Opuscula: Essays chiefly Philological and Ethnographical

by R. G. Latham

INAUGURAL LECTURE

DELIVERED AT
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON,
OCTOBER 14, 1839.

Instead of detaining you with a dissertation upon the claims and the merits of our Language, it may perhaps be better to plunge at once into the middle of my subject, and to lay before you, as succinctly as I am able, the plan and substance of such Lectures as, within these walls, I promise myself the honour of delivering. For I consider that the vast importance of thoroughly understanding, of comprehending, in its whole length, and breadth, and height, and depth, the language which we all speak, we all read, and we all (in different degrees, but still each in our degree) have occasion to write—the importance also of justly and upon true grounds, valuing the magnificent literature of which we are the inheritors—I consider, I say, that the vast importance of all this is sufficiently implied by the simple single fact, that, in this Institution, the English Language, with the English Literature, is recognized as part and parcel of a liberal education. It may also be assumed, without further preface, that every educated man is, at once, ambitious of writing his own Language well; of criticizing those who write it badly; and of taking up his admiration of our National Literature, not upon Trust but upon Knowledge.

Thus having premised, I now proceed to the divisions and the subdivisions of my subject. For certain practical purposes it is found expedient to draw, between the consideration of the English Language, and the consideration of the English Literature, a broad line of demarcation. The knowledge of books is one thing; the knowledge of the rules of good composition is another thing. It is one thing to know what other men have written; it is another thing to know how you should yourself write. The one is a point of Literary History, or of Literary Biography; the other is a point of Rhetoric, or a point of Grammar. I do not say that the two studies do not mutually assist each other. All studies do so: these in a great degree. Familiarity with the works of a Shakspeare or a Milton, is an accomplishment—an accomplishment that depends upon our taste, and one which depends also upon our leisure—an accomplishment which cannot be too highly valued, but still an accomplishment. Familiarity, however, with the rules of good writing is not a mere accomplishment. It is a necessary qualification which comes home to us all. Now if I am convinced of one thing more than of another, I am convinced of the truth of this assertion; viz.: that a good style comes not of itself; it comes not uncalled for; and it comes neither by instinct nor by accident. It is the result of art, and the result of practise. The Rules of good Composition are the rules of Rhetoric; and it is very necessary that they be neither neglected nor undervalued. Two classes of men, and two classes only, can pretend to dispense with them—those that can write well, and those that cannot write at all.

The English Language is pre-eminently a mixed Language. Its basis indeed is Saxon, but upon this basis lies a very varied superstructure, of Danish and of Norman-French, of Modern French and of Greek, of Classical Latin and of the Latin of the Middle Ages imported at different periods and upon different occasions. Words from these languages are comprehended by the writer just in the proportion that he comprehends their origin and their derivation. Hence it is that the knowledge of isolated words is subordinate to the formation of a style; and hence it is that the rules for their investigation are (their aim and object being alone considered) akin to the rules of Rhetoric.

This however is but a small part of what may be our studies. It is well to know how Time affects Languages, and in what way it modifies them. It is well to know how one dialect grows out of another, and how its older stages differ from its newer ones. It is well if we can perceive that these variations are in no wise arbitrary; but it is better still if we can discover the laws that regulate them. Yet all this is but a knowledge of the changes that words undergo, a knowledge of the changes in their form, and a knowledge of the changes in their meaning. Now these points are points of Etymology, the word being used in its very laxest and its largest sense; and points of Etymology must, in no wise, be neglected or undervalued.

Lectures upon these questions will form the Etymological part of a course; and Lectures upon Prose Composition the Rhetorical part of one; whilst the two, taken together, will give a course upon the English Language, in contradistinction to one upon the English Literature.

In respect to the latter, I shall, at regular intervals, fix upon some new period, or some new subject, and, to the best of my power, illustrate it.

Thus much for the divisions and subdivisions of the subject-matter.

The considerations that come next in order are the considerations of the manner of exhibiting it, the considerations of the knowledge that can be detailed, and the considerations of the trains of thought that can be inculcated.

