Orderly-room charges of obscene and blasphemous language show a distressing sameness:
“Sir, the accuser called me an x—ing y—” or “Sir, the accused called me a y—ing x—”.
“And what have you to say for yourself, my man?”
“Well, sir, it was because the lance-corporal called me a double x—ing y—, and I didn’t think it was right.”
The only novelty I remember in a long series of these charges was: “Sir, the accused used threatening and obscene language; his words were ‘Two men shall meet before two mountains’.”
Omne ignotum pro obsceno is the rule among the uneducated. Mr. W. H. Davies’ odd story will be recalled. An old hedge-schoolmaster one day came as a stranger to the Inn in South Wales where the poet was drinking, and sat down at a corner table. Presently he cried out twice in a loud voice: “Aristotle was the pupil of Plato.” After a moment’s silence the men at the bar protested: “Keep silence, you there!” Their wives caught their skirts tightly to them: “We are respectable married women and did not come here to be insulted.” The publican threatened to throw the speaker out if he uttered any further obscenity. But the old man apologized in the acceptable formula: “No offence intended; I am a stranger here”; and was forgiven. After long pondering on this story, I believe that I have got the clue. Aristotle’s Works (with illustrations) is sold in every rubber-shop in London and Cardiff, in company with other more obviously erotic publications. I have never had the courage to buy a copy and see what is wrong with the philosopher; but I suspect the worst. And certainly “Aristotle” to the public-house mind is known only in the rubber-shop context. But I can testify to a man having been thrown out of the Empire Lounge some years ago for calling a barmaid a “maisonette”. (“Indeed you’re wrong; I’m an honest woman.”)
Of swearing-duels little is now heard. They used to be frequent, tradition says, in the good old days when public-houses kept open all night and beer was more strongly brewed: alas, I can find little historical matter to indicate what was the technique and range of this popular art at its Dickensian prime.[2] But at least the palm of victory does not always seem to have gone to the most resonant or strong-chested artist. Often, as in jujitsu, a man’s own strength is turned against him. It is recorded that once in the City an Admiral’s brougham was obstructed by a coster’s barrow and that the Admiral improved the occasion by a very heavy and god-damnatory flow of abuse. The coster let him have his say; but as he paused for breath remarked cheerfully: “If you was better house-trained, Jackie, I’d take you home for a pet.”
[2] Though swearing in fashionable society began to decline as an art about the same time as the wig disappeared, it flourished among the lower classes for fifty years longer.