ett et Spea ees en agua inns ce pram as ratetiaericie et u Sea : CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY Cornell University Lib: PE 28355320. “Tin olin DATE DUE GAYLOAD PRINTEOCINY.S.A. Tbs 2S S32 WORKS UPON THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO. MARSH'S Lectures on the English Language....... 1 Vol. $3.00 Origin and History of the English Language. 1 Vol. 8.00 MULLER'S Lectures on the Science of Lunguage....2 Vols. 6.00 ORAIK’S Iistory of English Literature and the English Language..... Saraaees asd aaa volaeivees aeesouetecach 2 Vols. 7.50 DE VERE'S Studiesin English..... 0.2... eacersiassals 1 Vol. 2.50 COLLIERS Rarest Books in the English Language. 4Vols. 16.00 OLARK’S Elements of the English Lanquage......... 1 Vol. 1.25 DWIGHT’S Modern Philology... ..cccceccessvee02 Vols. 6.00 WIITNEY'S Language and the Study of Language..1 Vol. 2.50 Any of these works sent by mail, post-paid, upon receipt of the price AMERICANISMS; THE ENGLISH OF THE NEW WORLD. By M. SCHELE DE VERE, LLD., PROFESSOR OF MODERN LANGUAGES IN THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, AUTHOR OF “STUDIES IN ENGLISH,” Frc. NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER & COMPANY. 1872. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. Seer JOSEPI J. LITTLE, Stereotyper, Electrotyper, and Printer, 108 to 114 Wooster St., N. Y. PREFACE. Mr. Marcy, when Secretary of State, issued a circular to the diplo- matic and consular agents of the United Statesin foreign countries, requiring them to make all communications to his department in the American Language. The order excited much comment abroad and at home, and the American Language, thus for the first time introduced into official documents, was everywhere gravely discussed. Did the Americans really have an idiom of their own ? or did the order refer to the Choctaw or Cherokee, the Sioux or Comanche tongue? A few years later the same term reappeared in a diplomatic circular of gravest import. The late Emperor Alexander of Russia, smarting under the defeat he had suffered in the Crimea at the combined hands of the French and the English, decreed that certain documents should be translated from the Russian into the American tongue. The Czar was, as R. W. Emerson would say, wiser than he knew, and unconsciously uttered a half-truth. But a half-truth only, for as yet there is no American Language. We are far too practical a people, not to appreciate fully all the admirable qualities of the speech of our fathers, and are really far too busy with the task allotted us by Providence of creating a New World, to find time for studying grammar and making words. It is only now and then, when the old tools cannot do the new work required of them, that we cast them aside and invent a better one ; or perhaps in the rich virgin soil of the great West an old root sends up new suckers, full of vigor and new meaning, but still bearing the image of the parent stock in all their fea- 4 PREFACE. tures. As English itself is omnivorous, and this great continent has opened its doors wide to many millions of men of other races, we have, besides, freely admitted the useful foreign word with the foreign immigrant and granted to both full citizenship after a short trial. Hence we still speak English, but we talk American. The native of the New World may, in dress and appearance, in culture and refinement, pass unnoticed in European society, but no soon- er does he open his lips, than his intonation, choice of words, and structure of sentence, betray his foreign birth. The difference is, in reality, very slight, but it is characteristic, and as there is no better key to the habits and temper of a people, than the study of its watchwords and nicknames, its likes and dislikes of terms and pbrases, we have endeavored to collect enongh of these peculiari- ties to furnish an idea of the way we talk. The whole literature of Americanisms is so far limited to three works, the Vocabulary of the late John Pickering, the Dictionary of John Russell Bartlett,and the Glossary of supposed Americanisms by Alfred L. Elwyn. Mr. Bartlett’s admirable and exhausting work has naturally supplied many words and a few illustrations (marked B.) even to this compilation, nor would it have appeared desirable to attempt a new collection, if the time between its publication and the present, had not been unusually productive in changes and great events. In the interval many millions of immigrants have been added to our population, and new Territories and new. States to our Union; a civil war of gigantic proportions has shaken the political edifice to its foundations and altered every feature of the aspect of society, and the mind of the whole nation has received anew impulse. Language, always a faithful mirror of the life of a people, has been proportionately enriched and modified. The war alone has added a large number of new words to our idiom; every branch of industry, every new way of thinking, every change in politics, is fully represented by a new word or a. PREFACE. 5 peculiar phrase. Many of these will, no doubt, pass away again, while others will become parts of our speech; but in either case it seemed to be desirable to record them before they are set aside once more, or, if preserved, before their origin is forgotten. The author has been most kindly and courteously aided by friends and strangers. He owes especial thanks to the Hon. John Hammond Trumbull, of Hartford, Connecticut, for a master’s guidance in Indian matters; to Professor 8. S. Haldeman, of Chickis, Pennsylvania, for like aid in scientific terms, and to Mr. Hugh Blair Grigsby, of Edge Hill, Charlotte County, Virginia, for valuable hints as to old English terms preserved in the South. The names mentioned in the chapter on Natural History are taken from the various publications of the Smithsonian Institu- tion, courteously supplied by its distinguished officers. On the othér hand, it must be stated that the task of collecting so-called Americanisms is necessarily one of overwhelming diffi- culty. The license of the press, the independent freedom of daily speech, the very small number of strictly American works, and the utter indifference of the people to the minutiez of speech, are so many obstacles. A collection like the present must, therefore, be unavoidably imperfect and incomplete, and the author will feel himself amply rewarded, if his good intentions shall awaken a deeper interest in so important a feature of our national life, and lead to more satisfactory results hereafter. UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA, August, 1871. CONTENTS: PAGE DPRITWACH fie aiden d hb 855 deeded oe Ak ah eens eRe O vis SAR IRR Sica 3 I, "TH INDIAN. 2440504000408 cade cade creases ieee aR 11 Il. IMMIGRANTS FROM ABROAD. Tue DUTCHMAN.... .....-00.5 iis BAe a RASS aoe A RA ee eeoseerene 79 Qn FP RENCHMAN «43000440044 sG8RG00s Ame tele beeW en Aine Leslee eects 95 Tr SPANIURD |... scossiccsashiteeschieta Gtauteiver tare amine 114 TH! GERMAN, o.sccsacscee ace tiene eROR AERA MOORES Ma REO A Ewt 139 TEIN BORO i eciseccsaaatacuscne os@ wie teHe POSEY TRS EST TEST ERGM ESeOt EES 148 JOHN CHINAMAN. . s.c.000-¢ F04004 06 0804454040404 4044 see Rarer 155 Ill. THE GREAT WEST yi ccsasvascsoxnaa ie exw sits PANEER 161 IV. "TH CHURCH ts sinc cade Foe 00 S848 RS ARTES ENG RRS RSE ORL ES STTEE CIN 229 Vv. EE OTT IC Basch sovesa yaa sasca ss Ses ovmecotaas Gresik costa es Chea reso apactea en deatax ep are sb aeeusvonea eG 249 VI. TRADE OF ATG IOINDSbinsicauaagin eb eesawiw ead (Fea e dad seme nea egias 295 VIt. JAGET OAM: speistate Genered sieso aire Siete eases a RR RR ET es Ga BORG EERE 2 833 VIII. ON ee) RAT ccavaowex: we was snd ees 04. 0e SS BEES BEER ASS i See a ae eee s 855 IX. Narinar Bistorty:. ncomeciesdaceemesiokereeen Set 5 oe wee ates o's 367 8 CONTENTS. PACE Xx. OLD FRIENDS WITH NEW FACES ....... ccc cee eect eee e ee eeeeees 427 XI. CANT AND SUANG yaw eck Yous a ius nee whe 4 me Mee nee nou eke 7 573 XII. NEW WorDS AND NICKNAMES ......0.. ce ece cece eect ee ec eee een eees 653 INDER: ene x cha dud meses See Mee aeweln dele ed x Vee Seacs ane Gat 667 i. THE INDIAN. THE INDIAN. “Lo, the poor Indian!” Pope. PROVIDENCE seems to have ordained that by an act of poetical justice many races that have been conquered and even extermi- nated by foreign invaders, should nevertheless survive in the names of the great landmarks of their native land. Thus the ancient Briton still speaks to us in the mountains and rivers of - England, and the Indian in the geography and natural history of the United States. The prairie and the backwoods, once the home of the Red man, are full of his memory, and objects abound there, known to us by names which are indigenous and peculiar among so much that is of foreign origin or common to many countries. The North American savages play no unimportant part in our literature; they have their war-whoops and yells, their paint and their feathers, in prose as well as in poetry, in Hiawatha and in Cooper’s novels. These names and these things—though, perhaps, not legitimately included in a very strict definition of the term Americanisms—-are almost the only really old things which we have, the only relics left to remind us that human beings roamed over our hills and floated on our waters before the Pilgrims Janded at Plymouth and brave Captain Smith sailed in his frail boat up the Potomac. It is much to be regretted, that the proportion of these really ancient names is not larger, especially in our geography ; for we could well have submitted to it, that the unfortunate race, after becoming the victims of Anglo-Saxon enterprise, should have taken their conquerors captive and imposed upon them their own favorite words. Their names are so musical and full of meaning, and ours so harsh and commonplace, that we should have been the 12 AMERICANISMS. gainers by the exchange. There is music even in the roughest of Indian names; and some like Susquehanna, Towa, Hochelaga, Minnehaha, Dahlonega, and Taloolah, are smooth and melodious almost to perfection. ‘They were at one time much more numer- ous in the land, although, as J. K. Paulding already wrote: “the first settlers of an Indian country not only took away from the copper-colored villains their lands and rivers, but gave them new names, like the gypsies, who first steal children, and then, to dis- guise the theft, christen them anew.” (Letters from the South, IL p. 1%.) After the successful struggle for independence, an evil taste for modernizing set in, and, as a British writer says com- placently, “esthetic loyalists in the mother country must have felt avenged for their defeat in the substitution of names like Adams- town and Gainesville for such ‘melodious syllables as heretofore graced the village.” Even Pawcatuck (the river which divides Connecticut and Rhode Island), and Wut-a-qut-o, properly Wica- taquoc, are less grating upon the civilized ear than Ovid and Palmyra, to say nothing of Sodom and Babylon, which the old ° ° Puritans inflicted, they alone knew why, upon some places in their new dominion. There is a slight compensation for this injury to be found in the fact that this double nomenclature at times proves the history of certain localities. Thus we find that in Pennsylvania the older counties bear English names, since the English colonists used their own names by preference in those parts of the State with which they came in contact. Northamp- ton, Lancaster, York, Somerset, and Chester (for Cheshire), coun- ties in the eastern and southern part of that State, show clearly that they were the first to be colonized and named. TLehigh and Delaware, Susquehannah and Alleghany, Juniata and Erie, on the contrary, prove by their Indian names the change in public opin- ion produced by the War of Independence. Later still came the Germans, and not by conquest but by superior industry and great thrift, became the owners of large tracts of land on which they built their towns of Womelsdorf, Mannheim, and Hannover. Even the religious body of Moravians, large numbers of whom settled in this State and built here their missions and their convents, left their mark behind them in Bethlehem and Litiz (perhaps from laetitia?), in Shiloh and Canaan, Salem and Ephrata. In another instance, that of Virginia, the history of the State THE INDIAN. 13 may be read in bright letters in its local names. The first settlers, headed by that paragon of romantic adventurers, John Smith, “Of name Most homely, yet unmatched in fame By those of Arthur’s Table Round ;” when they found themselves amid the fairest scenes of nature in her prime, with coast, river, and woodland expanding around in all her magnificence of novelty and extent, remembered that they were still patriots, and their loyalty prevailed over their poetical taste. Hence they replaced the stately and sonorous name of Powhatan (Father of Waters) by that of the reigning monarch, and their first permanent settlement was “Old Jamestown, on the river James.” This inauspicious opening was followed up through all the succeeding years, while Spenser dedicated his wondrous allegory to “The most high, mighty, and magnificent Empresse, renowned for pietie, virtue, and all gracious government, Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England, France, and Vir- ginia”’—while the colony-faithfully adhered to the Stuarts and was honored with the title of the Old Dominion—and while she remained an ill-treated colonial dependence. There are no less than sixteen princes and princesses inscribed on her broad lands in as many counties, called after these royal personages, begin- ning with Henrico, the first of the eight original shires. By their side stand names of historic note, still sounding grand in their ancient renown: York and Lancaster, Warwick and Northumberland, all redolent of Shakespeare and Rapin. Then come the governors, each one commemorated by a county, and Patrick Henry honored by two. “Happily most of the rivers have been allowed to retain their original appellation, and the majestic Potomac, the Opecquon, the Rappahannock, the fourfold Ma-Ta-Po-Ni, its banks famous as our bloodiest battle-ground on this Continent, the Pamunkey and the Appomattox, immortal as the closing scene of a woful struggle, and the Roanoke, all rejoice in the beauty and dignity of their aboriginal names, hereafter to afford full scope to the acumen of the historian and the philologist.” (Hugh Blair Grigsby.) For it is not only the euphony but also the historical interest and the moral weight of these Indian names, which should have 14 AMERICANISMS. made them sacred to our forefathers. It is the duty of the brave man to honor the enemy whom he has conquered, and rarely has such a conquest called forth greater virtues and more heroic cour- age than the long and fearful struggle between the Red man and the Saxon. What sad memories are not associated in the minds of all Americans with the dark and bloody ground, as the present State of Kentucky, and part of upper Ohio, were called for many a generation! First, the ill-fated locality was shunned by the Indians with superstitious dread, because their ancient traditions spoke of a frightful carnage which had taken place cen- turies before the arrival of the Europeans, on the beautiful banks of theriver. Then immigrants settled here and there in the blood- stained region, had suddenly been assailed and overwhelmed by the treacherous Indians, and once more the lo¢ality became the scene of a long, relentless struggle between two hostile races. But not only here—everywhere in the great West—the sonorous names of rivers and mountains are full of bright memories of matchless heroism and resistless perseverance, and these beautiful words ought to be treasured up and held as precious as an inher- itance of gold. The giant Himalaya would lose half its dread majesty, if it were rechristened Wellington, and Chimborazo would be reduced from its grandeur under the name of Pizarro. How much more, however, was lost when Horicon was dubbed by flat- tering loyalists Lake George, when the silvery Winooski received the odorous and incongrtious name of Onion River, and the hills, of which the poet sings: “Then did the crimson streams that flowed, Seem like the waters of the brook That brightly shine, that loudly dash Far down the cliffs of Agéochook,’ Lovewel?s Flight. began to bear the common name of White Mountains ! It is true, that occasionally efforts have been made to secure the Indian nomenclature of well-known points, and even to imitate the process in forming new names. Mr. Schoolcraft, himself a master of the Ojibway dialect of the Algonquin, acted both sys- tematically and judiciously in this matter, when his position as Commissioner of Indian Affairs enabled him to assume authority. Me tells us in one of his admirable and most interesting reports, THE INDIAN. 15 that whenever a piace in the Northwest was to be named, its ex- act situation, and the particular tribe of aborigines that inhab- ited the neighborhood, were first carefully ascertained. Then the most striking features of the landscape and local peculiarities were considered, and some expression describing them was chosen and translated into the dialect of the original occupants. Thus the name of the lake which forms the source of the Mississippi, was successfully formed. Mr. Schoolcraft had established the fact that all the fanciful derivations of the name of the river were far more poetical than true, and that Misi-sepe, as it was originally written, meant simply Vast River, just the title which such a magnificent river ought to have. The Mfisi, he taught us, was the same in Missouri, in Michili Mackinac—which Father Hennepin actually wrote Missili Mackinac—and in Michigan. How mugh more imposing and suggestive this Indian name than the Riviere Col- bert of Hennepin’s Louisiana, the Rividre Saint Louis of La Salle, and the Hidden River of the Spanish discoverers! To this noble term, a worthy companion was to be found in naming its first fountain. Mr. Schoolcraft had discovered the latter himself when ascending the river with his party, but too modest to give it, after the example of other discoverers, his own name, he took the Al- gonquin word totosh, a woman’s breast, and adding to it the usu- al local termination of Indian words, he fused the parts into the beautiful and appropriate word Itasca, typifying the support and sustenance which the lake affords to the great river at its very birth. How different was this systematic and suggestive method of the enthusiastic philologist and philanthropic explorer, to the popular way of bestowing names! States are created by Congress, and encumbered with the name of the martyr president; new coun- ties are formed within the older States, and have to bear the name of the lucky. member of the local legislature who proposed the measure, and towns built up by the energy and enterprise of suc- cessful men become known as Titusville, or Bungtown. The ab- surdity of such nomenclature was once unconsciously exhibited, when a great. poet, unfortunately not yet known to the world at large, incorporated in perfectly good faith, the following local names in his National Poem: “ Hard Scrabble, Fair Play, Nip and Tuck, and Patch, With Catholic, Whig and Democrat to match, 16 AMERICANISMS. Blue River, Strawberry and Hoof-Noggle steep, And Trespass, and Slake Bag, Clay Hole deep, Bee Town, Hard Times, and Old Rattlesnake, Black Leg, Shingle Ridge, Babel and Stake, Satan's Light House, Pin Hook and Dry Bone, And Swindler’s Ridge, with hazels overgrown, Buzzard’s Roost Injunction, and The Two Brothers, Snake Hollow Diggings, Black Jack, Horse and others, And Lower Coon, Stump Grove, and Red Dog bleak, Menomenee, Rattail Ridge, may measure out this sonnet, With Bull Branch, Upper Coon,—pour no curses on it!” Black Hawk by Elbert H. Smith. p. 191. Even such atrocities are, however, occasionally surpassed by will- ful absurdities, as when a beautiful sheet of water in the State of Vermont was wantonly deprived of its fair and legitimate Indian name, to be called Llama water (written now Lama water) in honor of General Wool! The Indian names, on the other hand, which were anew given by discoverers and persons in authority, were generally taken from the dialects of the Algonquin languages, which Mr. School- eraft first proposed to call by the generic name of Algic, and which were spoken by all the tribes of New England, the Middle States, Virginia, and part of North Carolina; a few only from the Ojibway (Chippewa) family, and other Western tribes. Thus, Niagara and Saratoga are Iroquois, like their kindred, full and sonorous even in their sadly corrupted form of the present day; Alabama and Tiscaloosa, Talladega and Pensacola, not less musical, have been traced to a kindred form spoken by the Mus- cogees (Creeks) and Seminoles, while Wenona and Minnehaha, immortalized by Longfellow’s poem, belong to the great family of Daheotah Indians. If such names have not more frequently retained their hold on the places they once designated and the memory of early settlers, there is some excuse for the latter found in the extreme length of most Indian words.. This difficulty was already complained of by the great Eliot during his pious labors in writing his noble work, the Indian Bible; and he adduces words like—*« Nummatchekodtantamoonganunnonash” (thirty- two letters) meaning “our lusts;” “Noowomantammoonkanu- nonnaso,” meaning “our loves;” and “ Kummogkodonattootum- mooetiteaonganunnonash” (forty-three letters), meaning “our THE INDIAN. 