English Pharisees and French CrocodilesThe latter possesses a large stock of good sense, good taste, learning, and independence. He can blend counsel and encouragement, and he has a conscience; that is to say, as much aversion to disparaging as to flattering. The same author whom he praised yesterday because his work was worthy of praise, he blames to-day because his work is deserving of blame; he is no respecter of persons.
Criticism should be taken with thanks and deference, if fair and kind; with deference and no thanks, if fair but unkind; with silence and contempt, if insulting and unfair.
So says D'Alembert.
May I now permit myself to indulge in a little personality?
Mr. George Augustus Sala, the wittiest and best-humored of English journalists, in one of his interesting _Echoes of the Week_, not long ago accused a book of my own, after paying it one or two compliments, of being as full of blunders as an egg is full of meat.
Now, could Mr. George Augustus Sala, with his knowledge of London dairy produce, pay my book a more witty and graceful compliment?
CHAPTER X.
HIGH-LIFE ANGLO-FRENCH GIBBERISH AS USED IN FRANCE AND IN ENGLAND.
Languages have this in common with many mortals; when they borrow they do not return. This is perhaps a happy thing, for when borrowed words do get returned, good Heavens! what a state they come home in!
We thought we were doing a fine thing in taking the words _ticket_, _jockey_, _budget_, _tunnel_, _fashion_ from the English. They are, however, but French words mutilated, and there is not much to be proud of in reacquiring them. The English had borrowed of us _etiqueter, jacquet_ (_pet.i.t Jacques_), _bougette_ (_the king's privy purse_), _facon_. Better they had kept them. Up to the nineteenth century, it was by reason of war and conquest that both conquerors and conquered saw their vocabularies invaded by foreign words; but is it not strange that in the nineteenth century, the century of civilization, so-called, peace between England and France should bring about such a disastrous result?
Formerly we used to _dejeuner_.
_Nous avons change tout cela_; nowadays _nous lunchons_. _Nous lunchons!_ What a barbarous mouthful, is it not?
The word _dejeuner_ signifying "to cease fasting," or, as the English say, "to breakfast," it is wrongly used in speaking of a second repast.
_Dejeuner_ is, therefore, irrational; but is this any excuse for making ourselves grotesque?
But, my dear compatriots, we are avenged. I read in the London _Standard_:
"Prince Albert Victor was yesterday admitted to the freedom of the City of London.... The royal party and a large company of invited guests were afterward entertained at a _dejeuner_ in the Guildhall, the Lord Mayor presiding."
Now that the French _lunch_, the English will _dejeuner_ more than ever, of course.
Parisian good society no longer takes tea, it "five o'clocks"; and the _bourgeois_ is beginning to put at the foot of his cards of invitation:
"_On five o'clockera a neuf heures._"
When the English wish to have a song or a piece of music repeated by an artist, they shout: _Encore!_ And, the following day, the papers, in their accounts of the performance, announce that Mademoiselle So-and-So was _encored_.
While I am upon this subject, allow me to give you a little sample of modern English; it will prove to you that Alexander Dumas was right, when he p.r.o.nounced English to be only French badly p.r.o.nounced, and I would add, badly spelt:
"The _concert_ was _brilliant_, and the _ensemble excellent_. Miss N---- was _encored_, but Mr. D----, who made his _debut_, only obtained a _succes d'estime_."
Go to Trafalgar Square. Place yourself at the foot of that long Roman candle, on the summit of which the statue of Nelson may be perceived ...
on a clear day. Turn toward the Palace of Westminster, and you will see on your left the _Grand Hotel_ and the _Avenue Theatre_, on your right the _Hotel Metropole_. In your rear you will find the _National Gallery_. As all these buildings are within a hundred yards of Charing Cross station, the terminus at which you alight on coming from France, your first impression will be that it will not take you long to learn to speak English. Ah! dear compatriots, be not deceived; you little guess the terrible perfidiousness of that language. Those provoking Britons seem to have taken a wicked pleasure in inventing a collection of unheard-of sounds, a p.r.o.nunciation that will fill your hearts with despair, and that puts them quite out of the reach of imitation.
Thou mayest dress like an Englishman, dear compatriot, eat roast beef like an Englishman, but, never, never wilt thou speak English like an Englishman. Thou wilt always ma.s.sacre his language; let this console thee for hearing him ma.s.sacre thine.
