Bellua multorum es capitum; nam quid sequar, aut quem?
The question then is, what is reputable usage? On this subject philologists have been divided. Dr. Campbell appears to me to decide judiciously, when he says, that the usage, to which we must appeal, is not that of the court, or of great men, nor even of authors of profound science, but of those, whose works are esteemed by the public, and who may, therefore, be denominated reputable authors. By referring to their practice, he appeals to a standard less equivocal, than if he had resorted to the authority of good writers; for, as he justly observes, there may be various opinions respecting the merits of authors, when there may be no disagreement concerning the rank which they hold in the estimation of the public; and, because it is the esteem of the public, and not their intrinsic merit, (though these go generally hand in hand,) that raises them to distinction, and stamps a value on their language. Besides, it is to be observed, that consummate knowledge is not always accompanied with a talent for communicating it: hence the sentiment may be confessedly valuable, while the language is regarded as of no authority.
This usage must be, in the second place, national. It must not be confined to this or that province; it must not be the usage of this or that district, the peculiarities of which are always ridiculous, and frequently unintelligible beyond its own limits; but it must be the general language of the country, intelligible everywhere, and in no place ridiculous. And, though the variety of dialects may collectively form a greater number of authorities than national usage can boast, taken singly they are much fewer. Those, to use Campbell’s apposite similitude, who deviate from the beaten road, may be incomparably more numerous than those who travel in it; yet, into whatever number of by-paths the former may be divided, there may not be found in any one of these tracks so many as travel in the king’s highway.
In the third place, this usage must be present. Here it may be asked, what is meant by present usage? Is it the usage of the present year, the present age, or the present century? How is it defined, or by what boundary is it limited? In short, how far may we revert in search of decisive authority? may we go back, for example, as far as Chaucer, or must we stop at the age of Addison?
In determining this matter, the same learned and judicious critic observes, that regard must be had to the species of composition and the nature of the subject. Poetry is properly allowed a greater latitude than prose; and therefore, a word, which in prose we should reject as a barbarism, may, with strict propriety, be admitted in verse. Here, also, there are limits which must not be passed; and, perhaps, any word, which cannot plead the authority of Milton, or of any contemporary or later poet, may be justly regarded as obsolete. In prose, no word, unless the subject be art or science, should be employed, which has been disused for a period greater than the age of man. This is the judgment of the same critic. Against this answer, indeed, it is possible to raise a thousand cavils; and, perhaps, we shall be reminded of the poet’s strictures on the term ancient in his days[134]. One thing, however, is certain, that, though it be difficult to fix a precise limit, where the authority of precedent terminates, and legislative usage commences, or to define with precision the age of man, it must be acknowledged, that there are limits, in respect to usage, which we must not overleap, as there is a certain term, which the life of man cannot surpass.
As there is a period, beyond which precedent in language ceases to have authority; so, on the contrary, the usage of the present day is not implicitly to be adopted. Mankind are fond of novelty; and there is a fashion in language, as there is in dress. Whim, vanity, and affectation, delight in creating new words. Of these, the far greater part soon sink into contempt. They figure for a little, like ephemeral productions, in tales, novels, and fugitive papers; and are shortly consigned to degradation and oblivion. Now, to adopt every new-fangled upstart at its birth, would argue not taste, nor judgment, but childish fondness for singularity and novelty. On the contrary, if any of these should maintain its ground, and receive the sanction of a reputable usage, to reject it, in this case, would be to resist that authority, to which every critic and grammarian must bow with submission. The term mob, for example, was, at its introduction, zealously opposed by Dean Swift. His resistance, however, was ineffectual; and to reject it now would betray prudish affectation, and fruitless perversity. The word inimical, previously to the American war, could, I believe, plead, in its favour, only one authority. In some dictionaries, accordingly it was omitted; and in others stigmatized as a barbarism. It has now obtained a permanent establishment, and is justly admitted by every lexicographer.
“In words, as fashions, the same rule will hold;
Alike fantastic, if too new or old:
Be not the first, by whom the new are tried,
Nor yet the last to lay the old aside.”