1% question.” (Magnalia, Bk. III., p. 193.) In the Book of Common Prayer, translated into the language of the Six Nations, there are also many long words, such as—“ Tsinihoianerenseratokentitser- oten.” (Daniel, ix. 9.) No wonder, therefore, that so many of these words, especially those belonging to the Dahcotah branch, which is rough and full of nasal sounds, have either been entirely lost or at least transformed till they can no longer be recognized. In some instances it is a special matter of regret that the Indian names of places and States no longer suggest their original mean- ing. This was occasionally simple enough, as in Connecticut— originally written Quonaughticot—which meant in the Mohegan dialect “long river ;” and in Massachusetts—in the Natic dialect Masasuset—signifying “the place of great hills,” with reference to the Blue Hills, eleven miles to the southwest of Boston, the highest point of land in the eastern part of that State. Of cities~ thus designated, Milwaukie, recalls its original name, meaning “rich lands,” and Sing Sing, the Algonquin word Asingsing, “a place of stones,” with all the greater force as it is now, “the residence of gentlemen,” in Artemus Ward’s language, “who spend their days in poundin’ stun.” Other names, however, have more or less picturesqueness in their meaning, and are not so easily improved by recent changes. Thus Chicago represents in its French pronunciation very fairly the actual sounds heard by the first French explorers, when the Potawatomies, who dwelt there, called it Shecaugo, “playful waters.”(?) Dahlonega is the softened form of the Talawneca of the Cherokees, which meant “yellow metal,” for the Indians were well aware of the gold found in the neighborhood, which made the city in later years the seat of a government mint, because of its happy position in the very centre of the gold-mine district of Northern Georgia. Lake rie is almost the only remainder now of the once powerful tribe of Eries, who lived where the State of Ohio now is; the latter name, as given to the river, owes its origin to the Iroquois, who called it the Oheo, “beautiful water,” by the same instinctive admiration which prompted the French to name it, La Belle Riviére. It had a lucky escape from Father Marquette’s baptism, who christened it Quaboukigon—a name which subsequently shrunk into Ouabache, and has finally as Wabash been given to the last tributary of the Ohio. It is curious that a kind of stigma 18 AMERICANISMS. seems to adhere to the name, for even now the good people of In- diana and the West generally, are fond of saying of a man who has been cheated, that “he has been Wabashed.”. At one time, when the “dark and bloody ground” of Kentucky and Ohio became famous among the whites, the Indians also felt clined to call their beau- tiful river rather the Blood River, so fearful had been the scenes of carnage and cruelty enacted on its fair banks. One of the youngest states, Idaho, well deserves its poetical name, I-da-hoe, the “gem of the mountains,” and the name of the river Mononga- hela flows a8 smoothly from the lips with its liquid notes as the far-famed rye whisky distilled on its banks, which is known all over the Union by the same term, in contradistinction from Scotch and Irish rivals. On the other hand, the much-discussed name of the greatest waterfall on our continent has been stripped of all the poetical meanings given it by writers whose imagination ex- ceeded their knowledge. Neagara, the original word, taken from the Seneca-Iroquois dialect, has no connection with cataracts, but means prosaically, “across the neck,” alluding to the course of the river across the neck or strip of land that lies between Lakes Erie and Ontario. A similar idea underlies the word Mitchikan in the Ottawa dialect, which was originally given to Mackinac, and meant “fences,” as if the island were lying fence-like before the Upper Lake. At least so says the Rey. Mr. Pierz, a mis- sionary among the Ottawas; but Allouez, his French predeces- sor, calls it, afew years before, Machihiganing ; the present word Michigan is evidently an improvement upon both the former names. The word Lsquimaux, though not denoting any tribe inhabit- ing the United States, is still so frequently regarded as belonging to our speech that it may not be amiss to correct the common error, by which it is considered a French term, probably only be- cause of its French-looking termination. A learned linguist of France went so far in his patriotic zeal to reclaim it as his own, that he insisted upon its being a contraction of cewa qui miaulent ! The word obtained its French appearance from the Canadian voyageurs, who introduced it, after having in vain tried to imitate ‘in any better way the sounds by which the Znnwits, as they call themselves, were designated by the Kenisteno Indians in their language. This was Ashkimat or “eaters of raw meat,” which i THE INDIAN. 19 practice appeared to them strange enough to give its name to the whole race, and hence the present name of Esquimauc. Since the acquisition of Alaska, for which a new term, Walrus- sia, was proposed, but deservedly failed to obtain currency, a few words have become familiar to the American ear, which belong to the Indians of that district. This is the Chinook Jargon, aconyen- | tional language like the Lingua Franca of the Mediterranean, and the Pigeon-English of India, which dates back to the fur-droguers of the last century. Those mariners, whose enterprise before 1800 explored the northwest coast of America, picked up at their general rendezvous, Nootka Sound, various native words useful in barter, and thence transplanted them, with additions from the English, to the shores of Oregon. When the great Astor’s expe- dition arrived at the mouth of the Columbia, the Jargon received its principal impulse; many more wvords of English were brought in, and for the first time the French, or rather the Canadian and Missouri patois of the French, was introduced. The principal seat of the company being at Astoria, not only a large addition of Chinook words was made, but a considerable number was taken from the Chihalis, who immediately bordered that tribe on the north. The language continued to receive additions, and assumed a more distinct and settled meaning under the Northwest and Hudson’s Bay Companies, who succeeded Astor’s party, as well as the American settlers in Oregon. Its advantage was soon perceived by the Indians, and the Jargon became to some extent a means of communication between natives of different speech and between them and the whites. It was even used between Americans and Canadians. First in vogue upon the Columbia and Willamette, it spread to Puget Sound, and with the extension of trade found its way far up the coast and the rivers, so that there are now few tribes between the 42d and 57th parallels of latitude, in which there are not found interpreters through its medium. Notwith- standing its apparent poverty of words and the absence of gram- matical forms, it possesses much flexibility and power of expres- sion, and really serves almost every purpose of ordinary inter- course. Mr. George Gibbs, who has furnished the Smithsonian Institu- tion with an admirable Dictionary of the “Chinook Jargon,” estimates the total number of words at about five hundred, of 20 AMERICANISMS. which about one hundred and sixty are French and English, eighteen of unknown derivation, and all the others belonging to the Chinook and kindred dialects. Both elements have been slightly modified in the Jargon: the Indian gutturals are softened or dropped, and the f andr of the English and French, un- pronounceable to the Indians, are modified into p and /. Grammat- ical forms are reduced to their simplest expression, and variations in mood and tense only conveyed by adverbs or by the context. The conversational language of the Indians has, of course, left no traces in our English, mainly because of the great diversity of dialects, which has deprived even such masterly works as Eliot’s Indian Bible, of all but historicinterest. Among the rare excep- tions is the word netop, used by the New England Indians in the sense of “my friend,” which Mr. Pickering tells us was in his day still used, colloquially, in some towns in the interior of “ Massa- chusetts, to signify a friend or (to use a cant word) a crony.” It is doubtful, however, whether it is now-a-days used in any intercourse, even with Indians, as the Narragansett word would hardly be intelligible to other tribes. The term pokeloken, an Indian term, signifying, “marsh,” has apparently more vitality in it, for it is still very largely used by lumbermen in Maine, and by their brethren in the Northwest, mostly their kinsmen and al- ways their pupils, when they speak of marshy ground extending inland from a lake or a stream. “I had unawares pushed the canoe into a pokeloken and was aground, remembering too late the half-breed’s admonitions, who has specially warned me against these mysterious pokelokens.” (Hon. C. A. Murray’s Letters, No. 21.) In North Carolina and further South, similar swamps are called pocasans. 'They are lands filled with water during winter and the spring months, and overgrown with cypress and juniper trees, with a heavy undergrowth of reeds. ‘“ After passing this swamp or pocasan, on the east side of the Chowan, you come to sandy lands covered with large pines,a country famous for tar-making.” (Southern Magaz, Aug. 1871, p. 195.) The lumbermen employ also the Indian term wangan, “a boat,” very generally for a pecu- liar kind of boat, in which they carry their tools and provisions. “Among the dangers (of lumbering in Maine), where life and property are hazarded, is that of running the wangan, a phrase well understood on the river.” (Zhe Americans at Home, III. p. 257 B.) THE INDIAN. : 21 Another Indian term surviving at least as a provincialism, is the ¢ardoggin of the extreme North and of Canada, the tarbogin of the Far West, known as ¢travée to the French voyageurs. This is a kind of light wagon, often drawn by dogs, on which Indian squaws are in the habit of bringing home their loads of cotton-wood, etc., consisting simply of a couple of tent-poles with two cross-bars to support the freight. The Canadians have im- proved them, mainly for the purpose of using them as sleds in slid- ing on the snow from great heights, in which case they are often made to carry a double load, the owner finding it no easy task to steer the frail vehicle rightly, and to keep his fair charge from: slipping from his hold. A term which has only lately found its way into our English, through the increasing number of hunters who make up parties in search of elk, moose, etc., is whiggiggin, as it is written from the sound merely. The Indian word is the Abenaki, awikhigan, meaning “a letter, book, or anything written,” and is in Maine and Canada, as well as in the Northwest, now gen- erally used to designate the written permit which has to be obtained from the local authorities—often an Indian chief—before non-residents are allowed to hunt there. It is in these same dis- tricvts, also, that a trap set by hunters, is sometimes called by its Indian name Killhag. “The first furs were brought into town yesterday, and already a number of Aillhags have been put up everywhere.” (Bradford Times, 1864.) If we add, finally, the term mocuck, which designates in the Abenaki dialect a large, peculiarly-shaped cake of sugar, we shall have mentioned all the more familiar terms of this class. “Covered by a blanket, and pillowed by a mocuck of sugar, each Indian was asleep upon his rush-mat.” (C. Lanman, Sumer in the Wilderness.) It is well known that the very word Jndian, as given to the race found here by the first settlers, rests upon a mistake, as if the natives also must needs be involved in the evil fortune, which gave to the whole continent, at the expense of the discoverer, the name of a man who had no title to such an honor. For whatever merit recent investigations may have secured to the bold and persevering navigator, Amerigo Vespucci, his claims are as noth- ing by the side of those of Columbus, and yet already in 1507, in the Cosmographie Synopsis, the name of America is entered as current among men. 22 AMERICANISMS. In like manner the poor Redskin also, as the early colonists called him on account of his color, has ever since been known to the world by the name of distant Ind, which Columbus thought he had reached, when he discovered Hispaniola. Nor has he been allowed to retain even that name long, for already Charles Cotton rhymes the verb “cringes” with “ Indies,” and thus proves to us that even in his day the poor Indian had to submit to being called Znjun, which is now his common name with com- mon people, producing an odd and detestable resemblance in sound between the Indian, the engine, and the onion of New England. Along the frontier line he was perhaps as frequently called a Copperhead, an ancient term of contempt, of which W. Irving makes frequent use in his quaint History of New York. “These were the men,” he says, “who vegetated in the mud along the shores of Pavonia, being of the race of genuine copperheads ;” and elsewhere: “The Yankees sneeringly spoke of the round- crowned burghers of the Manhattoes as the Copperheads.’ In the year 1861, a Mr. Burtt, then Quartermaster in the United States Army, is said to have first applied the term to a class of so-called Anti-War Democrats, Northern sympathizers with the Southern rebellion, though it is not unlikely that in his patriotic zeal he may have rather compared them to the venomous and noisome serpent, which is also known under the name of Copperhead (Trigonocephalus contortrix). Can the Indian be blamed if he really, as is generally supposed, retorted by fixing upon the first invader on his soil the equivocal name of Yankee? The best authorities on the subject now agree upon the deriva- tion of this term from the imperfect effort made by the Northern Indians to pronounce the word “ English.” The Rev. Mr. Hecke- welder, than whom few men have been more thoroughly at home in Indian speech and Indian character, distinctly states, that they pronounced it Vengees, and knew how to distinguish them “by their dress and personal appearance, and that they were con- sidered as less cruel than the Virginians or Long-knives.” (Hist. Acc. of the Indian Nations, p. 182.) In like manner Judge Durfee refers to them in his remarkable poem, “ What Cheer; or, Roger Williams in Banishment,” thus: “Hal Yengee,” said the Sachem, “ wouldst thou go To soothe the hungry panther scenting blood ?” (Canto IIT. 32.) THE INDIAN. 23 Nor is it less curious to notice how early the term began to be used in a disparaging sense by political or personal antagonists of the bold pioneers and bigoted puritans. The Dutch on the banks of the Hudson probably first of all applied it contemptu- ously to their formidable rivals on the Connecticut, and subse- quently the regular troops took it up, if we may credit the Rev. Mr. Gordon, as quoted by T. Westcott of Philadelphia, when he says: “They (the British troops) were roughly handled by the Yankees, a term of reproach when applied by the regulars.” (Notes and Queries, 1852, p. 57.) Subsequently the daily-increasing ani- mosity between the North and the South made the term Yankee in Southern minds an incarnation of all that was uncongenial and distasteful, and hence during the war the Yanks became the universal designation of Federal soldiersin the Confederacy, even as they were called Rebs—not Rebels—by Northern men. With a strange confusion of ideas the poor Confederate soldier, who succumbed morally to the privations and sufferings of Northern prisons and penitentiaries, and in his dire need took the oathand enlisted in the United States Army, was contemptuously called a galvanized Yankee—probably by an indistinct association with the worthless galvanized imitations of gold and silver, now so pop- ular with the masses. The same fatality which made the words America, Yankee, and Indian genuine misnomers, seems to have followed even the national songs of the American people. Yankee Doodle, at least, and the well known tune which bears this name, are anything but American. Where their birthplace really was, is, however, quite a mystery yet. New discoveries are constantly made: Kossuth was reported to have recognized it as one of the national airs of his own Magyar race, and a learned diplomat of the United States discovered it among the Basque, in one of their ancient Sword- Dances. This much only is certain, that the wicked wits of the court of Charles IJ. whistled the tune in the ears of the Nell Gwynnes of that time, and it is found jingling in a song ona famous lady_of easy virtue in those days: “Lucy Locket lost her pocket, Kitty Fisher found it ; Nothing in it, nothing on it, But the binding round it.” 24 AMERICANISMS. Those indefatigable students, the Duyckincks, track it still far- ther back to the old songs of the land of their ancestors, Holland, and claim that Dutch laborers used to sing: “Yanker didel, doodel down, Didel, dudel, lenter ; Yanker viver, voover vown, Botermilk and Tanter,’— which certainly has a suspicious look of originality about it, and might well shake our faith in the assertion that one Dr. Shack- burg of the British Army composed the famous song. Its adop- tion as a national air dates from the day on which a country fifer happened to play it as a quick-march at the head of a small detachment of gallant countrymen going to the fight at Bunker Hill. The true Yankee of our day is the son of New England, the descendant and worthy representative of the Pilgrim fathers, the heir to all their noble qualities, homely virtues, and violent preju- dices. The type does not find its fullest expression in the accom- plished Bostonian, though he live at the “Hub of the World,” and be firmly persuaded that modern culture radiates from his native town to all parts of the earth; but rather in the thrifty farmer and hardy mechanic, who can do anything from running a plough to ruling a State, from selling wooden nutmegs to winning a seat in the Senate, and now and then in a master-mind like Emerson’s or Lowell’s. Very different is he, indeed, from the gay, generous Southron, as the Southerners are apt to be called, whom, at an early period of our history the Indians distinguished by the name of Long-knives. The origin of the term is said to have been this: “In the year 1764, a Colonel Gibson of Fort Pitt came accidentally upon a party of Mingoes, encamped on Cross Creek, a tributary of the Ohio. Little Eagle, a distinguished chief, commanded the party, and upon discovering the whites, gave a fearful whoop and at the same time discharged his gun at the Colonel. The ball passed through Gibson’s coat without injuring him. With the quickness of a tiger he sprang upon his foe, and with one sweep of his sword, severed the head of Little Eagle from his body. Two other Indians were killed by the whites, but the others escaped and reported that the white captain had cut off the head of their THE INDIAN. 25 chief with his long knife. This was the origin of. the celebrated and fearfully significant term Long-knives. It was applied throughout the war to Virginians, and even to this day has not been forgotten by some of the Western tribes.” (W. De Hass, His- tory of Indian Wars, p. 216.) Even the mutual aversion of the white against the red man has by no means become quite extinct, and it must not be forgotten that this feeling was, on the part of the former, all the stronger and deeper as the poor Indians were— thanks to early preachers—for a long time looked upon as wor- shippers and agents of Satan. Hence the term Indian hating, is still of frequent use in the Far West, and represents-a passion, which is even now a mingled ferocity and fanaticism, incon- ceivable to quiet Christians and perhaps to any other men but border adventurers. Of the many words designated as Jndian, we omit here all names of plants and animals, which will be mentioned elsewhere, and allude only to those which are characteristic of the language or the habits of the American. Thus he has learned from the cautious savage to traverse woods and march to distant points of attack in a single line, so that every man_steps in the footsteps of the man before him, and baffles any guess at the number that may have passed. This is called walking Indian jfile, and applied to any occasion where people walk one behind the other. Indian Forts are inclosures, found in large numbers in New York and Pennsylvania, and less frequently in New England, Canada, and Virginia, occupying high bluff points or headlands, scarped on two or more sides and naturally easy of defence. When found on lower ground, they are generally raised on some dry knoll or little hill in the midst of a swamp, or where a bend in the river lends security to the position, but they stand invariably near an unfailing supply of water. The embankments are seldom over four feet high, pierced by one or more gateways, and surrounded by a ditch of some depth. It has been questioned, however, whether these fortifications belong to the present race of Indians or the Aztecs that preceded them in the country. In the State of New York and in Canada there are, besides, many places found, where the Indians buried their dead, and these are known as bonepits. The bones are usually deposited in long trenches or pits, forming very extensive works and accumulations. 