My
own father, I was going to say, has been involved in some pretty dirty
work in the course of his professional career - - "
"No doubt, no doubt."
"And please to note that he is as good a man as any brother of yours."
"You always miss my point."
"Now try to be truthful, for once in your life. Out with it!"
"A liqueur."
"Is that all? Sleep does not seem to have sharpened your wits to any
great extent."
"I was not asleep. I was thinking about eggs. A company."
"A company? You are waking up. Anything else?"
"An injunction...."
A distinguished writer some years ago started a crusade in favour of
pure English. He wished to counteract those influences which are forever
at work debasing the standard of language; whether, as he seemed to
think, that standard should be inalterably fixed, is yet another
question. For in literature as in conversation there is a "pure English"
for every moment of history; that of our childhood is different from
to-day's; and to adopt the tongue of the Bible or Shakespeare, because
it happens to be pure, looks like setting back the hands of the clock.
Men would surely be dull dogs if their phraseology, whether written or
spoken, were to remain stagnant and unchangeable. We think well of
Johnson's prose. Yet the respectable English of our own time will bear
comparison with his; it is more agile and less infected with Latinisms;
why go back to Johnson? Let us admire him as a landmark, and pass on!
Some literary periods may deserve to be called good, others bad; so be
it. Were there no bad ones, there would be no good ones, and I see no
reason why men should desire to live in a Golden Age of literature, save
in so far as that millennium might coincide with a Golden Age of living.
I doubt, in the first place, whether they would be even aware of their
privilege; secondly, every Golden Age grows fairer when viewed from a
distance. Besides, and as a general consideration, it strikes me that a
vast deal of mischief is involved in these arbitrary divisions of
literature into golden or other epochs; they incite men to admire some
mediocre writers and to disparage others, they pervert our natural
taste, and their origin is academic laziness.
Certain it is that every language worthy of the name should be in a
state of perennial flux, ready and avid to assimilate new elements and
be battered about as we ourselves are - is there anything more charming
than a thoroughly defective verb? - fresh particles creeping into its
vocabulary from all quarters, while others are silently discarded. There
is a bar-sinister on the escutcheon of many a noble term, and if, in an
access of formalism, we refuse hospitality to some item of questionable
repute, our descendants may be deprived of a linguistic jewel.
