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nuisance it is to read in galleries and catalogues Vecellio, Vannucci, and Cagliari, in lieu of our old friends Titian, Perugino, and Veronese! Raphael and Michael Angelo, Masaccio and Tintoretto, are no more: 'restorers' in oil are renewing for us the original brilliancy of their hues; whilst restorers' in ink are erasing the friendly old nicknames with 'vera copias' of the baptismal certificates in their hands. Every chit of an æsthete will talk to you about the Cenacolo, or the Sposalizio, of Sanzio; and the Paradiso in the Palazzo Ducale; though these words are nearly the limit of his entire Italian vocabulary.

This new polyglott language of historians and artists is becoming, in fact, the speech which is known to the curious as maccaronic. It recalls the famous lines of our youth:- Trumpeter unus erat, coatum qui scarlet habebat.' I remember an Anglo-maniac and sporting Italian nobleman, who was once heard to say, 'In Firenze I bought an Inglis mare; he was full; and when I voyaged to Napoli, there came a leetle horsey boy.' Into this maccaronic piebald, history and art are now being translated. 'Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee, thou art translated!'

There are two fatal impediments to this attempt at reproducing archaic sounds. It is at best but a clumsy symbolism of unpronounceable vocables, and it never is, and never can be, consistently applied. Ethelthryth, Hrofesceaster, and Gruffydd are grotesque agglomerations of letters to represent sounds which are not familiar to English ears or utterable by English lips. The 'Old-English' school pur sang do not hesitate to fill whole sentences of what is meant to be modern and popular English with these choking words. Professor Freeman actually uses obsolete letters in an English sentence. Now, I venture to say that English literature requires a work which is intended to take a place in it, to be written in the English language. In mere glossaries, commentaries, and philological treatises, the obsolete letters and obsolete spelling have their place. But in literature, the and þ are as completely dead as a Greek Digamma. The most glaring defect of this Neo-Saxonism' is its inconsistency. Human nature would revolt if all the schools were to adopt the same rule; but each separate school contradicts itself in the same page. It is curious that the Old-English' school wantonly modernise the spelling of names which happen not to be Old-English.' They first mangle the traditions of English literature by twisting household words into an archaic form; and then, in the case of names of the Latin race, they mangle the traditions of English and of foreign literature at once, by twisting other household words into a modern Anglicised form. Mr. Freeman writes in his great history, Elfred compared with Lewis IX. Now, here is a double violation of the traditions of English literature; not on the same, but on two contradictory principles. 'Saint Louis' is as familiar to us as Alfred.' In French and in English, the

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name has long been written Louis, which is certainly the actual French form. But, as Saint Louis was only a Frenchman, and not a WestSaxon, his true name is to be Anglicised into what (in spite of Macaulay) is little better than a vulgarism. And Alfred, who is West-Saxon pur sang, is promoted or 'translated' into Elfred. If Lewis can be shown to be literary English (and there is something to be said for that suggestion) one would not object. But by that rule, Alfred must stand; for assuredly that is literary English. One cannot have it both ways, except on the childish assumption that you intend to spell none but your own pets with archaic precision.

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William the Conqueror, the great subject of Mr. Freeman's great book, was king of England for some twenty-one years, and one of the mightiest kings who ever ruled here. In Latin, his contemporaries called him Willelmus, Wilielmus, or Wilgelmus; in French, Guillaume, or Willame; in English, Willelm. We have his charter in English to this day; which runs, Willelm Kyng gret Willelm Bisceop. Now, if we are obliged to write Elfred, and Eadward, why not write the Conqueror in one of the forms that his contemporaries used? But no; the great founder of the new English monarchy never got over the original sin of being a Frenchman; and so he is modernised like any mere Lewis,' or 'Henry,' or ' Philip.'

In the case of English kings, their wives and relations, of nonEnglish blood, Mr. Freeman can leave them to the vulgar tongue. It is William, Henry, Margaret, Matilda, Mary, Stephen, and so on. No doubt it would look very odd in an English history to read about our sovereign Stephne (or Estienne) fighting with the Kaiserinn Mathildis.' But then, what is the good of all this precision if it is so grossly inconsistent? They who insist on talking of Elsass and Lothringen write, like the rest of us, Venice and Florence. And Mr. Freeman, who is quite content with William and Stephen, mere modern Anglicisms, is very particular how he writes Sókratés. He happens to be fond of West-Saxon annals and Greek philosophers. And so, both get good marks in the aboriginal cacophony.

