The Mother Tongue (25 page)

In terms of pronunciation he appears to have left us with our pronunciation of
schedule
rather than the English “shedjulle” and with our standard pronunciation of
lieutenant
which was then widely pronounced “lefftenant” in America, as it still is in England today. But just as he sometimes pressed for odd spellings, so he called for many irregular pronunciations: “deef” for
deaf,
“nater” for
nature,
“heerd” for
heard,
“booty” for
beauty,
“voloom” for
volume,
and others too numerous (and, I am tempted to add, too laughable) to dwell on. He insisted that
Greenwich
and
Thames
be pronounced as spelled and favored giving
quality
and
quantity
the short “ă” of
hat,
while giving
advance, clasp,
and
grant
the broad “ah” sound of southern England. No less remarkably, Webster accepted a number of clearly ungrammatical usages, among them “it is me,” “we was,” and “them horses.” It is a wonder that anyone paid any attention to him at all. Often they didn't.

Nonetheless his dictionary was the most complete of its age, with 70,000 words—far more than Johnson had covered—and its definitions were models of clarity and conciseness. It was an enormous achievement.

All Webster's work was informed by a passionate patriotism and the belief that American English was at least as good as British English. He worked tirelessly, churning out endless hectoring books and tracts, as well as working on the more or less constant revisions of his spellers and dictionaries. In between time he wrote impassioned letters to congressmen, dabbled in politics, proffered unwanted advice to presidents, led his church choir, lectured to large audiences, helped found Amherst College, and produced a sanitized version of the Bible, in which Onan doesn't spill his seed but simply “frustrates his purpose,” in which men don't have testicles but rather “peculiar members,” and in which women don't have wombs (or evidently anything else with which to contribute to the reproductive process).

Like Samuel Johnson, he was a better lexicographer than a businessman. Instead of insisting on royalties he sold the rights outright and never gained the sort of wealth that his tireless labors merited. After Webster's death in 1843, two businessmen from Springfield, Massachusetts, Charles and George Merriam, bought the rights to his dictionaries and employed his son-in-law, the rather jauntily named Chauncey A. Goodrich, to prepare a new volume (and, not incidentally, expunge many of the more ridiculous spellings and far-fetched etymologies). This volume, the first Merriam-Webster dictionary, appeared in 1847 and was an instant success. Soon almost every home had one. There is a certain neat irony in the thought that the book with which Noah Webster is now most closely associated wasn't really his work at all and certainly didn't adhere to many of his most cherished precepts.

In early February 1884, a slim paperback book bearing the title
The New English Dictionary on Historical Principles,
containing all the words in the language (obscenities apart) between
A
and
ant
was published in Britain at the steepish price of twelve shillings and six pence. This was the first of twelve volumes of the most masterly and ambitious philological exercise ever undertaken, eventually redubbed the
Oxford English Dictionary.
The intention was to record every word used in English since 1150 and to trace it back through all its shifting meanings, spellings, and uses to its earliest recorded appearance. There was to be at least one citation for each century of its existence and at least one for each slight change of meaning. To achieve this, almost every significant piece of English literature from the last 7½ centuries would have to be not so much read as scoured.

The man chosen to guide this enterprise was James Augustus Henry Murray (1837–1915), a Scottish-born bank clerk, school-teacher, and self-taught philologist. He was an unlikely, and apparently somewhat reluctant, choice to take on such a daunting task. Murray, in the best tradition of British eccentrics, had a flowing white beard and liked to be photographed in a long black housecoat with a mortarboard on his head. He had eleven children, all of whom were, almost from the moment they learned the alphabet, roped into the endless business of helping to sift through and alphabetize the several million slips of paper on which were recorded every twitch and burble of the language over seven centuries.

The ambition of the project was so staggering that one can't help wondering if Murray really knew what he was taking on. In point of fact, it appears he didn't. He thought the whole business would take a dozen years at most and that it would fill half a dozen volumes covering some 6,400 pages. In the event, the project took more than four decades and sprawled across 15,000 densely printed pages.

Hundreds of volunteers helped with the research, sending in citations from all over the world. Many of them were, like Murray, amateur philologists and often they were as eccentric as he. One of the most prolific contributors was James Platt, who specialized in obscure words. He was said to speak a hundred languages and certainly knew as much about comparative linguistics as any man of his age, and yet he owned no books of his own. He worked for his father in the City of London and each lunchtime collected one book—never more—from the Reading Room of the British Museum, which he would take home, devour, and replace with another volume the next day. On weekends he haunted the opium dens and dockyards of Wapping and Whitechapel looking for native speakers of obscure tongues whom he would query on small points of semantics. He provided the histories of many thousands of words. But an even more prolific contributor was an American expatriate named Dr. W. C. Minor, a man of immense erudition who provided from his private library the etymologies of tens of thousands of words. When Murray invited him to a gathering of the dictionary's contributors, he learned, to his considerable surprise, that Dr. Minor could not attend for the unfortunate reason that he was an inmate at Broadmoor, a hospital for the criminally insane, and not sufficiently in possession of his faculties to be allowed out. It appears that during the U.S. Civil War, having suffered an attack of sunstroke, Dr. Minor developed a persecution mania, believing he was being pursued by Irishmen. After a stay in an asylum he was considered cured and undertook, in 1871, a visit to England. But one night while walking in London his mania returned and he shot dead an innocent stranger whose misfortune it was to have been walking behind the crazed American. Clearly Dr. Minor's madness was not incompatible with scholarship. In one year alone, he made 12,000 contributions to the
OED
from the private library he built up at Broadmoor.