In the _Spectator_ of the 8th of September, 1711, Addison wrote:
"I have often wished, that as in our Const.i.tution there are several persons whose business it is to watch over our laws, our liberties, and commerce, certain men might be set apart as superintendents of our language, to hinder any words of a foreign coin from pa.s.sing among us; and, in particular, to prohibit any French phrases from becoming current in this kingdom, when those of our stamp are altogether as valuable.
The present war has so adulterated our tongue with strange words, that it would be impossible for one of our grandfathers to know what his posterity have been doing, were he to read their exploits in a modern newspaper."
Oh, Addison, stop thy ears, and veil thy face!
M. Hippolyte Cocheris, the learned French philologist, quotes, in one of his writings, a piece of prose from an aristocratic pen, which appeared in No. 116 of the _New Monthly_. It runs as follows:
"I was _chez moi_, inhaling the _odeur musquee_ of my scented _boudoir_, when the Prince of Z---- entered. He found me in my _demi-toilette, blasee sur tout_, and pensively engaged in solitary conjugation of the verb _s'ennuyer_, and though he had never been one of my _habitues_, or by any means _des notres_, I was not inclined at this moment of _dela.s.s.e.m.e.nt_ to glide with him into the _crocchio restretto_ of familiar chat."
To edify his readers, and make them appreciate this little masterpiece of hybrid style at its due value, M. Cocheris proceeds to translate the piece into French, carefully replacing all the words in italics by English ones, thus:
J'etais _at home_, aspirant la _musky smell_ de mon _private room_, lorsque le Prince de Z----entra. Il me trouva en simple _dress_, _fatigued with everything_, tristement occupe a conjuguer le verbe _to be weary_, et quoique je ne l'eusse jamais compte au nombre de mes _intimates_, et qu'il ne fut, en aucune facon _of our set_, j'etais a.s.sez disposee a entrer avec lui dans le _crocchio restretto_ d'une causerie familiere.
M. H. Cocheris maintains that a French author would never dare to have recourse to such a literary proceeding. Nonsense! Read our novels, read our newspapers. At every page, you find mention made of _fashionables_ in _knickerbockers_, who, dressed in _ulsters_, repair to the _turf_ in a _dogcart_ with a _groom_ and a _bulldog_. They bring up at a _bar_ and eat a slice of _pudding_ or a _sandwich_, washed down with a bowl of _punch_ or a _c.o.c.ktail_. These gentlemen have the _spleen_, in spite of the _comfortable_ life they lead. In the evening, they go and applaud the _humor_ of a _clown_, and call _sn.o.bs_ those who prefer the _Comedie Francaise_.
If this picture of the state of things be really a true one, the French Academy, which was founded to look after the mother tongue of Moliere, had better lower its blinds and burn tapers.
CHAPTER XI.
HUMOR, WIT, AND HIBERNIANISM.
Humor is a subtle, witty, philosophical, and greatly satirical form of gayety, the outcome of simplicity in the character, that is met chiefly among English-speaking people.
Humor has not the brilliancy, the vivacity of French wit, but it is more graceful, lighter, and above all more philosophic. A sarcastic element is nearly always present in it, and not unfrequently a vein of sadness.
There is something deliciously quiet and deliberate about humor, that is in perfect harmony with the English character; and we have been right in adopting the English name for the thing, seeing that the thing is essentially English.
Germany has produced humorists, among whom Hoffman and Henry Heine shine conspicuously; but this kind of playful raillery is not to be met with in French literature, except perhaps in the _Lettres provinciales_ of Pascal.
In France, irony is presented in a more lively form. Swift and Sterne are the acknowledged masters of British humor, as Rabelais and Voltaire are the personification of French wit.
British humor does not evaporate so quickly as French wit; you feel its influence longer. The latter takes you by storm, but humor lightly tickles you under the ribs, and quietly takes possession of you by degrees; the bright idea, instead of being laid bare, is subtly hidden; it is only after you have peeled off the coating of sarcasm lying on the surface, that you get at the fun underneath.
I believe Parisian wit might be correctly described as a sudden perception and expression of a likeness in the unlike. Here is an example of it; an English one: