The popular pronunciation of this word in the eighteenth century
was _sparrow-grass_. This was felt by the orthoepists, however, to
be a vulgar corruption of the word, and they therefore strove with
concerted effort to stem the popular tide and to make the pronunciation
conform to abstract propriety as indicated by the spelling. Walker,
in commenting upon the pronunciation of the word, remarks, as if
apologizing for the theoretically correct form which he recommends,
that “the corruption of the word into _sparrow-grass_ is so general
that asparagus has an air of stiffness and pedantry.” Another word
with a no less interesting history is _cucumber_. This word used to
be generally pronounced _cowcumber_. The popular pronunciation of
this word as well as of _asparagus_, once so universal, has survived
even up to the present in the lingo of the illiterate whites of New
England and in the Negro dialect. This vulgar pronunciation which was
a thorn in the flesh to the eighteenth century lexicographers, it is
instructive to note in passing, was not the result of mere caprice, but
was warranted by an old variant spelling of the word. This historic
spelling, long since discarded altogether by the users of English, was
formerly very prevalent and in good literary usage. Hence little wonder
that the vulgar pronunciation for a long time contested the supremacy
with the mode of utterance now universally accepted. Even so high an
authority as Mr. Pepys refers in his “Diary” to a certain man as “dead
of eating cowcumbers.” It was not till wellnigh the middle of the last
century that the orthoepists Knowles and Smart ventured to denounce
_cowcumber_ along with _sparrow-grass_ as vulgar and therefore tabooed
in polite circles.
It is a well-established fact in the history of English pronunciation
that in the seventeenth century and far into the following century such
words as _spoil_, _toil_, _boil_, and so on, were pronounced, even in
best usage, precisely as they are uttered to-day in the Negro dialect
and by the illiterate whites among us, that is, just as if they were
written “spile,” “tile” and “bile.” This is conclusively proved by the
rhymes of Dryden and Pope.[9] It is further evident from the rhymes
of the poets of the latter half of the eighteenth century that this
archaic pronunciation persisted almost down to the beginning of the
last century. This pronunciation was regarded by the orthoepists as
antiquated and vulgar, and they did not fail to denounce it in strong
terms, warning against its use. In 1773 Kenrick records with mingled
regret and disgust that it would appear affected to pronounce such
words as _boil_, _join_ and many others otherwise than as “bile” and
“jine.” But toward the close of the eighteenth century the present
pronunciation began to prevail and “the banished diphthong,” as Nares
records with triumphant delight, “seemed at length to be upon its
return.” This same orthoepist informs us, and we may well believe
him, that it was the authority of the poets, who had pilloried the
offensive pronunciation in their verse, that retarded the progress of
the received sound of the diphthong which finally triumphed.
The early lexicographers were divided on the pronunciation of _vase_.
Indeed, two centuries have not sufficed to unite their successors in
perfect harmony on this question. The word to-day vacillates between
four received pronunciations. The great unwashed pronounce _vase_ to
rhyme with _base_ and _case_. Some pronounce the word as if written
“vaz” with “the broad a.” Others, associating it with its French
equivalent, pronounce the word “vauze.” Others still pronounce it
so as to rhyme with _amaze_ and _gaze_. Of these four pronunciations
the first is the most prevalent to-day, as it also was two centuries
ago. According to the Century Dictionary, the word was introduced into
English during the latter half of the seventeenth century, and after
the analogy of words of its class, it would naturally be pronounced so
as to rhyme with _case_ and _base_. But the recency of the word and
its familiar association with art have given rise to the attempt to
make it conform to the analogy of the French pronunciation and sound
it as if written “vauze.” The early occasional spelling of the word
as _vause_ doubtless contributed somewhat to the extension of this
latter pronunciation. This French pronunciation, says the Century, is
now affected by many. It is worth while to remark, however, that while
the Century recognizes the French pronunciation, it still gives the
preference to the old historic pronunciation, viz., that rhyming with
_case_ and _base_.
Now, in the eighteenth century some of the orthoepists favored one
pronunciation and some another. Sheridan, Scott, Kenrick, Perry and
Buchanan declared for the pronunciation rhyming with _case_ and _base_.