There are those who believe that a good style is not to be taught. Many think that the habit of writing good Prose, is like the power of creating good Poetry; a privilege that we are born to, and not a possession that we can earn; and a wit once said that, in order to write clearly, it was only necessary to understand what you would write about. If this be true, then is composition an easy matter indeed; or, to say the very least, a perspicuous style is as common as a clear understanding. The experience of the world has, however, set aside the decision of the wit, and the practice of inexperienced writers has belied his dogma. To write well you must understand not only the matter but the medium. Thus then it is, that, with respect to the use of books, and with respect to the use of rules, in our attempts at the formation of a good style, some persons neglect them as unavailing, and some despise them as superfluous.

Towards accurate writing Habit of some sort is indispensably essential. Yet this indispensable habit is not necessarily a habit of writing. A person who writes no more frequently than the common occasions of life demand, shall eventually, provided that he will habitually write his best, write accurately. Now the habit of criticism, and the habit of attention essential to habits of writing our best, a second person is, I think, able to inculcate. Such a second person should be familiar with bad as well as with good writing; even, as the physician shall grow conversant, not with health only, but with disease also. He should know what are the more egregious errors in composition; he should know also what are the more usual ones. He should be learned in the inaccuracies of good authors, and deeply erudite in the absurdities of bad ones; recognizing false taste under all its disguises, and holding up, as a beacon to avoid, the pitiful ambition of mannerism and of writing finely. The principles by which he tries these things, he can lay before his hearers; and he can illustrate them with a prodigality of commentary. And those who hearken shall thus grow critical. And, mark—the reader that continually and habitually criticizes others, soon comes to, continually and habitually, criticize himself. He grows fastidious, as it were, perforce.

In this way two things may be done: our criticism may be sharpened, and its edge may be turned upon ourselves. At this I aim, and not at teaching Rhetoric systematically.

The father of Horace, as we learn from the testimony of his son, was peculiar in his notions of education. In his eyes it was easier to eschew Vice than to imitate Virtue. Too wise a man not to know that an unapproachable model was no model at all, he let (for instance) the modesty of Virgil (as modest virtues generally contrive to do) speak for itself. But he counselled his son against the prodigality of Barrus, and held up, with parental prudence, the detected peccadilloes of Trebonius.

Now the system, that produces a negative excellence in morals, may produce also a negative excellence in literature. More than this (for the truth must be told) Art can not do. For Wit, and Vigour, and Imagination we must be indebted to Nature.

I know that the system of picking out, and holding up, either a neighbour's foibles, or an author's inelegancies, is not a gracious occupation; the question, however, is, not whether it be gracious or ungracious but whether it be efficient or inefficient.

Whosoever is conversant with the writings of etymologists must be well aware, that there are few subjects wherein men run wild to the degree that they run wild in Etymology. A little learning, dangerous everywhere, is preeminently dangerous in Etymology. There has been in the world an excess of bad etymology for two reasons.

The discovery of remote analogies is not only mental exercise, but, worse luck, it is a mental amusement as well. The imagination is gratified, and Criticism thinks it harsh to interpose.

Again, there is no language that a man so willingly illustrates as he illustrates his own. He knows it best, and he studies it with the greatest ease. He loves it not wisely but too well. He finds in its structure new and peculiar beauties; he overvalues its excellence, and he exaggerates its antiquity. Such are the men who talk—in Wales, of the ubiquity of the Celts; in Germany, of the Teutonic Origin of the Romans; and in Ireland of the Phœnician extraction of the Milesians.

Thus then, two out of the Thousand and One causes of bad Etymology are the reason psychological, and the reason patriotic. Nemini credendum de Patria sua.

