An author’s style is an open window through which we can look in upon him, and estimate his character. The cunning reader reads between the lines, and finds out secrets about the writer, as if he were overhearing his soliloquies. He marks the pet phrase or epithet, draws conclusions from asseveration and emphasis, notes the half-perceptible sneer or insinuation, detects the secret misery that is veiled by a jest, and learns the writer’s idiosyncrasies even when he tries hardest to mask them. We know a passage from Sir Thomas Browne, as we know a Rembrandt or a Dürer. Macaulay is betrayed by his antitheses, and Cicero by his esse videatur.
Dr. Arnold has strikingly shown how we may judge of a historian by his style, his language being an infallible index to his character. “If it is very heavy and cumbrous, it indicates either a dull man or a pompous man, or at least a slow and awkward man; if it be tawdry and full of commonplaces enunciated with great solemnity, the writer is most likely a silly man; if it be highly antithetical and full of unusual expressions, or artificial ways of stating a plain thing, the writer is clearly an affected man. If it be plain and simple, always clear, but never eloquent, the writer may be a very sensible man, but is too hard and dry to be a very great man. If, on the other hand, it is always elegant, rich in illustrations, and without the relief of simple and great passages, we must admire the writer’s genius in a very high degree, but we may fear that he is too continually excited to have attained to the highest wisdom, for that is necessarily calm. In this manner the mere language of a historian will furnish us with something of a key to his mind, and will tell us, or at least give us cause to presume, in what his main strength lies, and in what he is deficient.” It has been said of Gibbon’s style that it was one in which it was impossible to speak the truth.
A writer in the “Edinburgh Review” observes that the statement that a man’s language is part of his character, holds true, not only in regard to the usage of certain shibboleths of a party, whether in religion or politics, but also in regard to a general vocabulary. “There is a school vocabulary and a college vocabulary; certain phrases brought home to astound and perplex the uninitiated, and passing now and then into general currency. In this age of examinations,—army, navy, civil-service, and middle-class,—the verb ‘to pluck’ is well-nigh incorporated with the vernacular, and must take its place in dictionaries. The sportsman Nimrod has his esoteric vocabulary, and so has likewise the angler Walton. The man of the world has his own set of phrases, understood and recognized by the fraternity; and so has the gourmand; and so also has the fancier of wines, who, in opposition to one of the laws of nature, speaks to you of wine, a fluid, as being ‘dry.’ The connoisseur in painting tells you also of ‘dryness’ in a picture, and he uses other terms which seem as if they had been invented to puzzle the uninitiated. Your favorite landscape may have ‘tones’ in it, as well as your violin. With shoulders that are ‘broad,’ and with cloth that is ‘broad’ covering those broad shoulders, you stand and observe that a painting is ‘broad.’ You sit down at dinner with a ‘delicious bit’ of venison before you on the table, and looking up see a ‘delicious bit’ of Watteau or Wouvermans before you on the wall.”
As with individuals, so with nations: the language of a people is often a moral barometer, which marks with marvellous precision the rise or fall of the national life. The stock of words composing any language corresponds to the knowledge of the community that speaks it, and shows with what objects it is familiar, what generalizations it has made, what distinctions it has drawn,—all its cognitions and reasonings, in the worlds of matter and of mind. “As our material condition varies, as our ways of life, our institutions, public and private, become other than they have been, all is necessarily reflected in our language. In these days of railroads, steamboats and telegraphs, of sun pictures, of chemistry and geology, of improved wearing stuffs, furniture, styles of building, articles of food and luxury of every description, how many words and phrases are in every one’s mouth which would be utterly unintelligible to the most learned man of a century ago, were he to rise from his grave and walk our streets!... Language is expanded and contracted in precise adaptation to the circumstances and needs of those who use it; it is enriched or impoverished, in every part, along with the enrichment or impoverishment of their minds.”[7] Every race has its own organic growth, its own characteristic ideas and opinions, which are impressed on its political constitution, its legislation, its manners and its customs, its modes of religious worship; and the expression of all these peculiarities is found in its speech. If a people is, as Milton said of the English, a noble and a puissant nation, of a quick, ingenious, and piercing spirit, acute to invent and subtle to discourse, its language will exhibit all these qualities; while, on the other hand, if it is frivolous and low-thoughted,—if it is morally bankrupt and dead to all lofty sentiments,—its mockery of virtue, its inability to comprehend the true dignity and meaning of life, the feebleness of its moral indignation, will all inevitably betray themselves in its speech, as truly as would the opposite qualities of spirituality of thought and exaltation of soul. These discreditable qualities will find an utterance “in the use of solemn and earnest words in senses comparatively trivial or even ridiculous; in the squandering of such as ought to have been reserved for the highest mysteries of the spiritual life, on slight and secular objects; and in the employment, almost in jest and play, of words implying the deepest moral guilt.”
Could anything be more significant of the profound degradation of a people than the abject character of the complimentary and social dialect of the Italians, and the pompous appellations with which they dignify things in themselves insignificant, as well as their constant use of intensives and superlatives on the most trivial occasions? Is it not a notable fact that they, who for so long a time had no country,—on whose altars the fires of patriotism have, till of late, burned so feebly,—use the word pellegrino, “foreign,” as a synonym for “excellent”? Might we not almost infer a priori the servile condition to which, previous to their late uprising, centuries of tyranny had reduced them, from the fact that with the same people, so many of whom are clothed in rags, a man of honor is “a well dressed man”; that a man who murders in secret is “a brave man,” bravo; that a virtuoso, or “virtuous man,” is one who is accomplished in music, painting, and sculpture,—arts which should be the mere embroidery, and not the web and woof, of a nation’s life; that, in their magnificent indigence, they call a cottage with three or four acres of land un podere, “a power”; that they term every house with a large door un palazzo, “a palace,” a lamb’s fry una cosa stupenda, “a stupendous thing,” and that a message sent by a footman to his tailor through a scullion is una ambasciata, “an embassy”?