On the other hand, Smith, Johnston and Walker expressed themselves
in favor of “vaze.” Walker says that he has uniformly heard it so
pronounced, but adds the significant remark that the word is pronounced
according to the French fashion “sometimes by people of refinement; but
this, being too refined for the general ear, is now but seldom heard,”
This French pronunciation, however strange the comment may appear to
us in view of his wide acquaintance with English usage, the late Mr. A.
J. Ellis averred was the most familiar to him. So the struggle between
the several pronunciations of _vase_ continues still, and no one can
say which will ultimately prevail.
Another interesting illustration of vacillation of usage two centuries
ago is furnished in the pronunciation of _either_ and _neither_. Like
the word _vase_, these words show incidentally how long a time two
pronunciations of the same word may linger in good usage before either
supplants the other. There is to-day probably as much variation in
the pronunciation of _either_ and _neither_ as there was a century
and a half ago. Early in the eighteenth century the _i_ sound was
conceded by some of the orthoepists as permissible in these words. Two
authorities, Buchanan and Johnston, declared for the new pronunciation,
that is, “ither” and “nither.” But since they were both Scotchmen,
their authority was discounted. On the other hand, Sheridan and Walker
recommended the _e_ sound and used their influence to bespeak for
it general endorsement. They recognized the _i_ sound, to be sure,
but only on sufferance. From that day to the present the battle has
waged more or less fiercely between the advocates of these respective
pronunciations of _either_ and _neither_. Which will ultimately
prevail, it is impossible to determine. It may be said, however, that
analogy and history are on the side of the _e_ sound. Yet the _i_ sound
appears to be encroaching at present on the former pronunciation.
There is still another pronunciation of these words which we now
rarely hear. I refer to the old dialectical pronunciation as “ather”
and “nather.” This pronunciation was current in Doctor Johnson’s time,
though it probably did not enjoy the sanction of good usage. On being
asked one day whether he regarded “ither,” or “ether” as the proper
pronunciation of _either_, the old Doctor is said to have blurted out
in his characteristic crabbed manner, “Nather, Sir!” This pronunciation
survives now only as an Irishism.
Another class of former pronunciations surviving now as an Irishism,
or at best as a provincialism merely, is exemplified by such words
as _nature_, _creature_ and _picture_. In Dryden’s and Pope’s time
these words were pronounced “nater,” “crater” and “picter.”[10] These
pronunciations are preserved still in the Yankee dialect, as shown in
Lowell’s inimitable Biglow Papers, and of course they are frequently
heard on Irish lips. But they long ago dropped out of the speech of
polite society. There is one notable exception found in the word
figure. The variant pronunciation of this word as “figer” survives in
standard English as a heritage from the seventeenth century.
Quite as instructive an illustration of survivals in pronunciation,
is furnished by the British pronunciation of _clerk_ and _Derby_. The
English, as is well known, pronounce these words as if written “clark”
and “Darby.” They used to pronounce _clergy_ with the same vowel
sound, and many other words besides. But it is a significant sign
of the approaching change in British usage in respect to these words
that a recent British dictionary, the New Historical, in commenting on
_clerk_ admits that the American pronunciation of this word has become
somewhat frequent of late in London and its neighborhood. (Are we to
look upon this as a result of the much-discussed American invasion?)
But our British cousins are still wedded to their Derby (Darby) and
show no sign of abandoning either the old pronunciation or the custom.
Even we Americans cling tenaciously to _serjeant_ and show but little
inclination to make that conform speedily to the analogy of other words
of its class and to pronounce it in accordance with the spelling.
But, no doubt, this word, also, in the course of time, will yield to
the pressure of analogy, and our time-honored _serjeant_, with the
flight of years, is destined to be classed among those pronunciations
that have lost caste. The early orthoepists uniformly pronounced this
entire class of words as our British cousins pronounce them at the
present time, that is, as if they were written “clark,” “sarjeant” and
so on. Indeed, it is the spelling that has been the main factor in
effecting the change in the pronunciation of these words. There is a
strong tendency in English to pronounce a word as it is written, and
this tendency has been asserting itself with ever increasing force
since English spelling has been crystallized and thereby rendered less
subject to preference or caprice.