I think that at the entrance upon an unsettled subject, a man should boldly say, and say at the very onset of his career, upon whose opinions he relies, and whose opinions he distrusts. He should profess himself, not indeed the implicit follower of any School, but he should name the School that he preferred. He should declare whose books he could recommend, and whose he would eschew. Thus, if I were lecturing upon Geology, I should say, at once, whether I were what is called a Scriptural Geologist or a Latitudinarian one: And thus, in the department in point, I name the writers I put faith in. In the works of Grimm and Rask I place much trust; in those of Horne Tooke some; and in those of Whiter and Vallancey (to name small men along with great) none whatsoever.

In the study of the Languages that have ceased to be spoken we find, in an Etymological view, one thing, and one thing only; words as they have been affected by previous processes of change; in other terms, the results of these processes. But in the Language that we hear spoken around us, and, still more, in the Language that we ourselves speak, we find something more than results; we find the processes that give occasion to them; in other terms, we see the change as it takes place. Within the lifetime of an individual, within even a very few years, those that look may find, not only that certain words are modified in respect to their meaning, and certain letters modified, in respect to their pronunciation, but they may also see how these modifications are brought about, ascertaining—of words the intermediate meanings, and of letters the intermediate sounds. We may trace the gradations throughout. We can, of our own Language, and in our own Times, see, with a certainty, what change our Language more especially affects; we can observe its tendencies. And we can do this because we can find towards what particular laxities (be they of meaning or be they of pronunciation) ourselves and our neighbours more especially have a bias. We can, as it were, prophesy. We cannot do this with the Latin of Augustus; we cannot do it with the Greek of Pericles.

Hence it is that what we will know, to a certainty, of Etymological processes, must be collected from Cotemporary Languages. Those who look for them elsewhere seek for the Living among the Dead; arguing from things unknown (at least unknown to a certainty), and so speculating laxly, and dogmatizing unphilosophically. Hence it is, that in Cotemporary Languages, and of those Cotemporary Languages, in our own most especially, we may lay deep and strong, and as the only true substratum of accurate criticism, the foundations of our knowledge of Etymological Processes. And, observe, we can find them in a sufficient abundance provided that we sufficiently look out for them. For Processes, the same in kind, though not the same in degree, are found in all languages alike. No process is found in any one language that is not also found (in some degree or other) in our own; and no process can be found in our own language which does not (in some degree or other) exist in all others beside. There are no such things as Peculiar Processes: since Languages differ from each other, not in the nature of their Processes, but in the degrees of their development. These are bold, perhaps novel, assertions, but they are not hasty ones.[1]

Simply considered as an Instrument of Etymology I imagine that the study of Cotemporary Languages is, in its importance, of the very first degree; while next in value to this (considered also, as an Instrument of Etymology,) is the study of Languages during what may be called their breakings-up, or their transitions.

There are two stages in Language. Through these two stages all Languages, sooner or later, make their way; some sooner than others, but all sooner or later. Of this the Latin language may serve as an illustration. In the time of Augustus it expressed the relations of Time and Place, in other words, its Cases and Tenses, by Declension and Conjugation, or, broadly speaking, by Inflexion. In the time of Dante there was little or no Inflexion, but there was an abundance of Auxiliary Verbs, and an abundance of Prepositions in its stead. The expression of Time and Place by independent words superseded the expression by Inflections. Now in all Languages the inflectional stage comes first. This is a Law. There are Languages that stay for ever (at least for an indefinite time) in their earlier stage. Others there are again, that we never come in contact with before they have proceeded to their later one. Languages of this latter kind are of subordinate value to the Etymologist. Those that he values most are such as he sees in the two stages: so being enabled to watch the breaking-up of one, the constitution of the other, and the transition intermediate to the two.

Now our own language (the Anglo Saxon being borne in mind) comes under the conditions that constitute a good and sufficient language as a disciplinal foundation in Etymology. It can be studied in two stages. When we come to the Times of the Conquest we must gird up our loins for the acquisition of a new Language.