Murray worked ceaselessly on his dictionary for thirty-six years, from his appointment to the editorship in 1879 to his death at the age of seventy-eight in 1915. (He was knighted in 1908.) He was working on the letter
u
when he died, but his assistants carried on for another thirteen years until in 1928 the final volume, Wise to Wyzen, was issued. (For some reason, volume 12, XYZ, had appeared earlier.) Five years later, a corrected and slightly updated version of the entire set was reissued, under the name by which it has since been known: the
Oxford English Dictionary.
The completed dictionary contained 414,825 entries supported by 1,827,306 citations (out of 6 million collected) described in 44 million words of text spread over 15,487 pages. It is perhaps the greatest work of scholarship ever produced.

The
OED
confirmed a paradox that Webster had brought to light decades earlier—namely, that although readers will appear to treat a dictionary with the utmost respect, they will generally ignore anything in it that doesn't suit their tastes. The
OED,
for instance, has always insisted on
-ize
spellings for words such as
characterize, itemize,
and the like, and yet almost nowhere in England, apart from the pages of
The Times
newspaper (and not always there) are they observed. The British still spell almost all such words with
-ise
endings and thus enjoy a consistency with words such as
advertise, merchandise,
and
surprise
that we in America fail to achieve. But perhaps the most notable of all the
OED
's minor quirks is its insistence that Shakespeare should be spelled Shakspere. After explaining at some length why this is the only correct spelling, it grudgingly acknowledges that the commonest spelling “is perh. Shakespeare.” (To which we might add, it cert. is.)

In the spring of 1989, a second edition of the dictionary was issued, containing certain modifications, such as the use of the International Phonetic Alphabet instead of Murray's own quirky system. It comprised the original twelve volumes, plus four vast supplements issued between 1972 and 1989. Now sprawling over twenty volumes, the updated dictionary is a third bigger than its predecessor, with 615,000 entries, 2,412,000 supporting quotations, almost 60 million words of exposition, and about 350 million keystrokes of text (or one for each native speaker of English in the world). No other language has anything even remotely approaching it in scope. Because of its existence, more is known about the history of English than any other language in the world.

*
 One of which, incidentally, is said to be the longest word in the English language. It begins methianylglutaminyl and finishes 1,913 letters later as alynalalanylthreonilarginylserase. I don't know what it is used for, though I daresay it would take some rubbing to get it out of the carpet.

11.

Old World, New World

T
he first American pilgrims happened to live in the midst of perhaps the most exciting period in the history of the English language—a time when 12,000 words were being added to the language and revolutionary activities were taking place in almost every realm of human endeavor. It was also a time of considerable change in the structure of the language. The 104 pilgrims who sailed from Plymouth in 1620 were among the first generation of people to use the
s
form on verbs, saying
has
rather than
hath, runs
rather than
runneth.
Similarly,
thee
and
thou
pronoun forms were dying out. Had the pilgrims come a quarter of a century earlier, we might well have preserved those forms, as we preserved other archaisms such as
gotten.

The new settlers in America obviously had to come up with new words to describe their New World, and this necessity naturally increased as they moved inland. Partly this was achieved by borrowing from others who inhabited or explored the untamed continent. From the Dutch we took
landscape, cookie,
and
caboose.
We may also have taken
Yankee,
as a corruption of the Dutch Jan Kees (“John Cheese”). The suggestion is that Jan Kees was a nonce name for a Dutchman in America, rather like John Bull for an Englishman, but the historical evidence is slight. Often the new immigrants borrowed Indian terms, though these could take some swallowing since the Indian languages, particularly those of the eastern part of the continent, were inordinately agglomerative. As Mary Helen Dohan notes in her excellent book on the rise of American English,
Our Own Words,
an early translator of the Bible into Iroquoian had to devise the word
kummogkodonattootummooetiteaonganunnonash
for the phrase “our question.” In Massachusetts there was a lake that the Indians called Chargoggagomanchaugagochaubunagungamaug, which is said to translate as “You fish on that side, we'll fish on this side, and nobody will fish in the middle.” Not surprisingly, such words were usually shortened and modified. The English-sounding
hickory
was whittled out of the Indian
pawcohiccora. Raugraoughcun
was hacked into
raccoon
and
isquonterquashes
into
squash. Hoochinoo,
the name of an Indian tribe noted for its homemade liquor, produced
hooch.
Some idea of the bewilderments of Indian orthography is indicated by the fact that Chippewa and Ojibway are different names for the same tribe as interpreted by different people at different times. Sometimes words went through many transformations before they sat comfortably on the English-speaking tongue.
Manhattan
has been variously recorded as
Manhates, Manthanes, Manhatones, Manhatesen, Manhattae,
and at least half a dozen others. Even the simple word
Iowa,
according to Dohan, has been recorded with sixty-four spellings. Despite the difficulties of rendering them into English, Indian names were borrowed for the names of more than half our states and for countless thousands of rivers, lakes, and towns. Yet we borrowed no more than three or four dozen Indian words for everyday objects—among them
canoe, raccoon, hammock,
and
tobacco.

From the early Spanish settlers, by contrast, we took more than 500 words—though many of these, it must be said, were Indian terms adopted by the Spaniards. Among them:
rodeo, bronco, buffalo, avocado, mustang, burro, fiesta, coyote, mesquite, canyon,
and
buckaroo. Buckaroo
was directly adapted from the Spanish
vaquero
(a cowboy) and thus must originally have been pronounced with the accent on the second syllable. Many borrowings are more accurately described as Mexican than Spanish since they did not exist in Spain, among them
stampede, hoosegow,
and
cafeteria. Hoosegow
and
jug
(for jail) were both taken from the Mexican-Spanish
juzgado,
which, despite the spelling, was pronounced more or less as “hoosegow.” Sometimes it took a while for the pronunciation to catch up with the spelling.
Rancher,
a term borrowed from the Spanish
rancho,
was originally pronounced in the Mexican fashion, which made it something much closer to “ranker.”