A constantly recurring question, which never ceased to vex the spirit
of the early orthoepists, was, where to place the accent in the case
of _contemplate_, _demonstrate_, _illustrate_ and similar words of
classical origin. The question at issue here is whether the stress
shall fall upon the antepenultimate or the penultimate. Even with all
the accumulated knowledge of the centuries we are no nearer a solution
of this perplexing question than were the Elizabethans. Shakespeare
could say indifferently _cónfiscate_ or _confíscate_, _démonstrate_ or
_demónstrate_. Here the battle has been waged between the scholars, on
the one hand, who insist upon strict propriety, and the uninitiated,
on the other, who follow the line of least resistance and by intuition
place the accent upon the initial syllable. As is evident at a glance,
these words come to us from the classics. The scholars therefore,
somewhat pedantically, insist upon retaining the stress on the syllable
which bore it in the original Latin or Greek. _Per contra_, the common
people, who know “little Latin and less Greek” and care not a fig for
the original accent, instinctively throw the stress upon the first
syllable, in keeping with their feeling for their mother tongue. This
feeling for the language, which the Germans call “_Sprachgefühl_,”
is, after all, a safer guide than the rules laid down by the pedants.
Candor compels us to admit that the popular tendency is more in harmony
with the genius of our vernacular. But the scholars have made a brave
fight for what we may demoniate abstract propriety, and the result,
thus far, is a drawn battle. Each side has scored some points, and
each side has had to make some concessions. Thus _balcony_, _academy_,
_decorous_ and _metamorphosis_, to cite a few concrete examples, have
finally triumphed over the earlier pedantic pronunciations, which
required the accent on the penult of these words. _Horizon_, on the
other hand, stands as a monument of a concession to the learned, since
this word in Elizabethan times had the stress on the initial syllable,
as had also the name of the month July. Popular usage in favor of the
received pronunciation of _auditor_, _senator_, _victory_, _orator_
and many similar words has achieved a decided triumph over the early
orthoepists, who, it was very obvious, were fighting a losing battle in
their efforts to retain the classical accent.
It follows that pronunciation is the resultant product of several
forces which are silently but constantly acting upon the living
language. There are, to be sure, various methods of pronunciation,
but the standard is that sanctioned by the most cultivated circles of
society. Now, it is the function of the pronouncing dictionary, and
its sole reason for existence, to determine and record the usage of
the most cultured classes. But here is where the rub comes. This is
the stumbling-block in the way of the lexicographers. It may seem,
upon first blush, that the task of the orthoepist is easy enough. But
not so in actual practice. Countless and insuperable difficulties
soon begin to loom up a little ahead in the path of the intending
orthoepist, and he finds, to his regret and his occasional disgust,
that the way he has marked out for himself is not strewn with roses. It
is an arduous undertaking which holds out but meager hope of successful
accomplishment, to make an accurate record of the pronunciation
received in any large class of society. The labor and trouble are
multiplied many times when an attempt is made to determine the best
orthoepical usage in a democracy. There is really no absolute standard
of pronunciation in English and there can not be, from the very nature
of the case, as Professor Lounsbury has clearly demonstrated in his
recent luminous book on this subject.
Yet it is unquestionably true that the pronouncing dictionary is
constantly making for uniformity of pronunciation. There is far less
difference in English orthoepy at the beginning of the twentieth
century, even despite the present diversity of good usage, than there
was at the beginning of the eighteenth century. A glance at the history
of the usage, if we may trust Professor Lounsbury, an eminent authority
on English pronunciation, will readily convince the reader of this
fact. This result is the direct outgrowth of the increased facilities
for intercourse between communities, and of the gradual diffusion of
education which the last two centuries have witnessed. With the spread
of education there go along those habits of speech which are generally
recognized to be in accord with best usage and which therefore have
most to commend them to popular favor. But till men cease to exercise
the right of choice in the mode of utterance, till men prefer, for the
sake of uniformity, to say exclusively “hóstǐle” and not “hostĩle,”
“sérvǐle” and not “servle,” “rise” and not “rice,” to mention an
example of variant usage, so long will there probably be a diversity of
pronunciation and the consequent need for the pronouncing dictionary.