26 AMERICANISMS. The ceremony of thus interring the bones of the departed was called by the Indians the “second burying,” and took place among some tribes, like those visited by Charlevoix, every eight years, but among the Iroquois and the Hurons every ten years. Early settlers occasionally quote these burials as the festival of the dead. (H. R. Schoolcraft.) These Indian Forts are, moreover, carefully to be distinguished from the Indian Mounds which are found in nearly every State of the Union, but in all probability have but rarely any connec- tion with the Aborigines. The habit of the people of ascribing any unusual form of the surface ground to the agency of the former owners of the land, has, no doubt, led to the designation of these mounds as Indian. In many cases they are, of course, burial-places of the Red man, and when opened, are found to con- tain bones, tomahawks, and other rude tools and weapons. Such abound especially in the Middle and Southern States, and, within the memory of men now living, the Indians of the Far West have come to visit once more the graves of their forefathers in the Atlan- tic States, startling the quiet dwellers there by their sudden and un- couth appearance, and vanishing again like a dream, after having deposited some simple memorial on one of these mounds. In other parts of the country every rounded knoll is so called, and thus in California, especially in times of flood, ‘cattle and sheep are gathered on Indian Mounds, waiting the fate of their compan- ions, whose carcasses drift by or swing in eddies with the wrecks of barns and outhouses.” (F. B. Harte, he Luck of Roaring Camp, p. 221.) But here also they are strangely mixed up with the Indians, and thus the same author speaks of the end of one of his most graphically described heroes: “He was buried in the Indian Mound, the single spot of strange, perennial greenness, which the poor aborigines had raised above the dusty plain.” (p. 234) The State of Florida has a peculiar kind of mounds, which are familiarly known as Chunk Yards or Chunkee Yards, consisting of oblong yards adjoining high mounds and “ rotundas,” built by the Seminoles. In the centre stands a mysterious obelisk, and at each of the more remote corners a post or strong stake, to which their captives were bound previous to being tortured and burnt. The able historian of Florida, Mr. Bartram, says: “The pyramidal hills or artificial mounts, and highways or avenues, leading from THE INDIAN. av them to artificial ponds or lakes, vast tetragon terraces, chunk- yards, and obelisks or pillars of wood, are the only monuments of labor, ingenuity, and magnificence that I have seen, worthy of notice.” Later researches have led to the discovery that Chunkee was the Indian name of a game played with a flat, round stone and a pole about eight feet long; the former was rolled forward and the pole thrown at the same time, by two players, and he whose pole came nearest to the stone won the game. As the Indians have been led by their white friends to consider a present in the light of an exchange only, being always expected to give much land for little value, this has given rise to the term Indian Giver, meaning a child, or a man, who desires the return of his gift. Among the articles which unfortunately still consti- tute the staple of all such presents, spirits of some kind, or jfire- water, as the English-speaking Indians often call it, holds, of course, a prominent rank. It is a sad index to the nature of the vast majority of such transactions between white and red men, that the term Indian Liquor is universally known to mean adul- terated whiskey. Nor is water the only element of adulteration : tobacco, red pepper, and other condiments are apt to be added in large quantities by dishonest dealers and agents. ; Wild orchards of ungrafted apple and peach trees are frequently called Indian orchards, under an erroneous impression that they were planted by the red men; but, except in the more prosperous Indian Reservations or Reserves, tracts of land secured to them by the government, andin regions where they have long been per- manently settled, as in the Territory of the Choctaws, the poor Indian is not apt to plant trees; besides, he is fully aware that ungrafted peach-trees are apt to be hardier and more productive than the finer varieties. Of all the subjects connected with the original race in Ameri- can life none holds probably a more prominent place in the mind of the masses than the Indian Summer, a short but sur- passingly beautiful season in the latter part of autumn. A similar spell of fine weather, as it is called by another American- ism, is noticed in other countries also, and frequently compared to the haleyon period of the Greeks, so that Shakespeare could pointedly say : 28 AMERICANISMS. “Expect Saint Martin’s summer, halcyon days,'—(Henry VI, Part 1, B.) in allusion to what he elsewhere calls: “Farewell thou latter spring, Farewell all hallown summer.”—(Henry IV.) In England the season derived its name of Saint Martin’s or Martin Mass Summer, from the fact that it commonly begins there about November 11, St. Martin’s day; on the Continent it is called Summer Close and “1’été de St. Martin,” with an ungallant double meaning, which allows the term to be applied to ladies of advancing years. It may be that there is an association of the same idea, though less delicately expressed, in the German “ Alte Weiber Sommer,” while in Chili it is called St. John’s Summer. In the United States, this season, when “twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,” generally begins in November, though the period varies within a month. It is characterized by fair but not brilliant weather ; the air is smoky and hazy, perfectly still and moist; and the sun shines dimly, but softly and sweetly, through an atmosphere that some call copper-colored and others golden, in accordance with their power of poetical perception. The name of Jndian Summer is differently explained. The Rey. James Freeman derives it from the fact that the Indians are par- ticularly fond of it, regarding it as a special gift of their favorite god, the god of the Southwest, who sends the soft southwest winds, and to whom they go after death. Daniel Webster said that the early settlers gave that name to the season because they ascribed its peculiar features, the heat and the haze, to the burning of the prairies by: the Indians at. that time. Mr. Kercheval, however, gives a more plausible explanation: “It sometimes happened, that after the apparent onset of winter, the weather became warm ; the smoky time commenced, and lasted for a con- siderable number of days. This was the Jndian Summer, be- cause it afforded the Indians—who during the severe winter never made any incursions into the settlements—another oppor- tunity of visiting them with their destructive warfare. The melting of the snow saddened every countenance, and the genial warmth of the sun chilled every heart with horror. The appre- hension of another visit from the Indians and of being driven back to the detested fort, was painful in the highest degree.” (Zist. of the Valley of Virginia, p. 190.) THE INDIAN. 29 Many Indian terms have become so incorporated ipto American _ speech, and have, at times, struck their roots so deep into public institutions, as to have become almost true Americanisms. Such are wigwam and wampum. The former ig the Anglicized form of a phrase in the Natic dialect of the Algonquin family; here wékouomdadt meant “in his or her house,” and the curtailed word wékouam was the true ancestor of the modern wigwam in the sense of an Indian’s hut or cabin. The original hut, generally made of skins and affording but scanty shelter in protracted bad weather, stands in strange contrast with the imposing building in New York, in which the wigwam, t.¢., the headquarters of a Dem- ocratic organization of great power and influence are now estab- lished. This political body derives its name of Zammany, and that of Tammany Hail, from an ancient chief of the Narragansett Indians, called Miantonomu, who had his seat on Zammany, a hill north of Newport, where he and Canonicus sold, in 1638, Aquiduct or the Isle of Peace, now the State of Rhode Island, for twenty- three broadcloth coats and thirteen hoes, “as also two torkepes.” Political adversaries will have it that this mode of “selling” has not yet gone out of practice at the place that now bears the name. Ordinarily such sales were made, and if not made, confirmed in wampum, the current coin of the Indians. This consisted of strings of shells, which were frequently united into a broad belt, worn as an ornament or a girdle. JVampum, an Algonquin word, meant originally nothing more than “white” and served to des- ignate only inferior shells, which were white, and, according to the accounts of colonial chroniclers, were held equal to silver, while the peac, or “ black”—whence wampumpeage—were compared to gold. Sewan was in Algonquin the name of shell-money gen- erically and Roanoke in Virginia, for which now wampum is used. The white money was made from the shells of Pyrula caniculata, a large pear-shaped univalve, sometimes called “periwinkle.” The part used was the columella or pillar, the whorls being broken off; they were not eatable, like the English periwinkle, and attained considerable size. The more costly beads came from the largest shells of the Quahaug or Cohog, a welk, known in the Middle and Southern States as the Round Clam, and belonging to the genus Venus mercenaria, which is so called on account of their being used as currency. The inner surface of these shells is beau- 30 AMERICANISMS. ' tifully polished, the centre of the valves pure white, and part of the outside mantle of arich violet. This border the Narragansett Indians made into the blue shell-money, which they call Suckan- hock, by breaking it into small pieces and rubbing them with stones till they were cylindrical and could be drilled lengthwise. It scems almost incredible that the Indians should have done this, and done it so very neatly, without metallic tools, and yet Roger Williams says, expressly : “ before ever they had awle-blades from Europe they made shift to bore this, their shell-money, with stones.” (Key to the Indian Languages, p. 150.) Of the use of setvan a writer on the “ New Netherlands in 1679,” says, quoting from ajournal of that year: “We sat down before the fire. ‘There had been thrown upon it, to be roasted, a pailful of Gowanus oysters, which are the best in the country. They are large and full, some of them not less than a foot long. We had for supper a haunch of venison, which he had bought of the Indians for three guilders and a half of seewant, that is, fifteen stuivers of Dutch money, and which weighed thirty pounds.” (Putnam’s Magazine, April, 1858.) Like the precious metal, these shells served at the same time for ornaments and for money, and being strung were worn in brace- lets and necklaces. The Indians have always been exceedingly fond.of personal ornaments, and the great chief who now-a-days delights the crowds in Washington by stalking down the avenue in all his bravery and finery, had his prototype in the warrior de- scribed thus a hundred years ago: “One of them was a Delaware chief; he wore the badges of his office, the wampum belt, three half-moons, and a silver plate on his breast; bands of silver on both arms, and his ears cut round and ornamented with silver; the hair on the top of his head was done up with silver wire.” (The Johnson Boys’ Account of their Escape in 1788.) When made up into belts or bands, four inches wide and three to five feet long, they were exchanged in ratification of treaties, and given and received as title-deeds. The two colors were at times wrought together in patterns, and by a methodical arrangement made to aid the memory. As the female revolutionists of Paris registered, according to Dickens’s account, the doomed aristocrats in their knitting, so the Indians wove the story of the past and the promise of the future into wampum belts. Father Marquette tells us, “« THE INDIAN. . 31 moreover, that words addressed to the Indians, when not accom- panied by a wampum belt, were considered not important, and that the missionary, who first announced the gospel in a village, always spoke by the “belt of the prayer,” which he held in his hands, and which remained to witness his words when the sound had died away. A similar use is made on the Pacific Coast of -another variety of shells, called Haigua (Dentalium), which the natives use mainly for ornaments, but in certain localities also employ after the manner of wampum. “The men did not think their gala-equipments complete, unless they had ajewel of hatqua, or wampum, dangling at the nose.” (W. Irving’s Astoria, II. p. 87.) Another Indian term still prominent in the organization of great political bodies in America is the name of the presiding officer of the before-mentioned fraction of the Democratic party, their Sachem. This term seems to have been peculiar to North- ern Indians, since Captain John Smith calls the head of the Vir- ginia Indians’ Avng, and then continues: “ His (Powhatan’s) inferior kings, whom they call Werowances, are tyed to rule by custom ; the commander they call Caucorouse, which is captain” (Hist of Va. I. p. 143), while Beverley says, “acockarouse is one that has the honor to be of the king or queen’s council, with rela- tion to the affairs of government.” (Hist. of the Valley of Va., III. 117.) The word, which has a suspicious English sound about it, became, perhaps on that account, a favorite in the South, and was long used to designate a person of consequence among the Red men, although already the Swedish-Indian Dictionary of 1696 calls the chief Saccheeman. This term Sachem and the equally familiar Sagamore, often considered distinct terms, are in reality one and the same; so far from meaning two different things, they are simply variations of the original Sakemo, the name for a chief in all the New England dialects. Captain John Smith explained the meaning thus: “ For their government: every Sachem is not a king, but their great Sachems have divers Sachems under their protection, paying them tribute, and dare make no warres without his knowledge, but every Sachem cares for the widowes, orphans, the aged, and maimed.” (Hist. of Va., II. p. 238.) The modern poet, for his part, describes his appearance in these words: 32 . AMERICANISMS. * “ He looks like a Sachem, in red blanket wrapt, Who ’mid some council of the sad-garbed whites, Erect and stern, in his own memory wrapt, With distant eye broods over other sights.” (J. R. Lowell, An Indian Summer Reverie.) The rule of the Sachem has long since passed away; a Sachem- dom, such as the older writers spoke of, when describing the terri- torial extent of a Sachem’s power, cannot be said to exist in our day, yet the word still survives and is in constant use. This is even more strikingly the case with the Indian’s wife, his sqguaw, a word originating in the Algonquin language, and appearing in the New England dialects as sguah or esguah, while in Ojibway itis more simply guah or equah, a form which has led to a com- parison with the old English cven (queen), a woman. Her child is strangely disguised under the name of pappoose, which even so great a scholar as Mr. Schoolcraft fancied to be of Indian origin, because papots resembled a root meaning “to laugh.” Now, as Indian children alone ever laugh, such an exhibition of glee and mirth being regarded as undignified by older people, the designa- tion appeared to be very appropriate. As such it was used by W. Irving: “ Marching fearlessly forward, our valiant heroes carried the village of Communipaw by storm, notwithstanding that it was vigorously defended by some half a score of squaws and pap- pooses” (Hist. of New York, p. 321); and J. G. C. Brainard sings of one: “ Here his young squaw her cradling tree would choose, Singing her chant to hush her swart pappoose.” More careful researches have, however, led to the discovery that there is no such word in any Algonquin dialect, and that pappoose is nothing more than an imperfect effort to pronounce the English word, babies, as Yankee arose from English. It has, therefore, to take its place by the side of many such words, which owe their Indian origin to the imagination of the whites and not to the language of the natives. Such is also the word Pale-face, a great favorite with Cooper and many poets, which probably never was seriously used by an Indian in his own tongue, but makes quite a pretty appearance in such lines as these: THE INDIAN. 33 “The brave Tecumseh’s words are good: One league for terror, strife and blood, Must all our far-spread tribes unite ; Then shall the pale-face sink to-night.” (Tecumseh, by Colton, XVIII.) The word Manitou, which is generally held to mean God, has been the cause of much angry discussion. This arose from the fact that the early missionaries, from the zealous Puritan of the North to the pious Lutheran in Delaware and Virginia, used’ the word as representing the one great God of Christianity. The truth is, however, that Manitow is a word employed to signify the same thing by all Indians from the Gulf of Mexico to the Arctic regions, and this is simply spirit. Now, the Indians have good and bad spirits. Hence, it was at a great risk that the New England apostle, as well as the unknown author of the “ Vocabu- larium Barbaro-Virgineorum,” printed in Stockholm in 1696, could dare say: Manctto: “God.” For, the Indians have a Mane- tou for every cave, waterfall, or other communding object in nature, and generally make offerings to them at such places. Their bad Manetow differs in no way from our Devil. Hence, Judge Durfee was perfectly right, when he wrote: “Praying for good, we to Cawtantowit bow, And shunning evil, we to Chepian cry ; To other Manittoos we offerings owe, Dwell they in mountain, flood, or open sky.” (What Cheer, Cant. II. B.) When Father Marquette came to the Indians who directed his steps toward the Mississippi, “they answered,” he writes, “ that they were Ilinois, and in token of peace they presented their pipes to smoke. These pipes for smoking are called in the country the Calumets.” It is not improbable that we owe to these words of the pious and energetic missionary the addition to our language of this word. And yet it is by no means an Indian word, as is frequently believed and quite as frequently stated. Their own word is simply a term meaning pipe. Calumet, on the other hand, is nothing more than the old form of the French word “Chalumeau,” from the Latin “Calamus,” and was the name.given to a pipe by early French settlers, the colonists of New France. It is, therefore, a much more genuine 84 AMERICANISMS. Americanism, than most of the Indian words which we have simply obtained from the Indians in common with all other nations. The term canoe, on the other hand, has probably a more legitimate Indian pedigree. Although it has reached us only through the same French agency in the diminutive form of canot, there can be little doubt that it is the Carib word canaoa; at least the natives of San Salvador are said to have called smaller boats thus, when Columbus first landed there. The Indian’s canoe in the Northwest, it is well known, is made of the Paper or Canoe Birch (Betula papyracea), found in Maine and the whole North, but not in the South. Its thick, glossy, and pliant bark is used by the Indians for the manufacture of baskets, boxes, and trinkets of all kinds, which they ornament with beads and col- ored straws. Itis this bark also which served their ancestors, as it serves them now, in some districts, for the much more important structure of canoes, for, taken whole from the tree, it can be spread open, fashioned into a graceful shape and lined with wooden ribs. They are still used wherever the Indians have an abiding place, and hunters are apt to speak of them briefly as birches. The short oar with a broad blade by which the exceedingly frail and nicely-balanced canoe is propelled, requires no mean skill and close attention; hence the slang phrase of paddling one’s own canoe means fs be skillful and energetic enough to succeed unaided, as the song says: “ Voyager upon life’s sea, To yourself be true ;, And where’er your lot may be, Paddle your own canoe.” (Harper's Mag., May, 1854.) Among the articles of personal apparel which distinguish the Indian there are two, which have been and still are so extensively used by the whites also, that their names have become houschold words and parts of our language. These are the Mocassin and the Tomahawk. The former, in the Massachusetts dialect writ- ten “Mocasson,” in the Kenisteno dialect and some other offshoots of the Algonquin “ Mockisin,” isa shoe made of soft leather without a stiff sole, frequently ornamented more or less richly, These shoes have been largely adopted by Western hunters THE INDIAN. 