When will the mediocre writer of English come to understand that his meanest, as well as his sublimest ideas, may be manifested with as much force in English as in any other language? Alas, never! Instead of saying “such a man is a sharper,” he says, “such a man is a chevalier d’industrie.” What could be more expressive than “he is a devil of a fellow?” And yet our learned penmen prefer to say, “he is uomo stupendo!” It is a notorious fact, that whatever language a writer is most conversant in, he draws upon oftenest. Happily, the reading public are not much bored with scraps from the Esquimau.
But, protests the reader, there are certain terms, and entire phrases, that are not yet Anglicized, but that are in everybody’s mouth.
Very true; against the proper use of such terms and phrases, in moderation, no objections can be raised.
Having thus prated nonsense enough to incur the deadly hatred of every sentimental scribbler to the weeklies of rural towns, this interesting argument may be dropped, particularly as it only heads up to the following observation:—
Our circumforaneous holderforth was one of those who cannot make a speech without “borrowing from the classics;” but (for the best of reasons, gentle reader) we kindly suppress his redundancies in that respect.
After a few introductory remarks, he cleared his throat, and in sonorous tones began to speak of—hydrophobia! Why he should pitch on that as a subject of discussion is as great a marvel as the man himself. Possibly, he had been bitten by an exasperated mad dog at some period in his life, and could not overcome the temptation of speaking of it now. But the probability is that he considered himself the fountain-head of all sciences and theories, of physics and etiology. At all events, whatever the wiseacre’s motive may have been, it is certain that he spoke of hydrophobia.
“My dear little children,” he began, affectionately, “it is of the utmost importance that you should be made acquainted with the latest discoveries that science has made with regard to that most subtle distemper, learnedly called lycanthropy. To those among you who intend to become physicians on attaining majority, this subject will be absorbingly interesting. It is not my purpose to trace this dread distemper from the first mention we have of it down to the present time, but merely to give you a concise description of its operations in the human system, from its incipient stages to the final paroxysms, and also to touch upon the various methods of treatment in repute among those who have conquered immortality by their researches in that field.
“Probably none of you ever beheld a rabid canine. When fleshed in the blood of his victims, he presents one of the most appalling sights that the imagination can conjure up, and rivals in ferocity the fabulous monsters of the ancients. But in good time I shall discourse more at large on his appearance; for the present it is sufficient that I make apparent the—But,” breaking off abruptly, “it is well that there should be a thorough understanding between a speaker and his auditors.”
Then, with that benevolent smile, peculiar to instructors of juveniles when propounding their knotty questions, he demanded, “Little ones, can you define hydrophobia for me?”
The “little ones” stared stolidly and helplessly, but said nothing. The teacher, Mr. Meadows, looking encouraging—then, beseeching—then, mortified—then, irritated—then, wicked. Still the “little ones” maintained silence, both the scholastic and his lecture being unintelligible to them.