This consummation so devoutly to be wished we may expect at the
Greek Kalends. We may rest assured, therefore, that the pronouncing
dictionary is here to stay.
Every man has his preference as to his pronouncing dictionary, which
he regards with more or less confidence and, may be, reverence, as
his final authority. To this he resorts in all orthoepical questions,
for final solution. This, of course, is a legitimate function of the
pronouncing dictionary. The fact is, the vocabulary of the average
educated man is so extremely limited and the vocabulary of the language
so extremely copious that there are thousands of words of a technical
character which even the most accomplished scholars have never once
heard uttered. The average educated man who knows that English spelling
is a very untrustworthy guide to pronunciation is perforce driven to
consult his Webster, or his Worcester, or his Standard, or mayhap his
Century. Only then can he pronounce an unfamiliar English word with any
assurance of propriety.
Notwithstanding the fact that every educated man has his favorite
dictionary, it is probably true that no man’s pronunciation is in
entire accord with the dictionary he habitually follows. The late
Mr. Ellis gave a suggestive test which I believe has never been
successfully challenged. “I do not remember,” said he, “ever meeting
with a person of general education, or even literary habits, who
could read off, without hesitation, the whole of such a list of words
as: bourgeois, demy, actinism, velleity, batman, beaufin, brevier,
rowlock, fusil, flugleman, vase, tassel, buoy, oboe, archimandrite,
etc., and give them in each case the same pronunciation as is assigned
in any given pronouncing dictionary now in use.” Let the reader
try these test words and see whether he pronounces this short list
according to any received authority in use at the present day.
It may not prove an altogether unprofitable inquiry how our pronouncing
dictionaries are made. Such an inquiry, if pursued, may teach us
somewhat of the methods of the orthoepists to ascertain good usage.
The method formerly adopted was very much after this fashion: The
lexicographer studies in his own library the pronouncing dictionary
of everybody who has taken the pains to compile one, whether he be
an Englishman, an Irishman, a Scotchman, or an American. He compares
these several dictionaries and records their variations. From these he
selects those pronunciations which, for any special reason, commend
themselves to his individual taste or judgment. These are usually such
pronunciations as he is accustomed to hear or himself to use. These are
published with the stamp of the lexicographer’s authority and approval,
and the dictionary is sent out into the world as so-and-so’s record of
the most approved usage.
This was doubtless the way pronouncing dictionaries used to be
compiled. But we may believe that this method is not the course
ordinarily followed by the authors of our best modern dictionaries.
If our best standard dictionaries to-day were made in this fashion,
their authority would richly deserve to be heavily discounted for
such carelessness of method. But greater efforts are made by the most
recent orthoepists, we may believe, to determine the accepted usage
in polite society. Yet, after all, the personal equation enters as an
important factor into the compilation of every pronouncing dictionary.
The author or authors who compile the dictionary naturally follow
their own preferences and prejudices in the matter of pronunciation;
and their results, even at best, repose on very restricted and
imperfect observation. An orthoepist ought not to be cocksure and
dogmatic. Indeed, the proper attitude of the author of a dictionary
is that of the late Mr. Ellis. It was quite natural that a man of his
superior scholarship and rare orthoepical attainments should have been
frequently asked as to the proper pronunciation of a particular word.
“It has not unfrequently happened,” observes Mr. Ellis in his
monumental work on “Early English Pronunciation,” in reference to his
practice, when appealed to as an authority, “It has not unfrequently
happened that the present writer has been appealed to respecting the
pronunciation of a word. He generally replies that he is accustomed
to pronounce it in such or such a way, and has often to add that he
has heard others pronounce it differently, but that he has no means of
deciding which pronunciation ought to be adopted, or even of saying
which is the more customary.”