Let us not, however, infer the hopeless depravity of any people from the baseness of the tongue they have inherited, not chosen. It makes a vast difference, as Prof. Marsh justly observes, whether words expressive of noble thoughts and mighty truths do not exist in a language, or whether ages of soul-crushing tyranny have compelled their disuse, and the employment of the baser part of the national vocabulary. The mighty events that have lately taken place in Italy “show that a tone of hypocrisy may cling to the tongue, long after the spirit of a nation is emancipated, and that where grand words are found in a speech, there grand thoughts, noble purposes, high resolves exist also; or, at least, the spark slumbers which a favoring breath may, at any moment, kindle into a cherishing and devouring flame.”[8]
A late writer calls attention to the fact that the French language, while it has such positive expressions as “drunk” and “tipsy,” conveyed by ivre and gris, contains no such negative term as “sober.” Sobre means always “temperate” or “abstemious,” never the opposite condition to intoxication. The English, it is argued, drink enough to need a special illustrative title for a man who has not drunk; but though the Parisians began to drink alcohol freely during the sieges, the French have never yet felt the necessity of forming any such curious subjective appellation, consequently they do not possess it. Again, the French boast that they have no such word as “bribe,” as if this implied their exemption from that sin; and such, indeed, may be the fact. But may not the absence of this word from their vocabulary prove, on the contrary, their lack of sensibility to the heinous nature of the offense, just as the lack of the word “humility,” in the language of the Greeks, usually so rich in terms, proves that they lacked the thing itself, or as the fact that the same people had no word corresponding to the Latin ineptus, argues, as Cicero thought, not that the character designated by the word was wanting among them, but that the fault was so universal with them that they failed to recognize it as such? Is it not a great defect in a language that it lacks the words by which certain forms of baseness or sinfulness, in those who speak it, may be brought home to their consciousness? Can we properly hate or abhor any wicked act till we have given it a specific objective existence by giving it a name which shall at once designate and condemn it? The pot-de-vin, and other jesting phrases which the French have coined to denote bribery, can have no effect but to encourage this wrong.
What shall we think of the fact that the French language has no word equivalent to “listener”? Is it not a noteworthy circumstance, shedding light upon national character, that among thirty-seven millions of talkers, no provision, except the awkward paraphrase, celui qui écoute, “he who hears,” should have been made for hearers? Is there any other explanation of this blank than the supposition that every Frenchman talks from the pure love of talking, and not to be heard; that, reversing the proverb, he believes that silence is silver, but talking is golden; and that, not caring whether he is listened to or not, he has never recognized that he has no name for the person to whom he chatters? Again, is it not remarkable that, among the French, bonhomme, “a good man,” is a term of contempt; that the fearful Hebrew word, “gehenna,” has been condensed into gêne, and means only a petty annoyance; and that honnêteté, which once meant honesty, now means only civility? It was in the latter half of the reign of Louis XIV that the word honnête exchanged its primitive for its present meaning. Till then, according to good authority, when a man’s descent was said to be honnête, he was complimented on the virtuousness of his progenitors, not reminded of the mediocrity of their condition; and when the same term was applied to his family, it was an acknowledgment that they belonged to the middle ranks of society, not a suggestion that they were plebeians. Again, how significant is the fact that the French has no such words as “home,” “comfort,” “spiritual,” and but one word for “love” and “like,” compelling them to put Heaven’s last gift to man on a par with an article of diet; as “I love Julia,”—“I love a leg of mutton”! Couple with these peculiarities of the language the circumstance that the French term spirituel means simply witty, with a certain quickness, delicacy, and versatility of mind, and have you not a real insight into the national character?
It is said that the word oftenest on a Frenchman’s lips is la gloire, and next to that, perhaps, is brillant, “brilliant.” The utility of a feat or achievement in literature or science, in war or politics, surgery or mechanics, is of little moment in his eyes unless it also dazzles and excites surprise. It is said that Sir Astley Cooper, the great British surgeon, on visiting the French capital, was asked by the surgeon en chef of the empire how many times he had performed some feat of surgery that required a rare union of dexterity and nerve. He replied that he had performed the operation thirteen times. “Ah! but, Monsieur, I have performed him one hundred and sixty time. How many time did you save his life?” continued the curious Frenchman, as he saw the blank amazement of Sir Astley’s face. “I,” said the Englishman, “saved eleven out of the thirteen. How many did you save out of a hundred and sixty?” “Ah! Monsieur, I lose dem all;—but de operation was very brillant!”
The author of “Pickwick” tells us that in America the sign vocal for starting a coach, steamer, railway train, etc., is “Go Ahead!” while with John Bull the ritual form is “All Right!”—and he adds that these two expressions are somewhat expressive of the respective moods of the two nations. The two phrases are, indeed, vivid miniatures of John Bull and his restless brother, who sits on the safety valve that he may travel faster, pours oil and rosin into his steam furnaces, leaps from the cars before they have entered the station, and who would hardly object to being fired off from a cannon or in a bombshell, provided there were one chance in fifty of getting sooner to the end of his journey. Let us hope that the day may yet come when our “two-forty” people will exchange a little of their fiery activity for a bit of Bull’s caution, and when our Yankee Herald’s College, if we ever have one, may declare “All Right!” to be the motto of our political escutcheon, with as much propriety as it might now inscribe “Go Ahead!” beneath that fast fowl, the annexing and screaming eagle, that hovers over the peaks of the Rocky Mountains, dips its wings in two oceans, and has one eye on Cuba and the other on Quebec.