3d and all men who haye hard work to do in winter. Thus we are told that “the loggers are obliged to take good care of their feet: one of them often wears three or four pair of socks, with a pair of mocassins over them—the mocassins, because they give the foot more freedom and thus render them less liable to freeze, are generally preferred to coarse leather boots.” (Minnesota Pineries, Putnam’s Magazine, July, 1857.) They are, however, no pro- ‘ tection against cold or wet; hence 8. Kercheval tells us that “in winter they were stuffed with deer’s hair or dry leaves to keep the feet warm, but in wet weather it was usually said, that they were only a decent way of going barefooted, owing to the natural spongy nature of the leather of which they were made.” (Hist. of the Valley of Virginia, p. 221.) A resemblance, more fancied than real, has given to a poisonous snake (Toxicophis pisci- vorus), which is brown with black bars faintly marked, like the black marks of wear and tear on the buff leather, the name of Mocassin Snake, while in the South a man made drunk by bad liquor is said to have been “bitten by the snake,” or simply to be mocassined. The tomahawk had in like manner become the familiar weapon of the frontiersman, who handled it with greater skill even than the Indian. In most Algonquin languages the word appears as tahmahgan, consisting of otamaha, “to beat,” and egan, a term used in the construction of all verbal nouns, so that it literally means “a beating-thing.” The name was given by the natives to every form of heavy war-club in use among them, though the most common form was that of a comparatively light axe with a hollow handle, so that it could serve asa pipe also. Tothe upper part the scalp of the defeated enemy was frequently attached. A favorite game of the early settlers is thus described by Kercheval: “The tomahawk, with its handle of a certain length, will make a given number of turns at a given distance; at five steps it will strike with the edge, handle downwards; at seven and a half it will strike with the edge, handle upwards, etc., a little experience teaches the eye and the hand, and the sport of throwing the hatchet is great.” (Hist. of the Valley of Va., p. 243.) As the Indians performed certain ceremonies with the tomahawk, burying it when they made peace,.and digging it up again npon the breaking out of a war, the two customs soon became familiar to the early settlers, and the 36 AMERICANISMS. ‘ phrases, burying the hatchet, and digging up the hatchet, were soon used in conversation generally for the reopening or amically arranging of difficulties of every kind. Thus W. Irving says: “They smoked the pipe of peace together, and the colonel claimed the credit of having, by his diplomacy, persuaded the sachem to bury the hatchet,” (Washington, I. p. 361,) and the backwoodsman gives his advice in the homely words: “now, shet up and don’t bother talking about digging up the hatchet.” (Life on the Prairies, p. 314.) The strange process of scalping seems to have been peculiar to the Indians of this Continent; at least it has not yet been found among other tribes; the Red man, it is well known, prepared himself for his fate by allowing his hair to grow ina long tuft on top of his head, which he called his scalp-lock. The victor would seize it with his left hand and with a sharp knife, the scalping-knife, by a single turn of the hand seyer the skin in a circle on the crown of the head; then with a powerful jerk pull off hair and skin, and transfer it to his belt or tomahawk. The custom is still prevalent among several Western tribes, and the term of scalping so familiar to Americans, that it is not unfrequent- ly used for “total defeat” or “ utter annihilation in debate.” The favorite term for the actual operation among Western hunters and frontiersmen was, however, the graphic phrase lifting hair, and thus a recent Army Report could still contain the words : “I saw at once that the Arrapahoes were not after stealing cattle but after lifting hair, and told the corporal so, but he would not believe me.” (Congressional Report, August 17, 1868.) Before setting out on what they call the war-path—a word that has led to the use of the phrase, he is out on the war-path, fora man who is about to make a deliberate attack on an adversary or a medsure—a council- fire is lit in the centre of the village, around which gather the braves of the tribe, as their fighting men are now-a-days officially described in the military reports from the Western Plains. The term itself is, however, of French origin, and was first used by the admirable missionaries of France, as when Father Hennepin says: “One of the braves accompanied me down to the river holding the precious vessel close to his heart.” At this conncil-fire they sit, often for hours, smoking in silence their Ainui-Kinnichk or Milli- Aynnick, as it sounds in some dialects, a term originating with the Dahcotahs or Sioux, and designating a mixture of dried sumac leayes THE INDIAN. 37 turning red, and red willow bark, which are finely chopped and grated, and then mixed with a certain proportion of genuine to- bacco, The true smoker from the East would probably appreciate the mixture as little as the Englishman relishes the tea of the Continent, improved (!) by spices or a few spoonfuls of rum, but Western trappers and hunters soon learn to prefer it to genuine to- bacco. When the latter is mixed with the bark of the cornel-trec it is known as Zsquipomgole. Then a pow-wow is held, a corrup- tion of powan, which in the New England dialects meant a prophet, conjuror, or medicine-man, called in Ojibway wahend or jossakeed. The term was adopted by the early settlers for any great assembly called together by Indians to celebrate feasts, per- form dances, or hold councils. §. Kerchevalsays: “Towards the latter part of February we commonly had a fine spell of open, warm weather, during which the snow melted away. This was denominated the pow-wowing days, from the supposition that the Indians were then holding their war-councils for planning their spring-campaigns into the settlements. Sad experience taught us that in this supposition we were not often mistaken.” (Hist. of the Valley of Va., p.190.) The term seems to have been sugges- tive enough to be fully adopted, and is still very generally used to designate any public meeting, perhaps with a sly suggestion, that there was more zeal than sense exhibited there. “ Tammany held another pow-2wow on the subject, but the meeting broke up in a row,” said the New York Herald on February 2,1867. The usual freedom is taken with the noun and it is changed into a verb, so that Dr Kane, a careful writer, could correctly say of the proph- et of the Esquimaux: “He prescribes or pow-wows in sickness or over wounds, directs the policy of the little state, and is really the power behind the throne.” (Arctic Explorations, II. p. 118.) The family of the Indian is somewhat oddly called a lodge, from the French word Joge, for hut, whenever not the braves only, but women and children are all included. “It was not pleasant to learn,” says Governor N. 8. Langford, “that twenty-five lodges of Indians had gone up the valley a few days before our arrival, and to be told by a trapper that he had been robbed by them, and, in common parlance, set on foot by having his horse and provisions stolen.” (The Wonders of the Yellowstone, 1871.) What most distinguishes the Indian in his external appearance, 38 AMERICANISMS. is the Totem he wears on his breast—a device of some animal, a wolf, a heron, or a turtle, which is drawn in paint, or engraven in the skin of his body. It serves to distinguish from generation to generation the particular class or subdivision of his tribe to which he belongs, and often furnishes the name of the whole. The word is of Algonquin origin, and sometimes derived from dodaim, a term signifying townmark, but unfortunately, there is no such word as dodaim to take it from. Longfellow speaks of it elo- quently, thus: “ And they painted on the grave-posts, Of the graves yet unforgotten, Each his own ancestral totem, Each the symbol of his household, Figures of the bear and reindecr, Of the turtle, crane, and beaver.” (Hiawatha.) This common custom of all the Indian tribes of the continent hitherto known, seems not to have reached northward beyond a certain line, for W. TH. Dale tells us that the “ Totemje system is not found among the Innuit.” (Alaska and its Resources, p- 228.) Besides these words, derived more or less directly from Indian terms and Indian customs, American English has borrowed from them a number of names in Natural History and in the kitchen. It is quite characteristic of this that the first mention ever made of Americanisms should be contained in the words: “Sed et ab Americanis nonnulla mutuamur ut mais et canoa.” (Alex. Gill, cited by J. R. Lowell.) Afaize is, however, rather of West Indian origin, belonging to the Carib language, and in Hayti called mahiz or mahis, of which the Spaniards at the time of the first discovery made maiz, and through the French mais, we have obtained our term. ‘The first origin of the grain is wrapt in as much mystery as that of most cereals; like all products of foreign, unknown countries, it appeared under the general name of Indian Corn in Spain, and Turkey Corn in Italy, just as the bird of this continent appears as cog d’Jnde in French, and as a turkey in English. In America it is universally known as corz, since every - country calls the staple cereal by this generic name, so that wheat (or all small grains) in England, rye in Germany, and oats in Sweden appear as corn in the idioms of these countries. THE INDIAN. 39 Its fertility and great nutritive power attracted early much attention, and from the ‘first settlements to our day, it has been the staple food of man and beast. Beverley already alludes to some of the many varieties found in this country. “ Flint Corn,” he says, “looks smooth and as full as the early ripe corn, the other has a larger grain and looks shrivelled, with a dent on the back of the grain, as if it had never come to perfection; this they call she-corn. This is esteemed by the planters as the best for increase.” (Hist. of Virginta, p. 127.) Corn is not eaten raw, though there seems to be literally no stage at which the ear is not fit for food when suitably prepared. The tucket, as the green ear is called as long as it is soft and milky, is quite a delicacy to some palates, but generally its con- sumption is considered too great a waste, and time is given it to fill up, grow to full size, and harden. The imperfectly-formed ear, on the contrary, is called a nwdbin, a term said to be of In- dian origin, though the presumption is not improbable that it is nothing more than the English word nothing, which the negroes very uniformly pronounce nuffin, and nubbin. The modes of preparing the green and the ripe ear for the table are almost infinitely varied, from the simple ashcake of the Indian, to the elaborate pudding of the great city. Furnishing, at all times, a toothsome dish, it is perhaps most appreciated in the simple shape of roasting-ears, as the latter are called, when, still green, they are quite soft and pulpy, with just enough consistency to be roasted Indian fashion, before a fire or in the hot ashes. “Indeed, this is a very good and pleasing food,” says Beverley, naively (Hist. of the Valley of Va. p. 117), and P. Cartright, more plaint- ively: “The Methodist preacher of those days (before 1800), often slept in dirty cabins, on earthen floors, before the fire, ate roasting- sars for bread, drank buttermilk for coffee, or sage tea for impe- rial, and took, with a hearty zest, deer meat, or bear meat, or wild turkey, for breakfast, dinner, and supper—if he could get it.” (Autobiography, p. 243.) When ripe, the grains become too hard ‘or eating, and have to be ground into corm meal, which the aegroes of the South invariably, and very judiciously, prefer to vheat flour. This meal is made up in various ways, the sim- slest of which was learned from the Indians. “Tempering this lower,” says valiant John Smith, “ with water, they make it either 40 AMERICANISMS. 7 in cakes, covering them with ashes till they are baked, and then washing them in fair water, where they drie presently with their own heat; or else boyle them in water, eating the broth with the bread, which they call Ponap.” (Virginia, I., p. 127.) The lat- ter word was the term apohn in the Powhatan dialect, and hence comes the modern pone, a name invariably given in the South to a maize-cake. Hence even F. Olmsted could still write, “We all clustered around the fire, the landlady alone passing through our semi-circle, as she prepared the pone and fry and coffee for our meal.” (Texas, p. 319.) The negro of former days, pre- paring his simple but savory meal in his cabin, would dab the roughly-kneaded cake down upon his hoe, and thus bake it be- fore the fire; the result was a hoe-cake, unsightly to the eye, but palatable enough. Quaint old Barlow refers to it when he says: “Some talk of hoe-cake, fair Virginia’s pride.” (Hasty Pud- ding, 32.) In the New England States another, not less primi- tive method was pursued; here the dough was spread upon the stave of a barrel-top and thus baked before the fire; at times the irresistible pumpkin was mixed with it, and then it appeared as “Rich Johnny-cake, his mouth has often tryed.” (J. Barlow.) From thence the precious dish spread westward with the restless Yankee, and already, in 1840, the Hon. Mr. Duncan could, on the floor of Congress, speak of life in Ohio as merry enough, when “ The frolic consisted in dancing, playing, and singing love and murder songs; cating Johnny-cake and pumpkin pies, and drinking new whiskey and brown sugar out of a gourd.” In olden times the johnny-cake seems to have appeared occa- sionally in an odd disguise, if we recognise him in the following lines: “Then times were good; merchants cared not a rush For other fare than jonakin and mush.” (New England Crisis, Benjamin Thomson, 1675.) But while hoe-cake is dear to the South, and johnny-cake at home alike in the Hast and West, the hasty pudding—Indian meal stir- red in boiling water into a thick batter, and eaten with milk and sugar, or molasses—is a favorite dish all over the Union. Joel Barlow’s popular poem on the subject describes the primitive mode of preparing it thus: THE INDIAN. 4l “She learnt with stones to crack the well dried maize, Thro’ the rough sieve to shake the golden shower, In boiling water stir the yellow flour ; The yellow flour, bestrew’d and stirr’d with haste, Swells in the flood, and thickens to a paste, Then puffs and wallops, rises to the brim, Drinks the dry knobs, that on the surface swim; The knobs at last the busy ladle breaks, And the whole mass its true consistence takes.” The dish was a favorite of the Indians, and in fact their common food during the greater part of the-year. They called it, to the ear of the early settlers, supawn, but this was probably merely a corruption of the Lenape or Delaware name asapahn and is, no doubt, the same as the samp mentioned by Roger Williams, as “a kind of meale pottage unparched; from this the English call their samp, which is Indian corn, beaten and boiled and eaten hot or cold, with milke or butter, which are mercies beyond the natives plaine water, and which is a dish exceedingly wholesome for the English bodies.” (Key to the Ind. Lang., p.13.) Both words are evidently derived from the Algonquin saphac, meaning “soft gruel, or anything thinned,” but early settlers fancied it a Dutch word, and hence honest J. Barlow could write indig- nantly: “On Hudson’s bank, while men of Belgic spawn, Insult and eat thee by the name of suppaum.” (Hasty Pudding.) Nor was he less patient with his Southern neighbors, of whom he speaks with equal scorn: “Fen in thy native regions, how I blush To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee mush ;” and yet, if he had Jived long enough, he would have heard the name of mush given to the pleasant and extremely nutritious dish all over the South. It was almost universally known to the In- dians, as seems to be natural from its great simplicity ; it is proba- bly the “ sagamity, that is to say, Indian meal boiled in water, and seasoned with grease,” of Father Marquette. In some parts of the West, another mush is frequently used, but as it is made of rye after the manner of a Hasty Pudding, it is called Rye Mush. Besides the more aristocratic batter-cake, found to perfection in 42 AMERICANISMS. the South, there is another preparation of corn called hominy, or homony, an Indian dish, so called from an Indian word written by Roger Williams in his Key ahwminea, meaning “ parched corn,” and in the Powhatan dialect wstatahominy, while R. Beverley has it rockahominy. (Hist. of Va. p.155.) To prepare this dish, which is likewise eaten all over the Union, but especially appreciated in South Carolina, the corn is either coarsely ground or hulled, and boiled with water. 8. Kercheval already calls “ hog and hominy the standard dish of all early settlers” (p. 48), and to this day, pork and corn, in this shape, are relished alike by high and low. “That ar Jake,” says Jim the Cracker, in an account of Georgia, “ll never make a man, Cap’n; he don’t take kindly to hog and hominy, no how, but ketches them no ’count birds and eats ’em, Yes, sir, he does ;” while T. O. Richards, in his “Rice Fields of the South,” tells us that “to be bidden to a planter’s hog and hominy, is to be presented with the full, free hospitality of his house.” From some fancied resemblance to a kernel thus hulled, a snapping-beetle, or Elater, of Pennsylvania, is called the “Hom- tmy-beater.” (8.8. Haldeman.) A more direct and more correct connection exists between the name of the ceFeal and that of the river which has become so famous during the late Civil War, the Chickahominy, which was so called from flowing through the fertile lowlands that bore King Powhatan’s ample harvests, and thus became the great granary of his dominions. 'The name itself, Checahaminend, in the original, meant “land of much grain.” A special variety of corn, with dark, small grains, serves to furnish a Yankee dainty, very popular in the New England States, and hardly known elsewhere. The grains are placed on a heated shovel or held in a wire gauze over a brisk fire, till they pop open, swelling to great size, and in the act of bursting, expose the snowy white inside, thus presenting a pleasing appearance in harmony with their attractive odor. This is called Pop Corn, and eaten with salt or sugar. ‘The same tendency to pop is pos- sessed by a variety of cake made of Indian corn, baked very hard, and called, from its disposition to jump about in the act of baking, and, as it were, to dodge, Corndodger. “Corndodger and fried bacon,” says F. Olmsted in his pleasant book on Texas, “seem to be the universal food of the people,” and a Western tourist assures us that “Corndodger, baked in the ashes, salt pork broiled THE INDIAN. 