This attitude will, no doubt, commend itself to the favor of the
reflecting and judicious man much more forcibly than that spirit of
assumed infallibility which is a sure sign, in an orthoepist, of
insufficient knowledge and lack of preparation for his work. The
business of a lexicographer is to record what good usage authorizes,
not to tell us what we shall not use. The orthoepist who goes farther,
and dogmatically asserts that a given pronunciation is correct and
another incorrect, transcends the legitimate bounds of his province.
Moreover, he arouses suspicion in the minds of the thoughtful as to
his trustworthiness as a guide in matters of pronunciation. For no
orthoepist records all the pronunciations sanctioned by good usage, and
no one therefore can affirm positively that a given pronunciation of a
word may not be warranted by reputable usage in some quarter. Even so
high an authority and careful an observer as Ellis lapsed into error in
his comment upon the pronunciation of _trait_, claiming that the silent
final _t_ was an unfailing shibboleth of British practice. As a matter
of fact, the pronunciation of the final letter of _trait_, as Professor
Lounsbury has clearly shown,[11] had been recognized by English
orthoepists as allowable for more than a century. It is manifest that
one can not afford to be very positive in English orthoepy: if he
is, he will be compelled either to retract or to qualify some of his
sweeping statements.
The pronouncing dictionary is, as a general rule, a good guide to
standard usage, though it can not be relied upon implicitly. When
the orthoepists are all agreed upon a particular pronunciation, one
ought to be very chary of using one’s customary or pet pronunciation
that differs. The chances are that it is not in good repute. But
when, on the contrary, the orthoepists themselves differ, one may
reasonably infer that no statement of any one of them about the proper
pronunciation of a word, however positive it may be, ought to be
recognized as a binding authority. For no pronouncing dictionary is an
absolutely final authority. Nor can it ever justly claim to be, since
the pronouncing dictionary purports to record only such pronunciations
as are sanctioned by good usage, and good usage ever varies with the
living speech, which, like all living things, is always slowly changing
from century to century. The change is sometimes so gradual that
hardly the lapse of a century will reveal it. Again, for one reason or
another, it is so rapid in development that even a generation suffices
to record it.
FOOTNOTES:
[8] See A Question of Preference in Spelling.
[9] See Vulgarisms With A Pedigree.
[10] See Vulgarisms With A Pedigree.
[11] The Standard of Pronunciation in English, p. 230.
VULGARISMS WITH A PEDIGREE.
Never before was there so much enthusiasm manifested in linguistic
studies as during the last quarter of a century, and even yet there
is no indication of a waning interest. Not only have languages been
studied in their relation to one another, but dialects also have come
in for their share of attention in the pursuit of these studies.
Nor has our own country been backward in contributing, through its
dialectal and various philological associations, its quota to the
science of philology. Authors in different parts of the country have
written long and (it must be confessed, sometimes) tedious stories in
the individual dialects of their respective localities. There are books
in the dialect of the negro, as, for example, Thomas Nelson Page’s, to
mention only one writer of a large class, those in the dialect of the
Tennessee mountains, as, for example, Miss Murfee’s books, those in
the dialect of the “Georgia cracker,” as the stories of Joel Chandler
Harris, and a host of others in various parts of the country. These
books are almost like the sands of the seashore for number.
So numerous and varied are the local dialects in this country that
a contributor to the North American Review, some few years ago,
ventured the thesis that from the very nature of the diverse and
varied character of our local dialects, there can not be any such
thing as a great national novel in the United States. While this, it
must be admitted, is a somewhat extreme view, to which many do not
feel prepared to subscribe, the fact yet remains that there are marked
dialectal peculiarities in the spoken language of certain localities.
These dialectal peculiarities, however, are fast disappearing before
the onward march of the unifying influence of education, the printing
press, and the railroad. When the leavening power of education has
permeated the entire population of the country, there will result
uniformity of speech, and dialectal variations from the common norm
will linger but as a tradition.
The dialect authors, in the meantime, are doing the reading public a
service in furnishing it with entertaining stories of an elevating
character. Moreover, some of them at least, as for example, Page,
Harris and others, are rendering literature and science an ulterior
service, consciously or unconsciously, in preserving in their books
types of a people and their speech which a wave of oblivion is rapidly
sweeping away.