It is surely unworthy of serious history to mark your contempt for certain persons by giving them nicknames, and your regard for others by giving them archaic names. Whilst our old kings Alfred and Edward are disguised as Elfred and Eadweard, Mr. Freeman always writes of Napoleon as Buonaparte. Now it is perfectly certain that, from the time that he ruled in France to this day, the name of the family has been written Bonaparte. In lampoons, no doubt, it was spelt Buonaparte, to suggest his Italian origin. But the family name was, and is, in legal and public documents, as well as in current literature, Bonaparte. Mr. Freeman, in serious history, chooses to revive the lampoon form of the Emperor's name, simply to express hatred and contempt. Most of us do detest Napoleon as a character. But, just as no gentleman stoops to misspell his opponent's name, so no

grave writer should miscall an historical personage by nicknames picked up in a lampoon. If Buonaparte, why not Boney? All this is a piece of rather rough humour, as if Mr. Froude should insist in writing about Professor Frei-mann. Some day we shall have a Tory historian writing about the Protector Noll; or a Radical historian writing about the Dizzy administration. And why Buonaparte? Napoleon was for ten years emperor, by every possible legal and conventional title; so recognised in treaties, laws, records, and history. It is the universal practice of serious literature to recognise and respect every de facto title. Why, then, call one of the greatest de facto sovereigns who ever reigned in Europe by his family nickname, and not by his formal title? All this smacks of the gutter literature wherein Terrorists called Marie Antoinette Veuve Capet, and O'Donovan Rossa calls Queen Victoria Mrs. Guelph. Is it enough to answer that Napoleon was a usurper and a bad man? Are the histories of the future to run:-that Magna Carta was signed by Lack-land, and Bosworth field was lost by Dickon Plantagenet?


But there is a far more serious change of name that the 'OldEnglish' school have introduced; which, if it were indefinitely extended, would wantonly confuse historical literature. I mean the attempt to alter names which are the accepted landmarks of history. It is now thought scholarly to write of the Battle of Senlac,' instead of the 'Battle of Hastings.' As every one knows, the fight took place on the site of Battle Abbey, seven miles from Hastings; as so many great battles, those of Tours, Blenheim, Canna, Châlons, and the like, have been named from places not the actual spot of the combat. But since, for 800 years, the historians of Europe have spoken of the 'Battle of Hastings,' it does seem a little pedantic to re-name it 'Hastings' is the only name for the fight in Willelm's Domesday Survey; it is the only name given by the Bayeux Tapestry. Exierunt de Hestenga et venerunt ad prelium' is there written-not a word about Senlac. The nameless author of the Continuation of Wace's

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And Guy, Bishop of Amiens from 1058-1076 A.D., wrote a poem, ' De Hastingæ prælio.' One would think all this was sufficient authority for us to continue a name recorded in history for eight centuries. I am loth to argue with the master of forty legions of MSS.; but, so far as I know, there is no positive evidence that Senlac was a place at all; the sole authority for 'Battle of Senlac' is Orderic, a monk who lived and wrote in Normandy in the next century. Yet, on the strength of this secondary authority, the Old English' school choose to erase from English literature one of our most familiar


Battles are seldom named with geographical precision. The VOL. XIX.-No. 107.


victors hastily give the first name; and so it passes into current speech. To be accurate, the Battle of Salamis should be the Battle of Psyttaleia, and the Battle of Canna should be named from the Aufidus; and the Battle of Zama' was really fought at Naragara. Imagine an historian of the future choosing to re-name the Battle of Waterloo, from Hougoumont; because, in the twentieth century, some French writer should so describe it. The Battle of Trafalgar would have to be described as the sea-fight of 'Longitude 6° 7′ 5′′ West, and Latitude 36° 10′ 15′′ North.' In old days we used to say that Charles Martel defeated the Saracens in the battle of Tours.' So wrote Gibbon, Hallam, Milman. Now, we shall have to write'Karl the Hammer defeated the Ya'arabs of Yemen on the plateau of Sancta Maura.' Surely all this is the mint and anise of the annals, neglecting the weightier matters of the law.


