University of Virginia Library

10. EXTRACT FROM THE
ADDRESS OF DR. CYPRESS,

ON TAKING THE ETYMOLOGICAL CHAIR IN THE NEW COLLEGE.

[Published by desire of the class.]

“Etymology,” says Jeremy Bentham, “is an essential and
useful branch of philology. It supposes an acquaintance with
the philosophy of the human mind, with the analogies which
form and distinguish each language, with the history of
mankind, philosophical, religious, and political. It furnishes
the readiest and most effectual means to acquire the knowledge
of language, and as language is but the dress of our
ideas, it holds up a mirror to delineate and reflect the operations
of the human mind.”

Most authentic art thou, O Jeremy! and whoso readeth
with a right spirit, he shall be edified. But all are not true
believers. The scepticism and bad taste of this rail road
age reject faith, and cry out for demonstration. This is near
at hand for the learned caviler; Heaven help the common
herd, that cannot comprehend a thing when it is made manifest
unto them. We, be it lamented, have got to fight a fight
against them. Ay, such is the jealous suspicion of the vulgar
world, that in the prosecution of these sublime meditations,
we must prepare to combat the prejudices and objections of
many a Zoilus, and be solemn as well as earnest, lest they
who never studied astrology or magical harmonies, should
esteem us to be triflers. Let me remark to these last mentioned,

miserable individuals, that, sinful, they are plunged
into the same gall of bitterness which drowned the wits of
the would-be-wise men, who denied to Columbus a western
continent; that they are obligors upon the same bond of
iniquity with the phil-agnosiasts who doubted the circulation
of the blood, or the efficacy of vaccination, or who now, impious!
shake their profane heads at Captain Symnes and
Dædalian Mr. Bennett.

But instead of railing, I should be studious [whispers discretion]
of submissive and alluring speech—ad mulcendos animos
—for engaging the favor of the ignorant, whom I would enlighten.
In accordance with this presumption, let me, with
deep deference, submit, that the dignity of etymological pursuits
is proved by their antiquity, and the character of their
patrons.

Herodotus records, that one Samuel Metticus, an ancient
king of Egypt, who had a vigorous taste for philosophy, and
who would certainly, had he lived in our age, have invented
steamboats, and discovered “the” perpetual motion; being
desirous to ascertain what language was the earliest, caused
two infants to be taken from their mother's breasts, and confined
in a solitary hut, where no human voice might reach
them; very justly and sagaciously determining that if ever
they agreed to talk, it would be in the language of nature,
and consequently, in that of the first inhabitants of the world.
or as it is rendered in Dr.
Parr's translation, “these things commanded princely Sam.”
The babes continued so long mute, that the king began to
doubt the wisdom of his theory, when wonderful to be told!
one morning upon the entrance of his servants to feed them
with their accustomed meal of goat's milk, the little infants
fell upon their knees——and, with

uplifted hands, cried out “Bekos.” Now had the king understood
English, he might readily have perceived that is by
apocope and by paragoge , or, in our vernacular, Bekky;
and what could “Bekky” mean, but a nurse, or servant girl
—a being for whom the unprotected state of the little innocents
languished! And what is consequent, but that there
is a truth in the doctrine of innate ideas, and that one of the
first we entertain is the sense of imbecility; and that, when
infants, we must be attended by a servant maid, or—by synedoche—a
Bekky, which is a sort of generic term for the whole
tribe? Or indeed, when evolved from juvenile gums,
with the emollient lubricity of an infant lisp, might fall upon
auriculars sufficiently philological, as a well-defined outcry
for breakfast—an exclamation extremely natural for hungry
children, and quite common even at the present day. But
both these cogent explications were strangers to Sam. Metticus,
whose library had not been furnished with Webster's
Universal, and therefore knew not English undefiled; and
he finding the oracular word to signify bread in some other
language, the question was settled to the infinite detriment
and damage of our mother tongue.

Shakspeare had a very proper idea of the importance of
these pursuits, when he made Hamlet, that courtier, scholar
and soldier, answer to an inquiry of what he studied, “words,
words, words.”

The Jewish Rabbins employed themselves in analysing
the words of the Old Testament, well convinced that every
one contained in it a law or a prophecy.

It would be “wasteful and ridiculous excess,” to enumerate
all the syllabic and literary philosophers, who have spent
their lives in settling the meaning and orthodoxy of words.
The simple proverb, “verbum sapienti,” will put the dignity

of the profession beyond a doubt. “A word for the wise”
—evidently intending, that it is for wise men alone, to comment
on and quarrel about obscure expressions. We have,
therefore, assumed a weighty responsibility, in putting on the
whole armor of an etymologist, and we must be strong, and
brave, and bold to sustain ourselves in that glorious company
of knights-noscent, who have consecrated themselves to
the overthrow of delusion. But do not fear for me, my gentle
pupil, I have fought for a word before now. I know the
temper of my weapon, and not without confidence have I
plunged into black blood.

