A Book About Words

by G. F. Graham

The French word ‘mouchoir’ will also illustrate this difference of view. This is from ‘(se) moucher,’ to wipe (the nose). It would be considered extremely vulgar to call this article in English ‘a wiper,’ and yet this is literally its French meaning. The Germans have named it ‘Schnupftuch,’ or ‘snuff-cloth,’ another view of the same thing. But the corresponding English word, ‘handkerchief,’ presents us with a most curious anomaly. The first form of the word was ‘kerchief,’ which is the old French ‘couvre-chef,’ i.e. a covering for the head, just as ‘curfew’ was from ‘couvre-feu’—‘cover-fire.’ Milton has the word ‘kerchiefed’ in the sense of ‘with the head covered.’ He speaks of Morn—

Kerchiefed in a comely cloud.—Penseroso.

Now, if to ‘kerchief’ we prefix ‘hand,’ we have a word which seems to mean a covering for the head, held in the hand—which is a manifest absurdity! But the climax of confusion is reached when we qualify this word by ‘pocket.’ How the covering for the head is to be held in the hand, and yet carried in the pocket is enough to puzzle anyone.

Another instance of this description may be seen in the word ‘heaven.’ In the Teutonic languages it represents the idea of something raised on high, or heaved up—from ‘heafan’ and ‘heben,’ to lift up, or elevate. But the Romance view of this word is connected with the idea of hollowness or concavity. The Greek κοῖλον; the Latin ‘cœlum;’ the Italian ‘cielo;’ and the French ‘ciel’—all involve the meaning of a hollow, or arched covering.

A great variety of expression may be also seen if we compare together the idioms of several European languages. These peculiarities may be looked upon as characterising the tone and habits of thought of a nation, and they deserve especial study and attention. If we take the usual form of greeting in English—‘How do you do?’ here we may see that the verb do is indicative of the activity and practical nature of the English mind. It would seem as if in this country our bodily health actually depends upon our doing; i.e. our business habits; that to be occupied is equivalent to being in good health. Now if we take the ordinary corresponding French phrase—‘Comment vous portez-vous?’—we may fairly infer that the well-being in this case depends on the carriage, or outward bearing of the person. The Germans, under the same circumstances, say: ‘Wie befinden Sie sich?’ (literally, ‘how do they find themselves?’) May not this form of expression throw some light on the German character? May it not point to that tendency to deep reflection which is known to be so strikingly distinctive of the German tone of mind? From this we may conclude that the German is so habituated to deep thought that he cannot even tell you the state of his health, without searching till he finds it out. The Italian corresponding form, ‘Come sta?’ (literally, ‘How does he stand?’), is referred to the standing of the Lombard merchants in the market-place; and in this case, the well-being or health seems to have depended on the prosperity of the dealer. In these remarks on the different forms of greeting, there may appear something fanciful, but one thing is clear, viz. that they all differ from each other, and it is but natural to conclude, that each has some connection with the turn of mind of the people to which it belongs. Of course it would be wrong to form positive opinions concerning national character, from the examination of only one idiom; and it would be necessary to collect and compare a large number of examples to arrive at satisfactory conclusions on this head. But we should look into the philosophy of idiom more keenly, for here we are most likely to find a key to the character of every civilised nation.

Another example of this variety may be seen in the form of address adopted in the different countries of Europe. We English speak to one another in the second person plural, even when we address one person. We say ‘you are,’ to one single person, and if we have to address a thousand, we must use the same form. This may, probably, partly account for the grammatical fault so commonly made by the uneducated—‘you was.’ Feeling that they are speaking to only one person, and not knowing that the pronoun (you) is, strictly speaking, plural, they very naturally—though, of course, incorrectly—put the ‘you’ and the ‘was’ together.

The French also adopt the second person plural in the same case—‘vous êtes.’ But they use the second person singular much more frequently than we do, especially between relations and intimate friends. ‘Tu’ and ‘toi,’ however, have lost much of their former charm since the great revolution, when the levelling spirit of the Government merged all differences of rank into one common form of address. In certain circumstances, the French use the third person singular as a mark of respect. When a lady goes into a shop in Paris, the first question asked her is, ‘Qu’est-ce que madame désire?’ and, in the same way, her servant says to her, ‘Madame, a-t-elle sonné?’

The Germans, in the same circumstances, use the third person plural—‘Sie sind,’ literally ‘they are.’ This usage has prevailed in Germany ever since the sixteenth century, and is supposed to express respect. But in cases of intimacy, or relationship, the Germans also use the pronoun of the second person singular. A German husband always addresses his wife, or a brother his sister, as du, but if scorn or contempt be intended, then the third person singular is adopted. In Germany, the best way to get rid of an importunate beggar is to exclaim, ‘Was will er?’ which is about equivalent to our ‘What does the fellow want?’

Majesty still speaks, in this country, in the plural number. The Queen issues a proclamation, beginning with:—‘Given at our court of St. James’, &c. The editorial ‘we’ is also well known as expressing a certain importance and authority. In Italy, the form used in addressing any one is the third person singular, ‘Come sta,’ literally, ‘How does he stand?’

If we compare the words which express degrees of kindred or relationship in one language with those of a corresponding class in another, we shall find distinctly different pictures. The French words ‘mari’ and ‘femme,’ merely show a difference of sex. ‘Mari’ is from the Latin ‘maritus’ (mas, maris), ‘a male,’ and ‘femme,’ is derived from ‘femina,’ ‘female.’ But if we put against these the corresponding English terms ‘husband’ and ‘wife,’ a totally new scene is opened to our view. ‘Husband’ is etymologically, the ‘man of the house,’ or the ‘house-protector;’ and the ‘wife’ is the ‘weaving-one.’ Indeed, we shall find that most of the Saxon words expressing degrees of kindred, have reference to occupations. The husband was the head or protector of the house. The wife (as her name shows) wove the cloth for the use of the family. But before the cloth could be woven, it must be spun, and this was done by the grown-up unmarried women, for that reason called ‘spinsters.’ The word ‘daughter’ is traced to a Sanscrit root, ‘dhu’—milk; whence we infer that the daughters milked the cows, a very appropriate occupation in a primitive state of society. The word ‘son’ is supposed to be derived from a Sanscrit root ‘su’ or ‘pu,’ originally signifying ‘clean,’ from which we may conclude that their office was to clean out the house. The ‘husband’ then was the ‘protector;’ the ‘wife,’ the ‘weaver;’ the ‘unmarried women,’ the ‘spinners’ (or ‘spinsters’); the ‘daughters,’ the ‘milkers;’ and the ‘sons,’ the ‘cleaners.’ With what hallowed feelings are all these words associated, and what a vivid picture do they present of the primitive simplicity of family society! No such picture of domestic life is exhibited in the Latin or French words which express these relations, and we may look in vain for anything of this sort in the Romance languages.