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Has not the Old-English' school made rather too much fuss about their wonderful discovery that Karl the Great was not a Gaul; and that the Anglo-Saxons' was not the ordinary name of any English tribe? No one is ever likely to make these blunders again, if indeed any one ever made them at all; but to taboo these convenient old names from English literature is surely a needless purism. 'Charlemagne' has been spoken of in England ever since, as Wace tells us, Taillefer at Hastings died singing, De Karlemaine è de Rollant;' and in an enormous body of literature for a thousand years Charles has been so named. The reason is obvious enough; the great Emperor has become known to us mainly through Latin, French, and Old-French sources, Chansons de Gestes, and metrical tales in a Romance dialect. That in itself is an interesting and important fact in literary history. The pure Frank sources, in a Teutonic dialect, are very much fewer and less known. The name Charlemagne' is as much a part of the English language as is the title Emperor,' and it is as little likely to be displaced by any contemporary phonogram as the names of Moses and Jesus. Let Germans talk about Kaiser Karl: Englishmen of sense will continue to talk of the Emperor Charlemagne :' a name which is good enough for Gibbon and Milman, for Hallam and Martin.


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And so, Anglo-Saxon' is a very convenient term to describe the vernacular speech used in England before its settlement by the Nor'Old English' is a vague and elastic term. In one sense, the orthography of Dryden or of Milton is Old-English; so is Spenser's, or Chaucer's, or the Ancren Riule. We want a convenient term for the speech of Englishmen, before it was affected by the Conquest. Edward the Elder, the first true King of all England, chose to call himself Rex Anglo-Saxonum;' and an immense succession of historians and scholars have used the term. Is not that enough? The most learned authorities for this period have used it: men like Kemble, Bosworth, Thorpe, and Skeat. So too, Bishop Stubbs, in

part of

his magnificent work, systematically employs a term which is the English language, quite apart from its being current amongst this or that tribe of Engles or West Saxons. Perhaps, then, we need not be in such hurry to outlaw a term that was formally adopted for our nation by the first King of all England, and has since been in use in the language. Nor need we fear that to utter it were as bad as to drop one's h.

There is something essentially alien to the true historic spirit in any race jealousy and ethnological combativeness. History is the unbroken evolution of human civilisation; and the true historians are they who can show us the unity and the sequence of the vast and complex drama. It is all very well for monkish annalists and philological pedants to record the superiority of some particular tribe; but these petty prejudices are now best reserved for schoolboys at a cricket match. Theories of race are of all speculations the most cloudy and the most misleading. And to few nations are they less applicable than to England. Our ethnology, our language, our

history are the most mixed and complex of which records exist. Our nationality is as vigorous and as definite as any in the world; but it is a geographical and a political nationality; and not a tribal or linguistic nationality. To unwind again the intricate strands which have been wrought into our English unity, and to range them by marks in classes, as in a competitive examination, is a futile task. If we exaggerate the power of one particular element of the English race, one source of the English people, one side of English institutions, one contributory to the English language, we shall find it a poor equipment for historical judgment.

Race prejudices are at all times anti-historic and inhuman. Professor Clifford used to talk about morality as an evolution of the 'tribal conscience. Assuredly confusion is the only possible evolution for a tribal' history. To have pet' races, and 'favourite ' dynasties, and 'own' languages, is a hindrance to the true historian. And when it comes to making mouths at the rulers of other races, and larding the speech of our day with the break-jaw terms of other languages or obsolete forms of English, why literature, as well as history, will cry out. The Carlylese school, and the Orientalists, and the Deutsch and Jutish enthusiasts, bid fair to turn our language and its literature into an ungainly polyglott. Their pages bristle with Bretwaldas and Heretogas, Burhs and Munds, Folk-friths and Tun-gerefas; or with Reichs, Kurfürsts, Pfalzes, and Kaisers. All this is very well in glossaries, but not in literature. How absurd is it to write The Kurfürst of Köln,' or 'The Ealdorman of the Hwiccas!' It is as if one wrote- The Duc of Broglie was once Ministre of the Affaires Etrangères;' or that Wellington defeated the Empereur Napoléon and all his Maréchaux:' just as they do in a lady's-maid's high-polite novel. Why are Deutsch and Jutish

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