Let us now rush “in medias res.” Mark how obscurity
bites the dust, and error gives up the ghost.

The poet very truly and happily sings,

Now, the vulgar editions have so arranged the last word
in the first line of this triplet, as to make the poet require
every man to keep a music book under his ribs, and that his
soul should be no better than a wind instrument! Here has
been grievous misconception, and here is our vocation exalted.
The discriminating antiquary and judicious critic, who is
aware of the constant corruption of language, who understands
the analogy of words, and is familiar with the manners
and customs of nations, will perceive, upon a little reflection,
that the poet, in reality, refers to the custom of dancing
with musical instruments attached to the feet; having
in his eye, no doubt, the concluding couplet of Herrick's
beautiful little epicedium on the death of Mrs. Malaprop:

With this explanation the author's meaning is apparent. Not
Psyche, nor alma, nor the old fashioned English soul was in
his thought. He is the eulogist of saltation, merely, and
superinducent melody. The man, says he,—translated into
prose,—who is too Cassius-like to dance, who confesses not
the bewilderment and strong compulsion of a tinkling foot, is
fit for treason, and all those other things afterwards above
mentioned. With what exceeding beauty is the passage invested,
by this integration!

Again: It is well settled among Latin scholars, that the
word “Lucus,” a gloomy grove, derives its name, “a non lucendo;”—that
is to say, it is called a bright and cheerful region,
because it is black and dark as Erebus. What light is thrown,
by this example, upon the obscurity of that beautiful, but
much abused line,

Nothing could be more quaintly, yet more naturally conceived.

By the same rationale, my reverend Hellenian professor
derived the word plough from the Greek verb —to burn
—because we do not put fiery horses to the aforesaid agricultural
chariot.

But instead of multiplying minor instances, to magnify the
excellence of our studies, let me call you to the contemplation
of one great example, which will afford us all the argument
and illustration we can desire. Listen and you shall be edified
by the discussion of a much agitated verse of Shakspeare,
a compilation of the various readings, and a criticism, modest
and conclusive, upon them all. It is no more than justice to
that respectable dramatist, that this matter should be settled.
It shall be settled now; and I invoke the shades of Theobald
and Dr. Johnson, whom I think I see in the midst of you, to

bear with me to the end, and then pronounce if my success be
not complete.

It is well known, that never was bard so favored by posterity,
in quantity and variety of commentators and expositors,
as he of Stratford. The mass of confusion and obscurity
thrown upon his plays, by ignorant editors, and by finical,
capricious actors, rendered them, for a long time, of little repute.
At last, however, Etymology came to give the deerstealer
justice. And when he had lived his little day, the
million assumed the prerogative of literary popes, and issued
bulls for his apotheosis. Then began the worship, and then
flourished the contest, who should best understand and most
admire. Critic succeeded critic, “buffeting and cuffing
each other,” as says the erudite Mr. Seward, each succeeding
one accusing his predecessor of stupidity and absurdity. All,
however, concurred in this one sentiment—that the author
upon whom they commented could have written nothing but
sense. Of the immortal bard none dared say, “aliquando
bonus dormitat Homerus.” Adopting their understood and
universally conceded premises, we will join these lovers of
darkness rather than of light, and proceed to the contemplation
of our text. It may be found in Othello, act fifth, scene second.
It is part of the soliloquy of the Moor, after he has entered
the bed-chamber, and is commonly read,

This is the reading adhered to by Malone, who refers the
first “light” to the candle which the Moor holds in his hand,
and the last to Desdemona's life. All this, in his opinion, is
spoken in a calm, matter-of-course style. I will first put out
the candle, and then I'll kill my wife.

Warburton thinks, that more emphasis should be laid upon

the latter part of the line, and he accordingly puts a dash after
the word “then,” leaving it thus—
But here a difficulty arises. How shall the last “light” be
pointed? By a period, a mark of interrogation, or of exclamation?
“Put out the light.”—“Put out the light!”—or
“Put out the light?” All these lections have their respective
advocates; but as I shall reject them all, I will not at present
scan their merits. Let me merely remark that Mr. Hewlett,
the celebrated Ethiopian buskin-stretcher, goes the period
entirely. He puts a dash after “then,” leaving time to Othello
to make up his mind about what he will do; and after being
buried in a brown—qr. black—study, and thrumming on his
thorax for some fifteen minutes, he suddenly catches at the
just born idea, which is almost made visible by his demoniac
leap to grasp it—then pulls a suitable quantity of wool out of
his head, and with a Kean-flashing eye exclaims, “Put out
the light!”