The Breaking-up of the Latin (I speak for the sake of illustration and comparison) is a study in itself. It is a study complete and sufficient; not, however, more so than is the study of the Breaking-up of the Gothic. For in this stock of Tongues, not only did the Saxon pass into the English, but the Mœso-Gothic, the Scandinavian, and the Frisian, each gave origin to some new Tongue; the first to the High German, the second to the Languages of Scandinavia, and the third to the Modern Dutch. The study then of the Languages of the Gothic stock is something more than a sufficient disciplinal foundation in Etymology.[2]

In matters of pronunciation, living Languages have an exclusive advantage. For dead Languages speak but to the eye; and it is not through the eye that the ear is to be instructed.

It is well for the Geologist to classify rocks, and to arrange strata, to distinguish minerals, and to determine fossils; but it is far better if, anterior to this, he will study the Powers of Nature, and the Processes that are their operations: and these he can only study as he sees them in the times wherein he lives, or as he finds them recorded in authentic and undisputed histories. With this knowledge he can criticize, and construct; without it he may invent and imagine. Novel and ingenious he may, perchance, become; but he can never be philosophical, and he can never be Scientific. So it is with the Etymologist. Whenever, in a dead Language, he presumes a Process, which he has looked for in vain in a living one, he outruns his data. The basis of Etymology is the study of existing Processes.

Our Language has had its share; I must hasten to the consideration of our Literature.

The Early Literature of most modern Nations consists of the same elements; of Legends concerning their Saints, of Chronicles, and of Hymns and Romances. Too much of this fell into the hands of the Monks; and these were, too often, the prosaic writers of barbarous Latinity; for Prose (if not in language at least in idea) was, with them, the rule; and Poetry the exception. Such is the general character of the Early Modern Literature; in which, however, our Saxon ancestors were, somewhat (indeed much) more fortunate than their neighbours. Monkish writing was with them an important element; but it was not the only one. They had an originality besides. And the Scandinavians were more fortunate still. The worshippers of Odin and Thor had a Mythology; and Mythologies are the Creators and Creations of Poetry. The Norse Mythology is as poetical as the Grecian. I speak this advisedly. Now this Mythology was common to all the Gothic Tribes. The Saxon and the Norse Literatures dealt (each in their degree) with the same materials; they breathed the same spirit; and they clothed it in an allied Language. But the Saxon Mythology is fragmentary; while the Norse Mythology is a whole. For this reason Scandinavian (or Norse) Literature is not extraneous to my subject.

These, the primeval and Pagan times of our ancestors, must claim and arrest our attention; since it is from these that our characteristic modes of Thought (call them Gothic, or call them Romantic) are derived. In the regions of Paganism lie the dark fountains of our Nationality.

Beside this, I consider that, even in the matter of Language, the direct Scandinavian element of the English is much underrated;[3] and still more underrated is the indirect Scandinavian element of the Norman-French. And here, again, when we come to the Conquest, we must grapple with new dialects, irregular imaginations, and mystical and mysterious Mythologies; for the things that have a value in Language, have a value in History also.

Now come, in due order, and in lineal succession, the formation of our Early English Literature, and the days of Chaucer; and then those of Spenser: periods necessary to be illustrated, but which may be illustrated at a future time. And after these the Æra of Elizabeth, fertile in great men, and fertile in great poets; so much so, that (the full view being too extensive) it must be contemplated by instalments and in sections.

There are many reasons for choosing as a subject for illustration the Dramatic Poets of this Period. They stood as great men amid a race of great men; so doing, they have a claim on our attention on the simple solitary grounds of their own supereminent excellence. But, besides this, they are, with the exception of their one great representative, known but imperfectly. Too many of us consider the Age of Elizabeth as the Age of Shakspeare exclusively. Too many of us have been misled by the one-sided partiality of the Shakspearian commentators. These men, in the monomania of their idolatry, not only elevate their author into a Giant, but dwarve down his cotemporaries into pigmies. And who knows not how (on the moral side of the question) their writings are filled even to nauseousness, with the imputed malignity of Ben Jonson? Themselves being most malignant.

