, are made Prisoners of War, and will I believe give you
a Visit in _England_, the Cartel not being yet settled. Not
questioning but these Particulars will be very welcome to you, I
congratulate you upon them, and am your most dutiful Son, &c.'
The Father of the young Gentleman upon the Perusal of the Letter found
it contained great News, but could not guess what it was. He immediately
communicated it to the Curate of the Parish, who upon the reading of it,
being vexed to see any thing he could not understand, fell into a kind
of a Passion, and told him that his Son had sent him a Letter that was
neither Fish, nor Flesh, nor good Red-Herring. I wish, says he, the
Captain may be _Compos Mentis_, he talks of a saucy Trumpet, and a Drum
that carries Messages; then who is this _Charte Blanche_? He must either
banter us or he is out of his Senses. The Father, who always looked upon
the Curate as a learned Man, began to fret inwardly at his Son's Usage,
and producing a Letter which he had written to him about three Posts
afore, You see here, says he, when he writes for Mony he knows how to
speak intelligibly enough; there is no Man in England can express
himself clearer, when he wants a new Furniture for his Horse. In short,
the old Man was so puzzled upon the Point, that it might have fared ill
with his Son, had he not seen all the Prints about three Days after
filled with the same Terms of Art, and that _Charles_ only writ like
other Men.