4 on the end of a stick, and a little muddy tea, must, on the prairi suffice for the hungry stomach.” Corn-juwice is the poetical nan which Western men are fond of giving to whiskey, because it frequently made of corn, and thus justifies the quaint quotatic of J. R. Bartlett :— “Old Monongahela whiskey, Whiskey made of Indian corn juice.” (Pluribushta.) Nor must we forget to do honor to another combination « corn with kindred dainties, which we owe to the Jndians, the mesiccwotash in the Narragansett dialect. In its Anglicised for it reappears as swecotash or suckatash, and consists of green co} with beans boiled together, to which experts add, after the examp of the Indians, a small allowance of venison. The palatable di: is held specially dear in New England, and hence appeared in di form at an Indian banquet held in 1836, in Providence, - honor of the two hundredth anniversary of the settlement Rhode Island. “An Indian mat being spread out, a large woode platter well filled with boiled bass graced the centre supporte on one side by a wooden dish of parched corn, and on the other | a similar one of swecotash.” (Stone’s Life of Howland, p. 262, £ The word nocake with its ludicrous resemblance to English, bi quoted in Wood’s New England Prospect, 1634, as a true Indis word, represented a powder made of Indian corn parched in t] ashes, and stuffed into a long leathern bag to serve as provend for long journeys. Although the preparation is of course 1 longer used, the word may still be occasionally heard in the Ne England States. Mixed with sugar the same powder appea under the name of Rokage or Yokeage. Next to succotash the most important article of food with 1] Indian was probably Pemmican, which has ever since remain: the main reliance of all explorers, hunters, and voyagers. name consists of the two Kenisteno words pemis, which meai fat, and egan, the general substantive inflection, so that the who simply signifies “fat-substance.” It consists mainly of buffa meat—though other meat is sometimes used in the same mann —dried in flakes and then pounded -between two stones. T! powder is next put into bags made of the hide of the slain an mal, with the hair outside, into which melted fat is poured till 44 AMERICANISMS. is quite full. Then, the whole being pressed down, the top of the bag is closely sewed up, and thus the valuable provender can be easily carried and long preserved. Fifty pounds of meat and forty pounds of fat make a bag of pemmican, and will last a careful traveller several months. In this state it may be eaten raw, but the voyageurs generally mix it with a little flour and water, and then boil it, in which form it is known throughout the North- western territory under the elegant name of robdiboe. Travellers have always found pemmican good and wholesome food, though it would perhaps be more palatable without its unprepossessing ap- pearance and a goodly number of buffalo hairs, which are apt to be mixed up with it through the carelessness of the hunters. The pemmican of Arctic explorers and hunters in other continents is made of any meat that is available, after the same pattern, and often, for good reasons, without the admixture of fat. A plant of such universal usefulness and so-familiar to a great nation could, of course, not fail to furnish in its various parts also a number of terms and phrases to the idiom. The cod, the spike or stipe, on which the seed of the plant grows, may have derived its name from the old English meaning of “head” at- tached to cob (the German Kopf) ; but Americans carefully distin- guish between ears of corn, as they are called while the ears are yet attached to the stipe, and cods of corn, when the latter are re- moved. They still furnish a certain amount of nutriment, when mixed with more valuable food; but their best use seems to be for pipe-heads, for which they are extensively used by the poor people of the South. There, it must not be overlooked, the cod or pithy placenta, which remains when the grains have been shelled off, is as large as the full ear of the Northern corn. Old smokers say that a Virginia corn-cob pipe surpasses all others in sweetness, lightness and endurance. The name of this part of the plant once gave rise to an unexpected witticism on the part of a negro, who, after the surrender of Lord Cornwallis at York- town in 1782, remarked to a friend: “He no Cornwallis now; he Cobwallis; Gineral Washington shell all the corn off him too slick.” Cornstalk, on the other hand, was the name of a famous Indian chief, well known ‘in the history of early Northwestern settlements. The leaves of the beautiful plant, which closely re- sembles the sugar-cane, and is often chosen in lawns and garden- THE INDIAN. 4 plots as a graceful centre to tufts of smaller plants, are calle blades, and when dried and stacked up for use, assume the nan of fodder, furnishing with the top of the stalk most valuab food for all cattle. It is these blades, interspersed with the grac ful tassels, as the flowers are called, and ripening ears, whic were used for urnaments in the first efforts ever made at a style c American architecture. A variety of maize is known as broon corn, since its top and dried seedstalks furnish the immen majority of brooms used in the Union. A corn cracker is looke upon as so low a person that he is simply called a cracker; | inhabits the low, unproductive regions near the sea-shore, ar besides his generic name derived from the chief article of h diet, he appears as Conch or Low Downer in North Carolina, ax as Sandhiller or Poor White Trash in South Carolina and Georgi Even in Florida he is found occasionally, leading a wretched li in the woods, and resembling in his habits the worst of the o Indians. The Crackers of North Carolina, are, perhaps, the poore of them all. “Their occupation is collecting turpentine, and th« are said to possess an unnatural craving for a clay-diet. Theya popularly known as Crackers, but their gaunt aspect and haggar vacant countenances induce one to suppose that they might wit greater truth be called cracked.” (Blackwood, Jan. 1860.) Corn Rights, on the other hand, were in the earliest times c western settlements, rights to land acquired by cultivation, foi “In 1776 settlements were made on New River (in Virginia) the lands taken up in this region being held by what were know as Corn Rights—whoever planted an acre of corn acquired a tit to a hundred acres of land.” (Withers, p. 48.) The outer husk, by which the grain is protected against tk weather, is generally called shuck, and although a common sayin has it that a man or a thing is not worth a shuck or not wor shucks, this shows only the relative merit of the latter in compa: ison with the more valuable ear. Shucks are very much prized : the South as fodder for cattle, and the husking or shucking (fro. Shuck, the husk of a walnut. or shell of a bean.—Grose.) of corn universally an occasion of merry-making, and one of the gayest ¢ rural frolics known in the country. At the North the thrift farmer, no longer able to enjoy the Cunticos, as his fathers calle their frolics from an Indian word, invites his neighbors, far an 46 AMERICANISMS. near, to help him, as he is expected and ready to help them another day, and then they set to work, Jads and lasses, with many a merry custom inherited from their forefathers, “ For each red car a gen’ral kiss he gains, With each smut ear, she smuts the luckless swains.” (Barlow’s Hasty Pudding.) and thus “Tn the barn the youths and maidens Strip the corn of Ausk and tassel, Warm the dullness of October With the life of Spring and May ; While through every chink the lanterns And sonorous gusts of laughter Make assault on night and silence With the counterfeit of day.” (Helen Lee.) In the South the negroes used to have high times at corn-shuck- ing, and gaye especially full play to their quaint, but melodious songs, with which they lightened the labor and transformed the task into a frolic. The following portions of two such songs may serve as specimens of a class of songs which will soon have ceased to exist and be speedily forgotten : ‘“Oh boys! Come along and shuck the corn ; Oh boys! Come along to the rattle of the horn! We'll shuck and sing to the coming of the moon, And den we'll ford the river. Oh Bob Ridley O! O! O! How could you fool the possum so ?” The other used to be sung by one voice, the response being given in a chorus, and at each refrain the husked ear would be thrown on the rapidly-rising pile in the centre: “Solo. Obadiah. Solo. Pond too deep. Chorus. Jumped into the fire. Chorus. Jumped in the creek. Solo. Fire too hot. Solo. Creek too shallow. Chorus. Jumped in the pot. Chorus. Jumped in the tallow. Solo. Pot too black. Selo. Tallow too soft. Chorus. Jumped in the crack. Chorus. Jumped in the loft. Solo. Crack too high. Solo. Loft too rotten. Chorus. Jumped in the sky. Chorus. Jumped in the cotton. Solo. Sky too blue. Solo. Cotton so white. Chorus. Jumped in the canoe, Chorus. Stayed there all night!” THE INDIAN. 44 Of late a very brisk trade has sprung up in hackled shucks, and a Virginia paper said, “ we saw a letter from Charleston, 8. C. as to whether two hundred tons per month could be supplied,” (Fredericksburg Herald, Dec. 10, 1870.) During the Civil War, on the other hand, the original Blue Backs of the Confederacy (so-called in opposition to the Green Backs of the Union) soon became known as Shucks, a name sufficiently significant of their evil repute as a circulating medium. Those were the days, when it was currently reported that ladies in the capital of the Confed- eracy could be seen in the streets, followed by a servant who carried the piles of money for the marketing, which they brought themselves home in their hands. It ought not to be forgotten, however, that this was by no means the first time in American history when paper-money had been reduced to such a low state. The same thing, precisely, had happened in the days of the Revolution, when General Washington had already said, (Decem- ber, 1779,) “a wagon load of money will now scarcely purchase a wagon load of provisions.” A Cornstalk Fiddle is a toy familiar to every boy in the land: an outside fibre of a cornstalk is loosened, and, by placing a bridge under each end, it becomes a chord capable of producing a few dull sounds by each vibration. Among the many slang terms derived from the beautiful and valuable plant, none is probably more frequently heard than that of acknowledging the corn, with its more prosy variation of acknowledging the soft impeachment. The former means a confession of having been mistaken or out- witted, as the occasion may warrant, and is said to have originated, like many such phrases, at least twice in very different ways. The Hon. Andrew Stewart, Member of Congress from Pennsylvania, claimed in a recent speech to have caused its first appearance in public. In 1828, he was in Congress discussing the principle of “Protection,” and said in the course of his remarks, that Ohio, . Indiana, and Kentucky sent their haystacks, cornfields, and fodder to New York and Philadelphia for sale. “The Hon. Charles A. Wickliffe, from Kentucky, jumped up and said, “Why, that is absurd; Mr. Speaker, I call the gentleman to order. He is stating an absurdity. We never send haystacks or cornfields to New York or Philadelpbia.” “Well,” said I, “what do you send?” “ Why, horses, mules, cattle, hogs.” “ Well, what makes your horses, mules, 48 AMERICANISMS. cattle, hogs? You feed a hundred dollars’ worth of hay to a horse, you just animate and get upon the top of your haystack and ride off to market. How is it with your cattle? You make one of them carry fifty dollars’ worth of hay and grass to the Hastern market. Mr. Wickliffe, you send a hog worth ten dollars to an Eastern market; how much corn does it take at thirty-three cents per bushel to fatten it?” “ Why, thirty bushels.” “Then you put that thirty bushels of corn into the shape of a hog, and make it walk off to the Eastern market.” Mr. Wickliffe jumped up and said: “Mr. Speaker, 7 acknowledge the corn.” The other popular account of the origin of the phrase ascribes it to the misfortunes of a flatboatman who had come down to New Orleans with two flatboats, laden, the one with corn, the other with potatoes. He was tempted to enter a gambling-estab- lishment, and lost his money and his produce. On returning at night to the wharf, he found his boat with corn had sunk in the river, and when the winner came next morning to demand the stake, he received the answer, “Stranger, I acknowledge the corn, take ’em; but the potatoes you can’t have, by thunder.” (Pitts- burg Com. Advertiser, B.) Even the cornfield plays naturally a prominent part in Southern life, and as schoolhouses were apt to be erected in or near them, so- called self-made men are to this day fond of beasting that they neyer received any other education but in an old cornfield school. Closely connected with the corn-shucking is the hunt of the opossum, (Didelphys virginiana,) that strange animal, which still preserves its ancient Indian appellation, though more frequently it follows the loyal Irishman’s example, drops the O, and appears as ’Possum simply. Captain John Smith, who may be said to have discovered it, describes it thus: “An Opasswm hath a head like a swine, a tail like a rat, and is of the bigness of a cat. Under her bellye she hath a bagge, wherein she lodgeth, carrieth, and suckleth her young.” (Virginia, L, p. 124.) Following his exam- ple, old authors in England and colonial writers spell the name apassom, till the more modern form superseded the Indian. The negroes are passionately fond of the very fat meat of the animal, which comes out only at night, and when hunted always takes refuge on a tree, hiding in some hollow. Thus it can be caught THE INDIAN. 49 only by felling the tree, whereupon the cunning creature falls down apparently dead and often escapes by -his power of simulation, which is so perfect as to mislead even the instinct of dogs. Hence the negro’s song, “A possum on a ’simmon tree, With one eye winked right down at me, Fust by his tail the crittur swung: And this old chorus sweetly sung : Get along hum, my yeller gals, For the moon on the grass am shining.” As the poor animal is not supposed to be over-comfortable in his lofty position, with numerous enemies looking out for him below, his situation has given rise to the phrase, ¢o be up a tree, expressive of being in a difficult situation. Some ten years ago, the English papers circulated a story taken professedly from an American paper, “in which this familiar phrase was said to have been made use of rather ingeniously by a preacher of the Spurgeon stamp, to attract the more worldly of his congregation. He an- nounced as the subject of his next sermon: How to rise in the world—Zaccheus up a tree.” The simulating power, which the opossum shares with the raccoon, has in like manner originated the very common expression, ¢o play possum, used when a person pretends to be asleep; its meaning is, however, extended to cases of young ladies showing a little affectation of demureness, or of any one who affects to be unable to do what he ought to do or what he is presumed to be fully able to do. As the clever animal has, moreover, a trick of dodging the dogs in the treacherous moon- light and slyly jumping from one tree to the other, the phrase of barking up the wrong tree has come to be used when a person acts under a mistaken impression, very much as the English take the phrase of “being on the wrong scent” from their favorite, the fox. It ought perhaps to be added, that good authorities, such as Pro- fessor 8. S. Haldeman, consider Posswm—and not Opossum—the proper form of the name. To support this, they refer to two early quotations. The Penny Cyclopedia, 14,458, quotes: “ Possomes, this beast hath a bagge under her belly, into which she takes her young ones, if at any time affrighted, and carries them away.” (Per- fect Description of Virginia, 1649.) The other, in which the ani- mal is called Possum and described as above, is from Lawson’s 4 50 AMERICANISMS. Carolina, 1700, 1709, ete. It was certainly accepted as such by Gosse in his interesting letters from Alabama, who writes: “ abe initiated can tell a real dead Posswm from one that is shamming in the hypocritical state in which I saw it, the coil of the tail- ip was maintained, whereas in absolute death this would be relaxed permanently.” (p. 234.) The favorite tree of the opossum is the Persimmon tree (Dios- pyros virginiana), which owes its name likewise to the Indians, who called it puchamon. Captain John Smith has caught the sound fairly enough, for he tells us “ The other (trees) which they call Pufchamins, grow as high as a palmeta; the fruit is like a medler; it is first green, then yellow, and red when it is ripe; if it be not ripe it Il draw a man’s mouth awry with much tor- ment; but when it is ripe, it is as delicate as an apricote.” (Vir- ginia, I, p. 122.) The fact is, that the plum requires to be ex- posed to severe frost before it is fit to eat; but then it becomes very sweet and luscious, with a decided vinous taste, which the opossum fully appreciates. How little even this common tree is yet known abroad, appears from the manner in which the clever writer on “Inroads on English,” in Blackwood (Dec. 1870, p. 417), speaks of its fruit as nzfs. Mr. Jefferson, the President, used to say, that with cultivation the fruit might be made valuable as a table-fruit and for preserves, while persimmon beer, as a kind of beverage made from it is called, might often tempt more fastidious palates than those of the negroes, who love it dearly. R. B. Beverley had evidently a good opinion of it, for he writes: “Of these (persimmons) some vertuosi make an agreeable kind of beer, to which purpose they dry them in cakes and lay them up for use.” The familiar fruit has, like other Indian names of this class, given rise to many familiar expressions and slang phrases. To rake up the persimmons is a frequent term for “pocketing the stakes ;” the longest pole gets the most ’simmons takes the place of the English “ the longest pole knocks down the nuts,” and the odd-sounding phrase, huckleberry above the per- simmons, is used mainly in the South to express that something apparently simple and easy is far above the ability of the person who made the attempt. The raccoon (Procyon lotor), an animal which has much in common with the opossum from its curtailed name of ’coon to its THE INDIAN. 51 fondness for persimmons, shares with it also the Indian origin of its name. The Algonquin (Virginian) arougheun or arocoun (the scratcher), the name of the animal as quoted by Strachey and Smith, is evidently the ancestor of the modern form, and if there is any connection with the French raton, as is claimed by some writers, it is certainly not that of direct descent. In other Al- gonquin dialects similar names occur, and only among the Ojib- ways the animal was known as aisebun, “a shell it was,” in allusion to the tradition prevailing among them, that the curious marks of the animal’s furs were the traces of its former existence as a shell before it was transformed. Captain John Smith also quotes it thus: “There is a beast they call aroughcun, much like a badger, but uses to live on trees as squirrels doe.” (Virginia, L, p. 124.) The raccoon is mentioned as such by Beverley, when he inveighs against animals that are fond of pilfering the settlers’ beehives, and speaks of them as “bears, raccoons, and other liquorish varmine.” (p. 122.) The shortened form, coon, is of comparatively modern origin, having been first introduced into polite language in 1840, when Harrison was elected President, and the skin of the animal was used as a kind of badge, in conjunc- tion with cider and log cabins drawn about the country on wheels. The eccentric Davy Crockett is said to have used the word before, but it was certainly then first brought from the woods into good society, and speedily secured a footing. The whigs had no sooner adopted the emblem than they became known throughout the Union as Coons, their policy was denounced as “ Coonery, which must fall with all its corruptions and abominations, never more to rise.” (Boston Post, &.) The epithet was all the more forcible, no doubt, because so suggestive of the known character of the animal, which moves in a somewhat oblique and sidelong manner, and is up to all sorts of shifts in self-defence. Hence also the Indic- rous corruption of shecoonery, for chicanery, not uncommon in the South, and expressive of a kind of mild and feminine whiggery. A gone coon represents a man in a serious or hopeless difficulty. This Western phrase is, of course, drawn from the idea of a coon which has been treed, and—like the one threatened by that famous shot, Captain Scott—is ready to say, “Don’t trouble yourself to fire, Captain, ’l1 come down!” having no hope of escape. The amusing Slang Dictionary, published by J. C, Hotten, London, 52 AMERICANISMS. 1870, has, however, a novel and entertaining explanation. During the American War, it states, a spy dressed in a raccoon skin had ensconced himself ina tree. An English rifleman, taking him for a veritable coon, levelled his piece at him, whereupon the frightened American exclaimed: “Don’t shoot, Pll come down of myself, I know Iam a gone coon.” That is the way history is read on the two sides of the Atlantic. Nevertheless the phrase is quite current in England, and the flavor of patriotism may have served to render it more popular. Why a coon should be pre- sumed to be so long-lived as to make a@ coon’s age a common expression in the South for any long period of time, is not quite so evident, but the “ Cracker” who piloted Audubon through the marshes of Newtown, already exclaimed upon meeting his friend: “ Wall, Pete, whar have you been? I havw’nt see you this coon’s age.” (Life, L., p. 178.) A merry companion of the little bear is the chipmunk of the Indians, the chitmunk, or chit-squirrel of Canada (Tamias stri- atus), who loves to show its striped coat on the branches of a tree or the rails of a fence, and comes uninvited into gardens and orchards to pick up the pits in cherry-time. It makes a chatter- ing noise, and hence: “Was it some chipmunk’s chatter—or weasel Under the stonewall stealthy and shy ?” (C. P. Cranch, Summer Pictures.) It is not impossible, however, that the word is of later origin, as the term, to chip, from chirp, “to be merry,” a provincialism m England, is quite common in America, and even the noun chipper, in the sense of “a lively, cheerful person,” is frequently heard in New England. In some of the Eastern States the famil- iar name of the playful little creature, unknown in England, is Hackee. A genuine Americanism, in every sense, is the Moose, (Alce americanus,) a deer of great size, peculiar to America, and so named by the Indians from his manner of feeding by stripping the young bark and the twigs from the lower branches. Mooswah is an Abenaki word, meaning the stripper or smoother, and is adopted almost without change in its Algonquin form moos. The animal excited the marvel of the early settlers, so that Lechford THE INDIAN. 