Part 2 (1/2)
The framework of the story dealing with the conversion of La Hire has not been lost upon the writers of the theatre. A _pet.i.te comedie_ well known on the boards of the Theatre Francais as 'Les Jurons de Cadillac,'
is occupied with the sufferings of a naval officer who is constrained by feminine influence to relinquish his customary expletives. ”How is it,”
asks La Comtesse, ”that you have contracted this horrible habit; you, a scion of an old stock, one of our first Gascon gentlemen?” Cadillac's answer is spirited. ”Comtesse, I was brought up by my grandfather, an old sea dog, corbleu! With him I learnt to swear before I learnt to read, and if he has not taught me the language of courts, it is because, sacrebleu! he did not know it. He made me a true sailor, ventre mahon!”
The Comtesse insists that, as a proof of the captain's professions of regard, he should abstain from indulging in this habit for the s.p.a.ce of one single hour. Should the ordeal be successfully pa.s.sed, she consents that he shall receive her hand as his reward. Cadillac is fairly driven to desperation. ”Ask of me anything but that!” he exclaims; ”only let me swear, or I shall go mad!” Finally he sees no help for it but to accept the challenge, and the audience is detained in a state of amusing suspense while witnessing the contrivances with which the honest captain endeavours to overcome the difficulty. He tampers with the hands of the clock in the hope of abridging the hour of trial, and this ruse being discovered he unworthily seeks safety in sullen silence. ”No, no, captain,” objects the Comtesse, ”unless you converse it is not fair play.” His tormentor lures him with all her skill to let slip one of his unpremeditated expletives, and a hundred times the worthy fellow is on the point of giving way. At last, beguiled into a description of one of his most thrilling sea-fights, and with the recollection of the wild scenes of carnage pa.s.sing vividly before his eyes, he is no longer able to maintain composure. He bursts into a volume of his old sea terms, but the lady, moved, as it would seem, by the _elan_ and spirit of the recital, finds it in her heart to be merciful. The play concludes with a modest _sacrebleu_, this time spoken by La Comtesse. It will be seen from the evidence of this performance alone that in ascribing to our nationality a monopoly of energetic language, public report has hardly been discriminating.
Not desiring, however, to turn the tables upon our aspersers, we propose to still further pursue the fortunes of the Britannic s.h.i.+bboleth from when we left it upon the lips of La Pucelle. The aspersion cast upon the English on the Picard battle-fields continued to be handed down in camp story and in rugged _vaux-de-vire_. Neither did it cease to provoke derision and merriment when it had entered into the common parlance of the Paris cabaret, and became the stock property of the Palais Royal farce.[12] The ”G.o.ddam” that greeted British officers rollicking through the city of pleasure in the days succeeding Waterloo was the same term of opprobrium that a.s.sailed the English archers at Agincourt and Honfleur.
To what ”mute inglorious” satirist we are indebted for this lasting compliment we shall probably never now determine. The word is at least discovered in the collection of Norman ballads subjoined to the 'Vaux-de-Vire' of Master Oliver Ba.s.selin published at Caen, 1821. This work dates from the early part of the sixteenth century, but has reference to the events of the preceding one. It more particularly speaks of Henry V. as dying _par le mal de St. Fiacre_ and of Henry VI.
as ascending the throne. It is the latter monarch who is referred to in these verses as ”little King G.o.ddam”--
”Ils out charge l'artillerye sus mer, Force bisquit et chascun ung bydon, Et par la mer jusqu'en Biscaye aller, Pour couronner leur pet.i.t roy G.o.don.”
We might search in vain for mention of the expression in English writings of the same period. In France however the epithet is repeated with equal malignancy in the angry verses which Guillaume Cretin was pleased to write upon the 'Battle of the Spurs':
”Cryant: Qui vive aux G.o.dons d'Angleterre.
Seigneurs du sang, barons et chevaliers, Tous seculiers d'ill.u.s.tre parentage, Permettez vous a ses G.o.dons, galliers, Gros G.o.daillers, houspalliers, poullalliers, Prendre palliers au francoys heritaige?”
The aspersion however did not always rest with Frenchmen. Lord Hailes, in a criticism written about the year 1770, incidentally gives it as his experience that in Holland the children when they espy any English people say, ”There come the G.o.ddams,” and that the Portuguese, as soon as they acquire a smattering of the tongue, exclaim, ”How do you do, Jack? d.a.m.n you!”[13]
We have attentively considered the tone of contemporary English writings to ascertain whether by a hazard the nickname was appropriately bestowed. In the result we have not been able to discover anything to lead to the supposition that this particular form of speech was, upon these sh.o.r.es at least, very generally indulged in. Either the tall soldiers who accompanied Henry of Monmouth to the wars were so stimulated by the unaccustomed juice of the grape as to then and there originate this vigorous epithet, unspoken at home, or else there was little or no justification for the taunting expression. We are inclined to think that the former surmise is approximately correct. The habit was not an Englishman's but a soldier's vice, and when the foreign troubles were at an end it may very well have been drafted back to this country with the rest of the fighting contingent.
Although in its usage it is now considered essentially British, there is no reason to impute to it any other than an etymology decidedly French.