Professor McClearer, of the Dublin university, county Leinster,
is quite confident that the last “light” refer's to Desdemona's
eyes; and he therefore proposes to throw light upon
the subject, by taking away one “light,” and substituting
“sight.” And, in truth, even Fielding—whose lucubrations,
hereupon, are e profundis—vehemently swears, that when on
his journey in the other world, he heard some literary ghost
insist to Shakespeare himself, that the line ought to run,

To me, however, this appears but the turning of light into
darkness, so incomprehensible is the insinuation, that even a
Turk might imagine a revenge so exquisitely Blackhawkical.
Still, it is but fair to admit, that some little color is given to
the barbarism, by the assimilated phraseology of Publius Maro,
in discoursing of the expelled vision of the one-eyed pastoral
giant, who ate up the friends of Ulysses—

“The horrible, great monster, whose light was taken away, or
put out.” But I cannot, nevertheless, admit that the exopthalmation
of Polyphemus, which was certainly appropriate, and
exceedingly poetical, in its place, can justify the bad taste of
making a soldier, and a general, too, put out the two fair eyes
of a christian lady.

That learned and ingenious critic, Lampas Lampados, in
the one hundred and forty-fifth chapter of his treatise of this
line, comes to the conclusion, that the second “light” refers
to the same object as the first; and the latter part of the line
is nothing but a natural repetition of the earnest and determined
resolution; Othello meaning, by the word “light” in
both clauses, the holy man who married him; “against
whom,” says he, “on that accounte he justlie entertaineth a
feelinge of revenge and bitternesse, for that he was the architecte
of all his miserie.” And this dogmatist very cunningly
supports his opinion, by an allusion to the torch which Hymen
is supposed to hold—a light “ever bright and ever burning”
—insisting that the light itself is taken, by metonymy, for the
man who holds it. “And this suggestion,” he proceeds, “is
set arounde and fortified by the contexte.”

“If I quench thee, thou `flaming minister,' or thou ill-starred
parsonne, which shall presentlie burne, as he might haue
sayd. Whence it appeareth, that the succeeding lines, in the
vulgate, are but the player's trashe and bombaste. Doe not
men commonlie call a minister, a light, a fire, a light upon
the house-tops, a light to kindle and consume the peccant and
errant humours of moral morbositie, a lamp, a watch-tower, a

pharos, or light-house, to illumine the pathe of his besotted
congregation? Thus then, it seemeth to me: Othello saith,
`Put out the light,' or `quench the minister;' evidentlie meaning
to drown him in a horse-ponde at some convenient season.
Then breakinge off suddenlie, he approacheth the bed-side,
when ensueth the final conversation with Desdemona, which
endeth with the Moor's passion and her takinge off.”

Sac-Speare, or talking Jim, an eleve of Governor Cass, and
secretary of the Columbia-river academy, in a late contribution
to the Menomine Quarterly, elaborately reviews the writings
of Lampados, and treats this particular subject with much
and quite original perspicacity. He attributes great honor to
his author, and agrees with him, but in the respect only that
he considers that the last “light” refers to the ceremonial of the
nuptials. “We give light credence,” says he, “to the presumption
that our seraphic ancestor ever wrote such words,
meaning simply and tamely thereby to repeat the same idea.
The swan does not so sing. The governor of all Cyprus did
not so think. Mystery, not simplicity, is the fountain of the
sublime. The bard has here availed himself of that excellent
provision of his king's English, which compels a single word
to stand godfather for many ideas. We doubt not that he forsaw
the anxious interest and distress of posterity to know the
truth of the matter, and that this line gave him more satisfaction
than any he ever wrote.” Under the arrangement of
this writer, the interpretation of the perplexity would be, “put
out,” or “get rid of the light of Hymen's torch, or the old
friar, and then I can get rid of the marriage itself—i. e. remove
all evidence, and who shall say that I am married to
her?” To illustrate and enforce this new application of
“light,” the reviewer refers to a similar figure in Ovid's Met

amorphoses,[7] where the Sulmonian speaks of Diana's refusal
of Apollo's hand;

Here is certainly a singular coincidence of thought, and
the secretary may be correct; at all events, he makes a most
respectable show of argument.[8]

But what says the Italian monk, Claraluce, a contemporary
of Lampados? He strikes out the whole of the soliloquy
after the sixth line, “yet she must die,” &c., and is positive that
“put out the light” is only a direction to the stage-manager,
and that it was originally inserted in the margin. And this,
for the reason that a sudden darkness ought to come over the
stage, when any terrible deed is about being enacted by such
a murderous villain as Othello. And he cites, characteristically
enough, the authority of Job xviii. 5, “Yea, the light of
the wicked shall be put out; the spark of his fire shall not
burn.”