53 wrote of it in 1642, “There are beares, wolves and foxes, and many other wild beastes, as the moose, a kind of deare, as big as some oxens and lyons, as I have heard,” (Plaine Dealing,) and Josselyn indulges in the quaint comparison, “The flesh of their fawns is an incomparable dish, beyond the flesh of an ass’s foal, so highly esteemed by the Romans, or that of young spaniel pup- ies, so much cried up in our days, in France and England.” (New Englands Rarities, p. 19.) They are now comparatively rare, being constantly hunted for their, meat, and the sport they afford, and retire more and more to. the northernmost regions. They live in families of fifteen to twenty, each one of which confines itself to a certain part of the woods; this is called a moose yard, within which they often fall an easy prey to woodmen and hunt- ers, blocked in as they are by the snow. The leatherwood (Dirca palustris), a small shrub with a tough, leathern bark, is a favor- ite food with these gigantic animals, and hence frequently called Moose wood. Then there is the Caribou (Rangifer caribou), a small reindeer found in the northernmost parts of this as well as the older Continents, and so called by the early French settlers. One vari- ety is. known as the Barren-Ground, the other as the Wood- land Caribou, but well-informed travellers tell us that they only represent the same animal at different seasons. It is curious that this name, so closely resembling a French word, should be of In- dian origin, while another term used carelessly for Moose or Rein- deer alike, should have been discovered to be of Basque origin! “ Orignal is not Indian,” writes the Hon. J. H. Trumbull, “but a slightly corrupted form of the Basque word for deer or stag. I discovered the origin of the name, some years ago, in Lescarbot’s History of New France—but Littré has been before me in print- ing it, in his ‘Dictionnaire,’ with a reference to.the very passage in Lescarbot.” (Feb. 1871.) The poor animals have been ill- treated from of old: La Hentan, in his North America, calls them “a kind of wild asses,” and other early French explorers, mention them as “ vaches sauvages.” The Wapiti (Cervus canadensis), often confounded with the moose, is, on the other hand, a stag or perhaps an el in the wider sense of the word. J. R. Bartlett is inclined to believe that the name comes from the Iroquois, but these Indian tribes have no 54 AMERICANISMS. labials in their language, and the same difficulty occurs here as in the derivation of “alewives” from an Indian “ aloof.’ The Iroquois have, on the contrary, a proverb which says that the Algonquinsand the whites “commence talking by shutting their mouths,” as is neces- sary in order to pronounce the labials. The name is more likely to belong to the dialects of the Shoshone or Utah, which have a word wapit, meaning yellow, and as the yellowish or reddish color of the elk is quite peculiar, thongh dim, it may well have been called by them “ the yellow deer.” Even the hunters of the North are apt to call it “the red deer” or “the gray moose,” to distin- guish it from the common moose, which is black. This presump- tion is strengthened by the fact that the wap?tt is very common in the Shoshone country and of great importance to the inhabit- ants. It is easily domesticated and has been frequently trained to harness. Equally original, but very far from being as desirable, is another American animal, known by itsIndian name. This is the Skunk (Mephitis mephitica), who was known as segankw or se- cancu to the Abenakis of Maine, and as seecawk to the Cree Indians, while the Mexican term conepatl has been changed into a more familiar-sounding name conepate, in some of the Southern States. The small fetid animal is, of course, a near cousin to the Eng- lish polecat, but surpassing it, if not in offensiveness of odor, at least in its far-reaching and penetrating power. Woe is the house to which it has, by chance or by the persecution of dogs, found its way! 1t has to be instantly abandoned by its inmates, and weeks of thorough purification often do not suffice to remove all traces. With biting irony the animal is called by the Yankees an essence pedlar, and as such was introduced to the reading public by no less an authority than the great poet Lowell. On the other hand, it has served to giye its name to everything nasty and offensive, from the skunk-cabbage (Symplocarpus foetidus), the first child of spring in the New England States, but strong-scented and repul- sive looking, to the skunk in politics or college-life, who earns his name by disgraceful deceit or dishonest acts, all of which are called skunking. ‘Two poor birds, utterly innocent of any title to such a painful denunciation, are still apt to receive it at the hand of the vulgar: the skunk blackbird, whom the Rev. H. W. Beecher calls “the polyglot, who describes the way they talked at the THE INDIAN. 55 winding up of the tower of Babel”—from its colors, black mixed with white; and the skunkhead, the pied duck of science, thus called all along the sea-coast. The slang phrase, Let every man skin his own skunk, which is due to Major Jack Downing, is a rather forcible version of the French proverb which recommends us “to wash our soiled linen in the family ;” and however graph- ically it may paint the folly of meddling with other peopie’s quarrels, the comparison is odorous almost beyond endurance. This genuine “varmin”—for no other animal deserves the name better—has been improved, after the manner of the American sense of that word, into an original maxim: “ Vice is a skunk that smells awfully rank, when stirred up by the pole of misfortune.” (Blackwood, April, 1861.) The phrase contains the very essence of modern social philosophy, and justifies the description of a proverb as the wisdom of a nation. A kinsman in smells, if not in race, is the American Muskrat (Ondatra zibethicus), whose English name, derived from the strong musky smell of the beaver’s first cousin, strangely resembles the more familiar Indian name: Musquash. Captain John Smith says of it: “The Mussascus is a beast of the form and nature of our water rats, but many of them smell exceedingly strongly of muske” (Virginia, I., p. 124), while the poet Lowell refers to its habitat in the line: “ Forlorner than a musguash if yowd took an dreened his swamp.” (Bigiow Papers, II. 10.) They are hunted for their furs, which are valuable, and become in sequestered places so bold that “these miniature beavers sit and eat clams on the steps of the boat-house.” (Harpers’ Monthly, August, 1847.) They give their name to the musguash root (Cicuta maculata), a poisonous plant growing in swamps. Among imported animals at least two breeds of horses peculiar to America still bear the Indian names by which they were known from the first. One is the Conestoga horse, the probable result of a mixture of the Flemish cart-horse with an English breed, which takes its name from the Conestoga River, in the interior of Pennsylvania, where fertile lowlands and rich grasses are pecu- liarly favorable to the raising of stock, and where this breed was first produced. It is of large size and great power, and still much 56 AMERICANISMS., in favor in remote districts, wherever the introduction of railways has not destroyed the traffic carried on, as of old, by huge wagons, covered with white canvas and drawn by six of these magnificent animals. The other breed is known as Narragansett pacers, ponies said to be found only on the islands in Narragansett Bay, and very much valucd on account of their powers of endurance and admirable pacing gait. The breed is, however, reported to be no longer what it was, which may well be the case, if the Rev. Dr. MacSparran was not actuated by a little enthusiasm when he wrote, in 1753: “The produce of this colony is fat cattle, wool, and tine horses, which are exported to all parts of English Amer- ica. They are remarkable for their fleetness and swift pacing, and I have seen some of them pace a mile in little more than two minutes, a good deal less than three.” (America Dissected, B.) The increasing fondness of Americans for fast trotting has naturally led to a comparative neglect of pacing horses, and hence much less is said now-a-days of the once famous Narragansett horse. It is rather remarkable that among the birds so few Indian names should have become familiar to the whites, and even Sora, or, as R. B. Beverley writes it in true American style, Saurer, the name of a well-known luscious rail (Rallus carolinus), is not unanimously admitted to be of Indian origin. The bird is said to owe its plump appearance and much-praised flavor to the wild rice on which it feeds in the great estuaries of the Middle and Southern States. Indian names of plants are more numerous. The Cashaw, or Kershaw, of the West, a pumpkin, may possibly be a corruption of an Indian name, though the relation to squash lies nearer. The Oregon grape has not yet had time to make its virtues known. The Cutawba grape, one of the finest of the Continent, and so named from the Indians who dwelt in its native haunts, was, for a time, most relied on by the grape-growers of the Union, though at present hybrids obtained by crossing it with European varie- ties are generally preferred. It found early a formidable rival in the Scuppernong grape, which grows freely from Virginia to Florida, and covers often half an acre with the spreading branches ofa single vine. It thrives mainly on the Scuppernong River, in North Carolina, from which it obtained its name, and is a great THE INDIAN. 5 favorite with some, though the author of “ American Wines” says: “The Scuppernong grape produces a wine naturally hard and dry, with little to recommend it but its peculiar flavor and aroma.” (p. 615.) The Chickasaw Plum derives its name from an Indian tribe residing in the portion of Arkansas where the bush (Prunus chicasa) is found in great abundance along the banks of Red River. It bears a large and beautiful fruit, red in color, and of most pleasant taste. “The Cohosh displays its white balls and red stems,” says A. B. Street, and thus picturesquely introduces one of the many plants that pass under the name of Snakeroots, from some fancied virtue as remedies for snake-bites. The Cohosh is the Actaea racemosa of the botanists, and the Blue, or White, or Black Cohosh of the common people, who prefer the old Indian name. Gumbo is a word, which, Indian or not, is apt to recall most pleasant recollections in the minds of those who have learnt to know the excellent use Southern housewives make of the pod of the Okra (Hibiscus esculentus), in preparing a dish that also bears the name of Gumbo. Fredrika Bremer wrote in her quiet enthu- siastic way: “ Gumbo is the crown of all the savory and remark- able soups in the world, a regular elixir of life of the substantial kind. He who has once eaten Gwmbo may look down disdainfully upon the most generous turtle-soup.” The peculiar mucilaginous qualities of the plant lend new savor to the chicken, rice, tomatoes, and rich seasonings out of which cooks, especially in New Orleans, manufacture the popular dish. Far less valuable to the epicurean, but largely consumed by the masses, are the peanuts or carthnuts (Arachnis hypogaea), known in North Carolina and the adjoining States as Goober peas, so that during the late Civil War a con- script from the so-called “ piney woods” of that State was apt to be nick-named a Goober. Among trees bearing Indian names, we meet with the Catalpa (Bignonia catalpa, Linn.), a most noble and beautiful tree, so called by the Indians of South Carolina, where it was discovered in 1726 by Catesby. Its broad, large leaves and brilliant clusters of white and red flowers have made it a favorite in Europe also; its wood, however, is brittle, and the trees are short-lived. Hackmatack is the old Indian name of the Tamarack of our day (Larix americana), a laurel peculiar to this Continent, and 58 AMERICA NISMS. one of the most useful trees, which serves alike to build the houses of new settlers and the ships of our navy, its timber pos- sessing very valuable properties. The most familiar among the trees which are called by their Indian names, is, however, the Pawcohiccora of Captain John Smith, our Hickory (Carya of several species). ‘Ten years before Nuttall wrote his great work, it was known as the Hicoria of Rafinesque, and we read already in 1692 of “The strong Hickory, Locust, and lofty Pine” (Richard Frame), while W. C. Bryant sings of “ The hickory’s white nuts,” y which in New York are called walnuts. The tree furnishes a valuable wood, largely exported for carriage building and other purposes, besides edible nuts. The former, possessing great toughness, combined with unusual flexibility, is much in demand for the manufacture of articles requiring these two qualities, while the name of the plant is constantly transferred to persons or objects notable for either. A Hickory Catholic, for instance, is free from bigotry ana asceticism, while a hickory armchatr, if not actually made of the wood, is a chair of more than usually yielding material. Occasionally the wood is split into thin layers, after haying been thoroughly soaked, and then the splits are in- terwoven so as to make a pleasant, elastic seat for a chair. Hickory and oak both yield the necessary wood, and chairs of this kind are known, especially in the South, as split-bottom chairs, rough in appearance, but astonishingly comfortable for use. It is from the remarkable toughness and tenacity of hickory wood that General Jackson became, after the battle of New Orleans, familiarly known throughout the country as Old Hick- ory, a term as expressive at least of personal affection, as of a high appreciation of his character. In like manner a kind of shirts made of heavy twilled cotton, generally with a narrow blue stripe, which are much worn by hard-working men, are called hickory shirts, from their strength. General Brewerton describes his appearance during a “Ride with Kit Carson” thus: “I was attired in a check or hichory shirt, as they are called, a pair of buckskin pants, a fringed hunting-shirt of the same material, gayly lined with red flannel, and ornamented with brass buttons.” Hickory trousers owe their name to the same good quality, while THE INDIAN. 59 the famous nursery song, Hickory-Dickory-Dock, is said to con- tain a sly allusion to the hickory switch not unfrequently used instead of the classic rod. Mr. Strachey, i in his “ Historie of Travaile into Virginia,” written in early colonial times, and recently published by the Hakluyt Society from a MS. in the Bodleyan Library at Oxford, states that hickory was also the name given by the Indians of Virginia to the white liquor made by them from the kernels of hickory nuts, so that when they saw the English at Jamestown use milk, they called that also hickory. The Shagbark (Carya alba) is a variety of hickory, so called from the rough and shaggy appearance which its bark assumes in old age; as the latter peels off easily, the tree is also known as Shell Bark, and known all the better, since its timber is perhaps the most valuable, as its nut is certainly the most popular of all the varieties of hickory. The trees are, on that account, favorite resorts with all wood-animals, and of one of them Lowell sings: “The squirrel, on the shingly shagburk’s bow, Now saws, now lists with downward cye and ear, Then drops his nut.” (Indian Summer Reverie.) A peculiar Indian name for the nut of the hickory is Kiskit- omas, which is still occasionally heard in the West, where Indians are near, or in a poem like that which began with the words: “ Hickory, Shellbark, Aéskitomas nut !” (Literary World, Nov. 2, 1880, B.) The Butternut (Juglans cinerea) also belongs to this family, a beautiful tree with wide, spreading branches, turning in fall completely yellow, and thus proving its relation to the hickories. The juice of the fruit, rich in oil, serves as a dye, and hence the name of Butternut was applied to Confederate troops, dressed in uniforms of homespun cloth, that owed its color to the nut. Butternut is sometimes called the Long Walnut, from its shape, and the White Walnut, from the color of the wood. There is a story told of Mr. Jefferson by his detractors, that in his desire to import valuable trees and plants into his native State, he ordered from abroad, among other shrubs,.a number of 60 AMERICANISMS. dwarf chestnuts, quoted as Castanea pumila in botanical cata- logues. They came, they grew, and turned ont to be the Ching- wapin of Virginia, a native tree, than which few ure more com- mon in the South. Captain John Smith already reported: “They have a small fruit growing on little trees, husked like a chestnut, but the fruit most like a very small acorn. This they call Chechinquanims, which they esteem a great daintie.” (Vir- ginia, IL., p. 122.) The same Indian name is given to the shrub in Strachey’s Vocabulary, the last syllable of which is the generic termination of words meaning all kinds of fruit, from whence also mondanim, in the Ojibway, “spirit-grain,” which occurs so often in Hiawatha. Under a borrowed name appears all along our Southern water- courses the papaw, so called from its fancied resemblance to the genuine papaw-tree of the Tropics. While the latter is a tree with a leafless trunk, and bearing fruit of the size of a melon, with a milky, acrid juice, the papaw of our streams (Asimina triloba), is only a fair-sized shrub, and its fruit, in the shape of long fleshy pods, is sweet and edible, so that it becomes quite important as food to the Indians. The twigs also prove useful in a case of emergency, since, being of a peculiarly supple and tough nature, they easily take the rine of the willow-withes of the North. The Macock, according to R. B. Beverley’s Account of Virginia, “are a kind of melopepones or lesser sort of pompion or cashaw. Of these they (the colonists) have a great variety, but the Indian name is still retained by them.” (p. 124.) The Maracocks, on the contrary, were, according to the same authority, the fruit of the passion-flower, which grows wild in Virginia, and bears an escu- lent seed-vessel, “about the size of a pullet’s egg.” The former name survives in its Anglicized form of Maycock; the latter is now believed to be identical with the word murucuya, the Span- ish name for the same fruit, from which the French made muru- cuca. The Oswego tea of the Shakers (Monarda didyma), owes its name, of course, to the Indian tribe from whom the first settlers learned its virtue, while the Indian names of Pips/ssewa (Chima- phila umbellata) and Pi/ahaya (Cereus pitajaya) of New Mexico, are gradually disappearing to muke way for the more familiar THE INDIAN. 61 English terms of Prince’s Pride or Winter-green, and Indian Fig, under which the former is known as a popular domestic remedy, and the latter as the luscious fruit of a gigantic cactus. The puc- coon, also, mentioned by Kercheval (p. 258), and long known under that name to early settlers, is now more generally called Bloodroot, and continues to be a favorite remedy with all who deal in simples. A lowly plant, but one much appreciated in all the States of the Union, is the squash, presenting another remarkable instance of those cases of apparent identity, in different languages, which have so frequently misled amiable philologists. Malvolio says of Viola: “ Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy, as a sguash is before it isa peascod” (Twelfth Night), and uses a good old English word, in the sense of “ unripe or immature,” which has its almost exact counterfeit in the Natic dialect of Massachusetts, where asqguash means likewise “green or unripe.” The Indians used to apply this word to all vegetables which were used while unripe or without cooking. The plants (Cucurbita) attracted early attention, and their relation to kindred vegetables seems to have even then been a puzzle to explorers. Beverley speaks of them in one place as “These cushaws are a kind of pompion, of a blueish-green color, streaked with white, when they are fit for use. ‘They are larger than the pompions, and have a long narrow neck. Perhaps, this may be the above-mentioned escushaw of 'T. Harriott” (History of Virginia, p. 124), and in another place, “ Squash or Squanter Squash is their name among the Northern Indians, and so they are called in New York and New England.” It is now a favorite vegetable with rich and poor alike, and considered to possess certain properties peculiarly favorable for persons in delicate health. A variety is called Oymblins, which name R. B. Beverley thus explains, “The Cly- peatae are sometimes called Cymmnels, from the lenten-cake of that name, which many of them very much resemble.” (p. 113.) His derivation was correct; for cymnel was really the ancient name for an oval cake, used primarily in the offices of the Catholic Church, and was so called from its vague resemblance to a wave of the sea (yUpa, a wave). Pegge’s Supplement also furnishes: “« Simnel, a rich cake, the outer crust colored with saffron. Shrops.” Simnel-bread and wastle-cake graced Prince John’s board at 62 AMERICANISMS. Ashby when Ivanhoe went to its festivities. The inorganic 4 found its way there, as into “ chimbley ” and all words where it can creep in between mand J. That the cymdlins of our day were as much esteemed of old, we may judge from a poem by Benjamin Thomson, written in 1675, in which he says: ““When Cimnels were accounted noble blood Among the tribes of common herbage food.” (New England Crisis.) Lenten simnels are to this day quite common in many parts of England, and Simélin is even now the local pronunciation of the name in Lancashire, which comes nearest to Barclay’s Saxon. Squaw Root (Conapholis americana), and Squaw Weed (Sene- cis aureus) hold their place among the medicinal plants of the country, but owe their names to modern, not to Indian, usage. The Zipsinah, on the contrary, is a genuine native, and repre- sents the wild prairie-turnip of the Northwest, which often con- stitutes an important part of the Indian’s provisions. Tobacco owes its name to a mistake: the early Spanish discoy- erors mistook the term by. which the Caribs designated their pipe or vessel out of which they smoked, for the article itself. There is an opinion held by many that Tabago was also the name of a province of Yucatan, where the herb was first found growing; and still another, that the name is derived from Tobago, one of the Caribbean Islands. None of these theories, however, are as well authenticated as the first derivation, which is already quoted in Gili’s Storia Americana. The weed, as Americans are apt to call it, with a leaning to slang, is a native of their Continent (Nico- tiana tabacum), and if not used more largely here than in any other part of the world, cetainly constitutes at once a fruitful source of national wealth, and an almost universal cause of enjoy- ment to the people. There is probably no State of the Union in which the plant is not raised, and yet so little did the rulers of the Jand foresee its future importance, that in the instructions to Governor Wyatt of Virginia, dated July 24, 1621, we find the following order: “'l'o put prentices to trades, and not let them forsake their trades for planting tobacco or any such useless com- modities!” Now Virginia alone pays annually over four millions of dollars in taxes on this article into the Federal Treasury. THE INDIAN. 