Its similarity with the numerous derivatives of the verb _d.a.m.no_ have probably obscured the true derivation of the word. For its real parentage we must have recourse to the Latin _dominus_ or _domina_ which produced the Gallic _dame_. This again was used equally to denote a potentate of either s.e.x, until at last we find the interjection _dame!_ applied in the same sense as _Seigneur!_ or our own _Lord!_ When, therefore, we go still further, and meet with _dame Dieu!_ occurring frequently in ancient texts we are helped at once to the source of our adopted expletive. By one of those combinations so often to be found where there is a confusion or admixture of tongues, the English soldiery rendered their _dame!_ or _dame Dieu!_ in the way we have seen, and a hybrid term was thus produced which has not even yet been found waning in popularity. The derivation we have here suggested is sufficient of itself to account for the amus.e.m.e.nt that was displayed by laughter-loving Frenchmen, who twitted the invader in that he was unable to p.r.o.nounce the irrepressible _Dieu_, and was forced to anglicise it to fit it to the remainder of the oath. It will be perceived that, taking this view of the case, the British s.h.i.+bboleth is rather more of a s.h.i.+bboleth than has previously been supposed.
It is true that in a scarce work we find it is recorded that the expression originated with Richard III., but this is easily confuted by the examples we have given. The 'Comedy of Errors' contains one isolated allusion to it:--”_G.o.d d.a.m.n me!_ that's as much as to say, G.o.d make me a light wench.” Here the term is dearly interpolated as a kind of newly-coined catchword. We suspect that the true era of the oath being absorbed into common speech is indicated by a pa.s.sage in the epigrams of Sir John Harrington. This work, which appeared in 1613, is much concerned at the abusive element that had at that time entered into English conversation. No longer, says Sir John, do men swear devoutly by the cross and ma.s.s, or by such innocent oaths as the pyx or the mousefoot. Now they invite d.a.m.nation as their pledge of sincerity.
”G.o.dd.a.m.n-me,” he repines, had then become the customary oath. This appears to us to be the first intimation of the fact that we find in English literature.[14]
Neither was amus.e.m.e.nt neglected to be created out of this new word-sally. In one of the comedies which throw so much light upon the manners of the time, a piece called 'Amends for Ladies,' from the pen of Nat Field, we are introduced among a so-called society of roarers. The experiment had been already tried by Thomas Middleton, who, in his 'Faire Quarrel,' had initiated his audience into the exercises of a pretended roaring-school. The notion was simply that the young idlers about town met together to acquire perfection in the arts of bombast and exaggeration. In the former production, a Lord Feesimple is supposed to be enjoying the coveted distinction of being drilled into becoming a roarer. As was usual in these performances, the characters pa.s.s from one insolence to another, until at last swords are drawn and general uproar prevails. But what upon the present occasion has given rise to the misunderstanding, is the unlucky a.s.sumption by Feesimple of one of the roysterers' private and particular oaths. In an ill-omened moment he has presumed to exclaim, ”d.a.m.n me!” whereupon a certain Tearchaps who has been noticeable through the play as the improprietor of the term, very loudly objects--”Use your own words, d.a.m.n me is mine; I am known by it all the town o'er. D'ye hear?”
Feesimple, although disposed to contest the other's t.i.tle, is happily brought to order by the timely interference of one Welltried, whose knowledge of such matters enables him to bear out the truth of the a.s.sertion. This play, produced in 1618 and acted upon the stage of the Blackfriars, tallies in substance with Harrington's verses produced in the earlier year.
Allied to this expression is a phrase which may even be said to have a kind of literary merit. ”Don't care a d.a.m.n” is indicative of about the utmost possible amount of unconcern. It would be in vain to seek for any object more intrinsically inconsiderable with which to liken a condition of indifference. Anstey seizes upon it in his 'Bath Guide':--
”Absurd as I am, I don't care a d.a.m.n Either for you or your valet-de-sham.”
But curiously enough this figure of speech was originally as independent of the ”s.h.i.+bboleth” as we have seen that was of the cla.s.sic ”d.a.m.no.”
There is in India a piece of money of the minutest value, which is known as a _dam_. The phrase, therefore, so far from originating in a fanciful comparison, really does nothing more than announce a prosaic fact. It has been said that the expression was occasionally used by the ”great Duke,” a circ.u.mstance for which the Indian experiences of the victor of a.s.saye has been held sufficient to account. Mr. Trevelyan, indeed, in his 'Life of Lord Macaulay' (ii. 257) states positively that the Duke of Wellington invented this oath.
Etymology, which has thus brushed away what one might have taken to be a thoroughly characteristic expression, also supplies a matter-of-fact explanation for another modification of the phrase. ”Don't care a curse,” or ”Not worth a curse,” we might fondly imagine to possess something of poetic imagery. The learned in derivations undeceive us.
They say that the word _curse_ is here identical with the plant ”cress.” In that sense, ”not worth a curse” will be found in Piers Ploughman's Vision, the remarkable work of the fourteenth century.
Since the days when City madams and Fleet Street apprentices flocked round the dusty scaffold of the Blackfriars play-house, and laughed and rallied one another, or possibly took pa.s.sing umbrage at the satire that was being levelled at this newly-nurtured word, what a remarkable, what an astounding ascendancy has it not enjoyed? No mint has ever issued its metal more swiftly than has this exchequer of bad language, or given it a more unmistakable impression. And yet there is nothing healthful, nothing good in it. From the disorders which first environed it, it has never yet recovered. It lives only by disease and unhealthiness, and when it has rid itself of disease and unhealthiness it will die.
CHAPTER IV.
WHICH GIVES A DOG A BAD NAME.