Another writer, with equal boldness, agrees to the nullification
of the concluding part of the soliloquy; but thinks that
“put out,” &c., was part of an old snatch which Othello began

to sing, to keep his spirits up, and induce a feeling of
composure and indifference, during the commission of his
horrid crime; just as a soldier drinks brandy and gunpowder,
upon the eve of his engagement in battle. And he conjures
up, from the purgatory of deceased and forgotten ballads, this
verse, the last remnant of a precious combination of sentiment
and simplicity:

It must be confessed, that all these readings are enforced
by such cogent argument, that it is difficult to choose between
them; for any one of them, separately considered, appears incontrovertible.
But after a thorough investigation of the subject,
I am convinced that none of them have half so good a
claim to confidence, as a reading of my own, which I shall
presently propound. First, it is my duty, as a faithful reviewer,
to enumerate some inferior readings, which, although
not commanding much respect, are entitled to a recapitulation.

This is the reading of Mr. Claudius Lucerne, an eminent literary
tallow chandler, who thinks Othello must have had six-to-the-pound
in each hand.

This, as one might readily suppose, is the proposed version
of a matter-of-fact man, like Cobbett. He points, with all
the air of triumph of a discoverer of the truth, to Cynthio's
novels, whence the plot of the play is taken; and where the
story runs, that the Moor killed his spouse, by pulling down
upon her bed, a decayed part of the wall, hoping, the craven!
that the coroner's jury would bring in a verdict of
“Death by the prolapsion of lath and plaster.”

Jam satis. Since there are so many plausible versions, I
am verecund of the pronunciation of a positive judgment in the
matter. But, as no man should hide the light of his reason
under a bushel, but bring it, even if a farthing candle, to the
illumination, I will break through the thick array of my
modesty, and unfold the only true, genuine and original reading,
such as Shakspeare wrote it, and such as Etymos Logos
revealed it to me.

I approve this arrangement, firstly, because it is most consonant
with nature. This is sometimes a good rule to go by,
in the settlement of obscure and disputed passages, when the
resolution so made is palpable. [I followed it lately, in one
instance, myself, in translating æsculapius, for the college
in Barclay steet.] And what can be more natural and reasonable,
in a man worn out with the toils of the day, than to
go to his bed chamber, put out his candle, and repose himself
in the arms of nature's sweet restorer? I never can admit
that Shakspeare intended to make the Moor guilty of so blood-thirsty
a design, as the vulgate imputes to him; because it
would have been unnatural, and at war with the all-prevailing
and irresistible organ of go-to-bediviness.

Secondly. In answer to the objection that this reading
is inconsistent with the spirit of the play, and the preconceived
intentions of Othello, it is sufficient to remark, that such
cavils are opposed to the spirit of free inquiry, and that it is
the beauty of this particular line, and not the probability or
consistency of the whole plot, that we are considering;
and that this rule has been the constant rudder of judgment
of all commentators, from the time whereof the memory of
man runneth not to the contrary.

Thirdly and lastly. By a very simple course of explanation,
it may be shown that the corrupted reading in common
acceptation, is but a finical version of what Shakspeare wrote.
The alteration of the original text was made by the players
for the sake of euphony, and the swell of figurative language;
and it consists in nothing more than the substitution
of “out the light” for “into bed.” The difficulty is then removed,
the problem is resolved. “Into bed” means nothing
more or less than “out,” or “out of the light;” for what is
is plainer than that when a man gets into bed, and covers
his head over, he is in the dark? Or “out the light” may
be used by a sort of figure of anticipation, for “into bed,” since
it was a well known custom among the people in Cyprus—
a custom from which William the Conqueror took his idea of
the curfew regulation—to extinguish their candles before the
submitting themselves to Morphean influences. Again; the
prepositions “out” and “into” were promiscuously used for
each other, by all the respectable writers of the Elizabethean
age. Thus, Cyprian, the younger, in describing the martyrdom
and sufferings of St. Trollopea, with beautiful pathos
utters those now almost household words, “out of the frying-pan
into the fire.” And an acquaintance with etymology will
discover that they are frequently interchanged, to avoid tautology.

The word “bed” may perhaps be called “the light,”
from the lightness of the feathers of which it is composed.
The only difficulty, then remaining undisposed of, is that
which arises from the construction of the word “put.” This
I take to be simply, a particle, which here signifies ease,
self-complacency, good nature, rub-your-hands-togetheriveness,—as
Gall and Spurzheim call it, affability and amativeness;
and I account it to be a word of exceeding pith, point
and expression, exclusive and authentic, and most happily
introduced on this occasion. “Is this fancy, or is it fact?”
Is it not clear as light itself?

What, then, remains for me, but to call for your special
plaudits, and remove the light of my countenance? Nothing,
but a few peroratorical comments by way of reflection on
the subject.