63 Tobacco is smoked in America as elsewhere ; it is chewed perhaps more generally than abroad, a habit of which the poet Lowell ° says, “Our vile habit of chewing tobacco had the somewhat un- savory example of Titus Oates, and I know by tradition, from an eye-witness, that the elegant General Burgoyne partook of the same vice.” For this purpose it is sweetened with licorice and mixed with every fair and foul ingredient that can give it color and flavor, and leads to the most offensive habit that strikes foreigners in their visits to this country—constant and copious expectoration. But even more disgusting is the purely American habit of dipping, which is said to have originated in the use of snuff for the purpose of cleaning the teeth. It seems that the acrid taste and narcotic effect of tobacco affects the system through the gums as well as through the nostrils, and this has led the women of the South especially, who constantly see all men and negro-women smoke around them, to use this method of allaying their craving for stimulants. A writer who had travelled through Virginia, described the process thus: ‘This neat, orderly, sin- exterminating woman rubbed snuff. She kept a snuff-box in her right pocket, filled with the strongest and most pungent Scotch snuff, and she went about all day, brandishing a dangerous-look- ing hickory stick with a mop at the end of it, which she was constantly dipping into this huge, black, horn snuff-box. Then she would fill her delicate month with load after load. At times she would invite her few friends to come over and take a dip.” (Putnan’s Mag., February, 1853.) The dipping-stick is also called snuff-swad, as if nothing should be wanting to make the repulsive habit still more unpleasant. Fortunately it is rapidly going out of fashion, and only lingers still in remote districts lying far from railways and intercourse with the great world. Besides Appomattox, from Apomatoz, the Indian for “ 'Tobacco- plant Country,” and famous in history since the late Civil War, the plant has given its name indirectly to a fish that enjoys more different designations than probably any other dweller in Amer- ican waters—the sunfish, who is often called Tobacco-Box—and to a plant which has, of late, attracted much attention. This is the Tobacco Root ( Valeriana officinalis), called Kooyah by the Indians of Oregon, who bake the root for two days in the ground, to deprive it of its poisonous qualities, and then make it into a kind 64 AMERICANISMS. of bread, which they call Supale, and like much better than their Wapatoo, a dish early mentioned in W. Irving’s Astoria: “He regaled them, therefore, to the best of his ability, with abundance of salmon and wappatoo.” (p. 194.) The word, repre- senting the root of the Sagittaria sagittifolia,” belongs neither to the Chinook nor the Chihali dialect, but is, as George Gibbs in his “ Chinook Jargon” asserts, everywhere in common use. (p. 28.) The term Swims of Tobacco, which is still occasionally met with in official papers, has its origin in the fact that for many genera- tions, in old Virginia times, all taxes raised for the support of government officers, ministers, etc., were assessed in so many pounds of tobacco. A comparatively recent word connected with the use of the weed, is Amdia, a euphemism, mainly used in Vir- ginia and the two Carolinas, for the expectoration which chewing makes necessary. ‘The presumption is, that the word is a cor- ruption of Amber, to which it bears a slight resemblance in color, manifesting certainly a delicacy of expression which borders upon the poetical. The Tumatl of the Mexicans, our Tomato (Solanum esculen- tum), by Bartlett altogether ignored, and by Webster reported as “of American origin,” is certainly not an exclusively American fruit, for although long known in Africa, and held there in high esteem by nations discovered but recently, it has become familiar to Americans only about two generations since. A competent critic, who wrote most pleasant and instructive things “ Concern- ing Salads and French Wines,” says of it: “The tomato is a noble fruit, as sweet in smell as the odors of Araby, and makes an ex- cellent—and were I in France, I would say—an illustrious salad. Its medicinal virtue is as great as its gastronomical goodness. It is the friend of the well to keep them well, and the friend of the sick, to bring them back into the lost sheepfolds of Hygeia. The Englishman’s travelling companion, the blue-pill, would never be needed, if he would pay proper court to the tomato.” (Blackwood, October, 1866.) It is a fruit universally used and esteemed in the Union, eaten raw with salt, as a salad, stewed. and stuffed in various ways, and canned in immense quantities. Its name is gradually becoming Anglicised under the shortened form of Tomat, which is preferable—however objectionable to the eyes of purists—to the false new form of /o-may-to, “invented to main- THE INDIAN. 65 tain a fancied analogy with potato, which indeed belongs to the same natural family—but so does nightshade and henbane.” (8. 8. Haldeman.) Of more recent date, as far as its general introduction is con- cerned, is the Yam (Dioscorea alba) of the West Indies, so called from the Indian word Ihame. The very large and palatable root or tuber is now quite common in all the Southern States, so that a recent traveller could say: “To enter the piney woods of Mis- sissippi is like returning to North Carolina, and to pass through them without eating roast yams and buttermilk, is like passing through North Carolina without eating hominy and chine of bacon.” (Putnam's Mag., June, 1867.) Nor must we forget the mysterious Tuckahoe of Virginia, in the opinion of many the only American variety of truffles of which we can boast. The peculiar plant (Sclerotium giganteum) excited the curiosity of the first writers on this country, by its growth underground, and the absence of all leaf or stem to connect it with the sources of light and heat on the surface. “Others,” says already Captain John Smith, without explaining the matter, “would gather as much Zockwogh roots in a day, as would make them bread a weke.” (Virginia, I, p. 228.) But R. B. Beverley adds more carefully, that it is “a tuberous root; which, while crude, is of very hot and virulent quality, but they (the Indians) can manage it so, as in case of necessity to make bread of it.” (Hist. of Vir- ginia, p. 153.) Hence it derives its name of Indian Bread, or Indian Loaf. Like the truffles of Europe, the ¢uchkahoe also are sought for by dogs and hogs trained for the purpose, though little attention is paid to them in recent-times. The term is now more frequently used as a kind of nickname given to the inhab- itants of the poorer lands of Lower Virginia, whose poverty, it is implied, drives them to eat tuckahoe. “He is nothing but a poor Tuckahoe,” was often heard during the late Civil War, when a peculiarly sad-looking conscript came in from the Lower James, apparently half-fed only, and shaking with “ chills and fever.” Another underground product, known to us by its Indian name, is the Coontie of Florida, which designates the farina ob- tained from the so-called Arrow-Root (Tamia integrifolia), and which is said to be fully equal to the famous article from Bermuda. The root is, in its crude state, poisonous, and the Federal troops 5 66 AMERICANISMS. lost in the late Civil War a number of: men by the want of pre- caution in first extracting its deadly properties. Perhaps the Indian name of a town in Yucatan, Sisai, also, may be said to have become part of our commercial language, at least inasmuch as it is used for the prepared fibre of an Agave (not the Agave americana), very common on the Florida Keys, and well known in trade as Sisal Hemp. Among fish the Indians have bequeathed to us but afew names, and their precise meaning varies so much in different localities, that it is not always easy to identify the species. Of those that are well defined we mention the Barracouda (Sphyraena barrocu- da) of Tampa Bay and other Florida waters, a valuable fish of the pike-kind, taken with a spear by fishermen, who float with the tide so as to meet the wary animal with the sun shining directly in his eyes. More generally known is the Chogse¢ (Ctenolabrus ceruleus), frequently called Burgall or Blue Fish, and found on the whole Eastern coast under a variety of designations, and the Cisco or Ciscovet, from the Indian Siskiwit (Salmo amethystus), which C. Lanman declares to be “unquestionably of the trout genus, but much more delicate, and seldom found to weigh more than a dozen pounds. They are a very beautiful fish and their habits similar to those of trout.” (4 Summer in the Wilderness, p. 219.) Unfortunately they are so fat, that they become eatable only after being salted. The Muskelunge or Muskalownge (Ksox estor), so called in Al- gonquin, is the largest pike known and peculiar to America. It abounds in the Northern lakes and rivers, reaching a length of five feet and a weight of eighty pounds inthe upperlakes. “The Muskalounge,” says C. Lanman, “in the upper Mississippi, is some- what of a sluggard, and owing to his size and hyena-like charac- ter, the very fish of all others for spearing by torchlight, one of the Esocida, of which Agassiz says America is the fatherland.” (A Sum- mer in the Wilderness, p. 139.) Perhaps more famous yet is the Indian name of Menhaden (Alosa menhaden) of the New England waters and as far south as Chesapeake Bay. Belonging to the her- ring kind and appearing at times in perfectly incredible numbers near the shore, they are caught and carted by hundreds of wagon- loads to the fields to serve as manure. Their popularity is so great in Massachusetts that a petition was recently (1870) presented to 3 THE INDIAN. 67 the General Court, as the Legislature of that State is called, in behalf of their friendly relations to the Menhaden! It set forth that the ancestors of the petitioners, when they landed in this country, fixed their abode upon the banks of the Neponset River, because of the abundance of fish therein; that the supply had never failed but proved an ever-present help “in the war of 1812, the Tariff struggle, the crises of 1837 and 1857,” but that “when the trou- bles came on caused by the bombardment of Fort Sumter, the fish in the water of the Neponset quietly departed, and from that time we have been deprived of our hereditary luxuries.” The loyal and fish-loving population, therefore, petition the General Court to cause the erring Menhaden to return to be eaten as of old! In the State of New York the same fish appear under the name of Mossy Back or Mossbunkers, a term much affected by W. Irving, who writes: “Here an old Dutch burgher related that he saw the duyvel in the shape of a huge Mossbonker seize the sturdy author by the leg and draw him beneath the waves. Hence, as to Moss- bonkers, they are held in such abhorrence, that no true Dutchman will admit them to his table, who loves good fish and hates—the devil?” (Knickerbocker History of New York, p.221.) The Mum- machog is hardly known beyond the waters around Long Island; the small carp-like fish is more generally called the Barred Avily, (Fundulus.) The Porgy (Pagrus argyrops) from the imperfect pronunciation of r by Americans also frequently called Paugy and Poggy, a fish of the gilt-head kind and much esteemed for its flavor, has a cu- rious history connected with its Indian name. In the Narragan- sett dialects the latter appears as Mishescuppaug, the plural of Mishescuppe, which meant “large-scaled.”’ Of this word the first part mishe seems to have been entirely lost, the next syllable seup has been retained in Rhode Island, while the last, a mere termi- nation with the p of the word itself, paug has been lengthened into paugie or altered into pergie, and thus furnished the name by which the fish is known in New York. It is stated, however, upon J. R. Bartlett’s authority, that “the entire Indian name is still common in many parts of New England.” A fish much esteemed in Northern waters, and especially commended by Mr. Daniel Web- ster, as “an excellent fish, in its way inferior to none, unless it be the genuine sheepshead, for which I am told it was mistaken by 68 AMERICANISMS. Roger Williams,” (Letter to Mr. Seaton, Feb. 14, 1859), is the Tautog, (Labrus americanus.) The Indian word is the plural of taut and was really translated in the “ Key to Indian Languages” as sheepheads, the name of a near cousin also caught in the same waters, though considered superior when caught in the South. In New York it is called Black Fish from itscolor. The Tomcod also owes its odd-sounding name—as if it were not a Tom Cat but a Tom Cod—to a corruption of the original Indian name, Tahcaud, an old Mohegan word, meaning “plenty-fish.”. This presumption is strengthened by the fact that Cuvier still calls it Tacaud, a word which naturally led by its sound to the conversion into a thor- oughly English sounding name. The little fish (Morrhua prui- nosa) appears in vast numbers with the first frost and is hence quite as well known as Frost Fish ; thus we hear it said: “Here we met with large schools of Frost Fish, the Tomeod of our books, with hosts of hungry bluefish in fierce pursuit.” (4 Whaling Cruise, p. 119.) Nor must we omit mentioning the poor little Weak Fish, contemptuously so-called by the fishermen of Long Island Sound because of the feeble resistance it makes when caught by a hook. Its Indian name Squeteague is not only in use among the people-of the neighborhood, but has found its way from the Narragansett dialect, in which it originated, to scientific works, where the fish appears as Labrus Squeteaque. Perhaps the most Indicrous corruption of an Indian name into a good English word is that of the Narragansett term aloof into alewife. The former is quoted by Winthrop in his essay “On the Culture of Maize” (Philos. Trans. No. 142, p. 1065), and by Baddam (Memoirs, II., p. 131), as stated in Webster's Dictionary. But as the Indian dialects of New England contain neither Znor hs the original word was more probably ainoop. Whatever may have ‘been the true origin, there was enough resemblance in the term to tempt the English—for with them we are inclined to think the change arose—to convert it into their familiar alewife, and thus the little fish (Clupea serrata), resembling a herring, and used mainly for manure, appears at home and abroad in the ridiculous form of alewives. While the common shellfish found in the sand of tidal rivers and known as clam, derives its English name very significantly from its resemblance to a clamp, and was so called for many cen- THE INDIAN. 69 turies down to Captain John Smith, who writes: “You shall scarce find any bay or shallow shore or cove of sands where you may not take many clampses or lobsters, or both at your pleasure” ( Virginia, I., p. 124), it is frequently still called by its Indian name poquauhock. This word, however, has shared the fate of other long Narragansett terms, and been made to do duty in parts: pooquaw being now the name of the Round Clam in Nantucket, while guahaug represents the same shellfish in New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania. (8.8. Haldeman.) The laws of Rhode Island use the term guahog in imposing a heavy fine on persons who take them between May and September from certain beds in Providence River, where, in common with ‘several other places of like character, the luscious shellfish are regularly planted after the manner of oysters. The clam of Boston is the Mya arenaria of the clam-banks, and when salted for the fisheries it takes the name of clam-bait., Hen Clam is the name given in New England to the Mactra gigantea. It has already been mentioned that the Quahaug (Venus mercenaria) served in olden times to furnish the Suguahock, as Roger Williams calls it, of which the Indians made their currency: “After they have eaten the meat there (in those which are good) they breake out of the shell about halfe an inch of a blacke part of it, of which they make their Suckauhock, or black money, which is to them pretious.” (B.) The Soft Clam is also still known by its Indian name Mananosay, suggestive of its long flexible snout from which it spirts water, so that on the sea coast: “even the toothsome AManonosays squirted water up through the sand what time the tides were out.” (Putnam’s Monthly, May, 1870.) Even the favorite method of preparing the clam has been taught us by the Indians, and is to this day known as a Clam Bake, from the fact that they are baked in an impromptu stove of stones and weeds. A hole in the ground of the proper size for the quantity to be prepared is lined with round stones and thoroughly heated by a continuous fire, then the hard clams are thrown in and covered with sea-weeds to prevent the escape of steam and flavor. The result is an unexpectedly savory dish, which is tempting enough to attract often large parties, and J. R. Bartlett mentions a political Clam Bake in Rhode Island in 1840, at which nearly ten thousand persons were present. It requires probably a greater familiarity with the life of the ~ 70 AMERICANISMS. clam to appreciate the force of the New England proverb: “As happy as.a clam at high water,” though at that time it certainly seems to enjoy the generous fluid that covers and feeds it at the same. time. The vulgar use of the word clamshell is unfortunately more intelligible, and hence the expression, quite common wherever slang is heard, “Shut your clamshell, for: Keep your own coun- sel,” is familiar even to English ears, and the poet Lowell uses it with great force in the lines: “You don’t feel much like speakin’ When, ef you let your clamshells gape, a quart of tar will leak in.” (Biglow Papers, II. 19.) In addition to these Indian terms derived from the former own- ers of our Continent, and more or less intimately connected with our social or domestic life, we have in our English a limited num- ber of terms that owe their origin to Indians of Central and South America, or of the West India islands. Some of these are suffi- ciently familiar and important to deserve a place among Ameri- can peculiarities of our idiom, although the great majority are probably as common in England as with ourselves. Thus the Barbecue, the roasting whole of an animal by splitting it to the backbone and placing it on a rude gridiron of stakes, is a term—and a process—obtained from the Indians of Guiana, who used the word Berbekot for the wooden grills on which they broiled or smoked dried meats and fish. R. B. Beverley shows that the word was in use in Virginia before 1700, for he says: “ By laying the meat upon four sticks, raised upon forks at some distance above the live coals,” . . . which “ they. and we also from them call barbecueing.” The word was adopted by the English in Guiana as early at least as 1665, and thus Pope was led to exclaim through Oldfield: “Lend me, gods, a whole hog barbecued.” There