This, however, has been, by the labor of a late editor, either wholly done away with, or considerably diluted. Be it with us a duty, and be it with us a labour of love, to seek those commentators who have rescued great men from the neglect of Posterity; and be our sympathies with the diligent antiquarian, who shows that obloquy has originated unjustly; and be our approbation with those who have corrected the errors of Fame, loosely adopted, and but lately laid aside.

Yet here we must guard against a reaction. Malone, and his compeers, valued, or seemed to value, the Elizabethan Drama, just for the light that it threw upon the text of their idol. Gifford, goaded into scorn by injustice, fought the fight on the other side, with strength and with spirit; but he fought it like a partizan; reserving (too much, but as Editors are wont to do,) his admiration and his eulogy for those whom he himself edited. Next came Hazlitt and Charles Lamb; who found undiscovered beauties in poets still more neglected. I think, however, that they discovered these beauties, or at any rate that they exaggerated them, in a great degree on account of their being neglected.

Be there here a more Catholic criticism! be there here eulogies more discriminate! be there here tastes less exclusive!

The Elizabethan Drama is pre-eminently independent, it is pre-eminently characteristic, it is also pre-eminently English. It is deeply, very deeply, imbued, with the colours and complexion of the age that gave it origin. It has much Wisdom, and much Imagination. The last of our Early Dramatists is Shirley. With him terminates the School of Shakspeare. The transition hence is sudden and abrupt. Imagination decays; Wit predominates. Amatory poets write as though they wore their hearts in their heads. Wit is perfected. It had grown out of a degeneracy of Imagination; it will soon be sobered into Sense; Sense the predominant characteristic of the writers under Queen Anne. The school of Dryden passes into that of Pope, Prior being, as it were, intermediate. The Æra of the Charleses comprises two Schools; the School of Cowley, falsely called Metaphysical, with an excess of Fancy, and a deficiency of Taste, and the School of Dryden, whose masculine and fiery intellectuality simulates, aye! and is, genius. Tragedy has run retrograde; but Comedy is evolving itself towards a separate existence, and towards its full perfection. The Spirit of Milton stands apart from his cotemporaries; reflecting nothing of its age but its self-relying energy, moral and intellectual.

Now, although, the Schools of Cowley and the Schools of Dryden, differ essentially from that particular section of the Elizabethan Æra, which we have just contemplated, they do not differ, essentially, from another section of that same æra. Be this borne in mind. There are in Literature, no precipitate transitions. The greatest men, the most original thinkers, the most creative spirits stand less alone than the world is inclined to imagine. Styles of composition, that in one generation are rife and common, always exist in the age that went before. They were not indeed its leading characteristics, but still they were existent within it. The metrical Metaphysics of Cowley were the metrical metaphysics of Donne: the versified Dialectics of Dryden may be found, with equal condensation but less harmony, in the Elizabethan writings of Sir John Davies. The section of one age is the characteristic of the next. This line of criticism is a fair reason (one out of many) for never overlooking and never underrating obscure composers and obsolete literature.

The School of Pope, and the School of our own days, are too far in the prospective to claim any immediate attention.

And here I feel myself obliged to take leave of a subject, that continually tempts me to grow excursive.

There are two sorts of lecturers; those that absolutely teach, and those that stimulate to learn; those that exhaust their subject, and those that indicate its bearings; those that infuse into their hearers their own ideas, and those that set them a-thinking for themselves. For my own part, it is, I confess, my aim and ambition to succeed in the latter rather than in the former object. To carry such as hear me through a series of Authors, or through a course of Languages, in full detail, is evidently, even if it were desirable, an impossibility; but it is no impossibility to direct their attention to the prominent features of a particular subject, and to instil into them the imperious necessity of putting forth their own natural powers in an independent manner, so as to read for themselves, and to judge for themselves. Now as I would rather see a man's mind active than capacious; and, as I love Self-reliance better than Learning, I have no more sanguine expectation, than, that instead of exhausting my subject I may move you to exhaust it for yourselves, may sharpen criticism, may indicate original sources, and, above all, suggest trains of honest, earnest, patient and persevering reflection.