is no necessity, therefore, of resorting to the violent, if tempting, derivation from barbe-d-quewe, words which in them- selves bear no association with beardless hogs and oxen, and cer- tainly would not be apt to be familiar to Virginia Indians. The convenience of thus preparing ample food for a number of persons in the simplest way, and the happy result of the process of roast- ing, have led to the preservation of the ancient custom, and down TILE INDIAN. V1 to the time of the late Civil War barbecues were frequent in the South and generally very happy occasions for neighbors and po- litical friends to assemble in council. The merry scene in the shelter of a wood, the fragrant steam, the savory meat, and the lively interchange of wit and jest, all served to make the simple entertainment a bond of friendship and neighborly kindness among the assembled people, and spoke well for the simple habits and cordial feelings of what C. Lanman in his description of such a meeting calls “the yeomanry of Virginia.” (Adventures, IL, p. 259.) : The West India term Cacique, borrowed by the Spaniards from the Cazic of Hayti, has become so familiar to American ears, that it is often most absurdly applied, now to chiefs of Indian tribes and now to mayors of New Mexican towns, and any somewhat pompous and self-sufficient man is apt to be nicknamed the Ca- cique of his town. Calico is of course as familiar to our ears as to English, but the East India word, derived from the city of Cali- cut, does not denote the same material in America; while in England white cotton goods are still called calicoes, the name is here confined to prinzs, 2. e. colored cotton cloth, coarser than mus- lin. The latter material, so called from Mosul in Syria, is,on the other hand, in New England never applied, as in England, to thick cotton cloths, which are there called shirting or sheeting. The difference in various States is so great in this respect, that a . story is told of a gentleman in Philadelphia, who ordered muslin shirts in Boston, and although reminded of the unsuitableness of that material for the climate in which he lived, insisted upon his order, as he had always worn muslin, meaning cotton-shirting. When his shirts arrived, they were made of Swiss mull! The term muslin is, at the North, only used for thin, clear fabrics, and paper-muslin is known as sarcenet cambric. The Cassareep of the West Indies, the name of the juice of the cassawa-root (Jathropha manihot), boiled down to destroy its poi- sonous properties, and much employed as a condiment, is as such well known, and has made the name more familiar to American ears than the Chicha, a fermented liquor made in the West Indies of Indian corn, and not unknown in the new States that were once under Spanish authority. The Mexican word Coyotl, the Aztec name of the prairie-wolt 72 AMERICANISMS. (Canis latrans. Say.), was adopted by the Spaniards in Mexico as coyote, and has been bequeathed by them to their successors in the ownership of California and other provinces of the former colonies. The word has come into general use now, not only for the disagreeable barking wolf, but more frequently even for the diggings which somewhat resemble the burrows in which the wolf lives. To coyote is a common expression there, meaning to sink small, shallow shafts. Hence we find an interesting ac- count of the so-called Colorado Desert, giving us the following de- scription of the animal: “I slept well, but the rascally coyotes awakened me at last by their yelping. Leaping up suddenly, I came Within two or three rods of griping one by the tail. As they galloped away across the cool, gray gravel, in the dim light of the daybreak, it looked precisely as if they were skating away on ice.” (8. Powers. Afoot on Colorado Desert.) Of the mines it is said: “ All along the gulches coyoteing is going on at a great rate, and, to tell the truth, there is not always much choice he- tween the four-legged and the two-legged coyote.” (Overland Mag., June, 1870.) The word is going Eastward, for a recent Chicago paper says: “One of the delights of Minnesota sleigh- ing parties is being chased by coyotes.” (February, 1871.) Another Mexican name has survived and made its way into American nomenclature; this is the Ocelot of Mexico, the Oce- lot of Northern Texas (Felix pardalis), a large cat-like beast of prey, known also as tiger-cat, and extending Northward as far as Texas. It became known to us through early French settlers, who had given the name its present shape. Guano, a word representing a fair, though not altogether suc- cessful, effort to pronounce the Peruvian Huano, which means “dung,” is, of course, now well known all over the Union, and so largely prepared artificially, that the imminent exhaustion of the : imported article will probably be viewed with indifference. The Hommocks of Florida, islands in the everglades or lands under water, which are supposed by some to have once been coral islands in the midst of the ocean, before sand and mud filled up the regions around them so as to convert them into swamps, are presumed to have their name from a West India word familiar to the Spaniards. The derivation has, however, never been satisfactorily established, and it appears quite as likely THE INDIAN. 73 that the term originated with the Seminoles themselves, who, as Bartram says, possess “this swampy and hommocky country.” (Travels in North America.) Hurricanes, also, more frequent in America than in Europe, have made their way into the language, and the word, familiar to English ears, appears already as herecano in Captain John Smith’s account of Virginia, while no English dictionary mentions it be- fore 1720, when it was quoted by Phillips. It is derived from the Carib uracano, fairly represented by the French owragan, which the patriotic English naturalized, as usual, under the more familiar form of hurry-cane! The disguise seems to have been effective enough to lead learned men into temptation: some de- rived the word from a Quiche term which has never been discov- ered; others, like the learned Dr. Webster himself in earlier days, saw in it the root of ‘the Latin fwrio. It is simply the common term of the dialect of Hispaniola for any high wind, and especially for the terrible tornado of the Caribbean Sea, the most sublime and awful display of power which nature affords. It is a much mooted question whether the familiar term Jerked Meat arose from the familiar English word to jerk, or from the word chargqut, which represents the same preparation in all Span- ish-American countries except Mexico, where it is called tasayo. The custom itself, of drying beef and other fresh meats without salt in the open air, is quite as common now as of old, but the word was never met with in this sense before its employment in the “ plantations.” Kercheval says: “ Their large wallets, well filled with bread, jerk, boiled ham, and cheese, furnished provi- sions for the drivers.” (p. 224.) Wills De Hass also repeats: “ As soon as daylight appears the captain started to where they left some jerk hanging on the evening before” (Mist. of Early Settlements, p. 389), and this use of jerk would seem to be in favor of its derivation from the Indian of Central America. A “yecent work by Mrs. Trail, however, shows the more recent use of the word: “Instead of cutting the meat into strips and dry- ing it (or jerking it, as the lumberers term it).” (Zhe Canadian Crusoes, p. 186.) Even the Sandwich Islanders have given us some assistance in their word Kanaka, which with them means simply a man, but 4 V4 AMERICANISMS. which has, since the intercourse established between their distant home in the Pacific and California, become quite familiar to our ears, so that we all know very well what is meant when we read of “ The day that French Pete and Kanaka Joe shot each other to death over the bar in the front room.” (The Luck of Roaring Camp, by F. B. Harte, p. 1.) In the same portions of the Union the once Mexican word me¢ati, in its Spanish form metate, has become well known to Americans. It designates the hollowed, oblong stone, used universally in those countries for grinding wheat or Indian corn for fortzllas, or cocoa for chocolate. J. RB. Bartlett himself, perhaps, introduced the word first to the general public in his excellent work on New Mexico, when he says: “ For miles around the Casas Grandes the plain is strewed with broken pottery and metates, or corn-griiders,” and since then every trav- eller has learnt and taught others to apply the word correctly. Its days as a living word are, however, numbered, as better methods of grinding supersede the imperfect, old custom, and soon, metates will be known only in antiquarian writings. A longer lease of life may be predicted for jacal, another Mexican word, originally written xacalli, and meaning a straw-hat. It is now the name of a rough kind of dwelling, consisting simply of stakes, the interstices between which have been filled up with clay, such as are very common in Texas and the new States that were once Mexican. “To the left was the guard-house, part jacal, part tent-cloth.” (Overland Monthly, March, 1871.) The intercourse with British sailors, and the brisk trade carried on in the East Indies by numerous resident American firms, has brought the name of the disreputable suburb of Bombay, Dun- garee, into common use in the United States. It was probably first the coarse blue cloth manufactured there, and named after the place, which made the name familiar to American ears, so that F. B. Harte could say of the motley crowd at the mines, which he so graphically describes: “‘ Sometimes these appellatives were derived from some distinctiveness of dress, as in the case of — Dungaree Jack.” (Luck of Roaring Camp, p. 56.) Ther. the Anglo-Chinese war, in which American sailors took part, brought another term home to their mind, and hence we find a recent writer on Americanisms speak of “ British sailors on the Chinese coast, who long ago learned to laugh at the clumsy Dungaree THE INDIAN. 75 forts and Quaker Guns of their Celestial enemies,” both of these inventions being largely used in the late Civil War. (N. 8. Dodge.) Captain Cook, in his “Sea Voyages,” first noticed the word Taboo, employed by the Indians of Polynesia in a political and religious sense, for all that was forbidden to speech or touch, and we have obtained the term thus twice, indirectly from our English forefathers, and directly from the Pacific itself. The Tamadl, or Tamauli, of our southernmost States, has, on the other hand, made its way with the Spaniards into our borders; they learnt to know the name from the Indians of South America, when they adopted the dish which it represents: a mixture of polenta and minced meat, wrapped in cornshucks and baked in the hot ashes. Mr. Olmsted says: “The mountebanks draw a crowd, and this attracts a few sellers of whiskey, tortillas, and ¢amaules, making a ruddy, picturesque group.” The Tule of Mexico is so widely spread over all the southwest- ern States, that the name, originally Indian, has become of uni- versal use in designating the short Cattail (Scirpus lacustris), which, especially in California, covers plains where the eye finds no limit. The grass, insignificant in itself, and of no value save perhaps to cover the huts of shepherds and outlaws, affords refuge and breeding localities for immense numbers of aquatic birds. Occasionally, as “around Lake Tulare, it attains a larger size, growing to the height of eight to sixteen inches, and measuring three inches and a half near the root.” (Overland Monthly, Jan- uary, 1870.) i IMMIGRANTS FROM ABROAD. “When a score of nations, each with its own dialect, unite to make up our population, some effect must be produced on our language ; some pecu- liar threads will be found after a while interwoven with the national web.” THE DUTCHMAN. “The name of Hell Gate, which it continues to bear to the present day.” W. Irving. On September 9th, 1609, a bold English mariner in the service of the Dutch Hast India Company sailed his little shallop Half- Moon, of eighty tons, into the beautiful bay of New York, and three days later entered the great river that here flows into the ocean. The latter took its name from the discoverer, Henry Hudson, and the land, claimed by Holland, was called New Neth- erlands. A few years later the island of Manhattan was purchased of the Indians for the value of twenty-four dollars, and the little town of New Amsterdam began to flourish, and became the chief town of a prosperous colony. But the English claimed the whole as part of Virginia, which belonged to them by right of a prior discovery by Cabot, and in 1664, already, there was an end of Dutch supremacy in New Netherlands, which fell into the hands of their formidable neighbors. New Amsterdam became New York with a facility which justifies the Fenian prophecy that it will soon be New Ireland, and the good Dutch burghers in the town and along the banks of the river up to Albany had to learn the language of their new masters. The traces which their own idiom has left on the face of the country are here, as with the Indians, by far more important and permanent than the elements which it has contributed to our every-day language. Hills and mountains, rivers and lakes still bear their old Dutch names, though often sadly disfigured. ‘There are Staten Island, Harlem River, the towns of Pough- keepsie, Flushing, Stuyvesant, and Blauvelt; in the city of New York streets called Cortlandt, Roosevelt, or Nassau; outside of the city, Coenties Slip and Fort Gansevoort ; and farther eastward 80 AMERICANISMS. Spuyten Duyvel, Cape May (Mey) and Block (Blok) Island—al- most all of them unaltered and forcibly recalling to us the days of the old Dutch dominion. But that crowded thoroughfare of New York, the Bowery, which for years reproduced all the fierce vio- lence and reckless crime of ancient Alsatia, has little to remind us of the pleasant Bouvery, the garden-bower of old Dutch gover- nors, who here enjoyed their fragrant flowers and luscious fruits in quiet rural retreats; nor would the ancient village of Breucke- Jen, seventeen miles from Amsterdam, which in May, 1676, gave its name to a small settlement within sight of the Bowery, recog- nize its godchild in the gigantic city of Brooklyn. The noble bay near by, in which the Navy Yard has long been situated, was once Waale Boght, a name hardly to be looked for under the thor- oughly Anglicized Wallabout. The generic term (ill, a small stream or creek, has on the other hand remained faithful to many a small and large water of the North, from the lofty Kaatstill mountains, so-called from a picturesque brook arising in their bo- som, to the broad Schuylkill (Hidden Creek) in the adjoining State. The Fishkill does still honor toits name, and the Kill Van ~- Kull denotes the channel between Staten Island and Bergen, though it is, for brevity’s sake, more commonly called the Kills simply. A small fish of the genus Fundulus, found only in these waters and used as a bait, is appropriately called Avlly Fish. This term Avi is one of a class of words which serve to mark the few traces of genuine provincialism existing in the United States; for the Aull of New York isa dreok in New England, a run in Virginia, and alas! a crick, or creek, almost everywhere else. The term gat also, meaning a hole, a pot, or a passage at sea, has survived in the names of many maritime localities. Barnes’ Gate, as the English would have called it, thus continues to be Barne- gat, but Helle-Gat, concise and rather too suggestive, has been softened and made proper by being changed into Hurlgate. W. Irving denounces the alteration thus: “Certain mealy-mouthed men of squeamish consciences, who are loath to give the Devil his due, have softened the above characteristic into Hurlgate, for- sooth! The name of this strait, as given by our author, is sup- ported by the map in Vander Donck’s history, published in 1656= by Ogilvie’s History of America, 1671—as also by a journal still THE DUTCHMAN. Sl extant, written in the XVIth century and to be found in Hazard’s State Papers; and an old MS. written in French, speaking of vari- ous alterations in names about this city, observes: ‘De Helle-gat, trou @’Enfer, ils ont fait Hell-gate, Porte d’Enfer’”” (Foot-note, History of New York, ch. iv.) It was in the same way that the Dutch hoes, a corner, though generally modified into English-looking hook, is still found as part of the name of certain corners or angular points in the Hudson and the East Rivers, such as Sandy Hook, the first land sighted by the traveller from abroad, and Kinderhook, high up the river, made famous by the name of its owner, Martin Van Buren. To these names may be added the Dutch term overslaan, to skip, to pretermit, which still survives in a few local names, where sand- bars suddenly interrupt the free navigation of rivers, as in the Over- slaugh in the Hudson below Albany, the dread of all skippers. The same verb, it is well known, has given to English the familiar term of overslaughing, for the act of rewarding an outsider at the expense of the person entitled to the preferment by seniority in office. It is not unlikely that the term came into England under William and Mary; in America it is almost entirely limited to political language, and its technical meaning, inherited from Great Britain, in the army and navy. A prominent candi- date for the presidency is thus said to have been overslaughed by his party if a man before unknown is nominated in his place, and army officers complained bitterly during the late Civil War when they saw themselves repeatedly overslaughed by civilians serving among the volunteers. “There is no danger that General Grant can be oversiaughed,” predicts the New York Tridune (Jan. 19, 1871), speaking of the next presidential election. The Dutch word Yonker in the sense of the French Cadet and the German Junker, survives in the name of the town of Yonkers. The Right Reverend Bishop Kip states, in his charming sketches of former times, that he remembers visiting, in his early days, the old manor-house of the Phillipse family, still standing in West- chester on the Hudson. “ When, before the Revolution, Mr. Phillipse lived there—lord of all he surveyed—he was always spoken of by his tenantry as the Yonker, the gentleman by excel- lence. In fact, he was the only person of social rank in that part 4* 82 AMERICANISMS. of the country. In this way the town, which subsequently grew up around the old manor-house, took the name of Yonkers.” The Knickerbockers have been immortalized by the charming work of W. Irving, and a grateful posterity honors their many merits and kindly temper by calling all the descendants of old Dutch families after their time-honored name. Hospitals and banks, garments and games, all promise to preserve the old desig- nation to distant posterity, and genial writers, from the famous brothers Duyckinck, whose Dictionary of Authors has made them known abroad as well as at home, to the eloquent divine on the Pacific Coast, Bishop Kip, unite in recalling the sterling virtues of their ancestors, while proving that nothing has been lost in transmitting them to their distant descendants. It is a misfortune peculiar to patronymics in American hands that they suffer a sad perversion of meaning. As few journalists even care to distinguish the Scot from the Englishman, and are apt to call both alike English, so people throughout the Union are in the habit of confounding the Dutchman and the German, and call them all Dutchmen. It must be admitted that there is a good excuse for this confusion. Archbishop Trench tells us that, “Till late in the seventeenth century, Dutch meant (in England) generally German, and a Dutchman a native‘of Germany, while what we now term a Dutchman would have been named a Hol- lander.” Quaint old Fuller says accordingly, “ At the same time began the Teutonic Order, consisting only of Dutchmen, well de- scended.” (The Holy War, I1,c.16.) It is evident that this arose not from a tendency to underrate, as when Frenchmen were dubbed Froggies and the like, but from a courteous effort to call the Ger- mans by their own name “ Deutsch,” which being somewhat diffi- cult to pronounce, readily changed into Dutch. Hence the Amer- ican only follows the example of his forefathers in continuing to call the Germans who come to this country all Dutchmen and in speaking of their language as Dutch. He can, moreover, plead in his excuse that the German immigrants themselves but too readily acquiesced in the designation and adopted it themselves. Thus, e.g. the first English almanac ever printed in the German form was published by John Gruber, a native of Strasburg, under the title of “ Dutch-English Almanac.” Tt is far less easy to explain why High Dutch and Dutch Uneles THE DUTCHMAN. 83 should be used so generally—the latter also in England—to express ludicrous sounds and undesirable relations. English slang uses Dutch for any gibberish or unintelligible sounds, and the Dutch Uncle is frequently introduced into conversation, when the last person one would wish to see is to be indirectly designated. © One would almost imagine that the Dutch of old must have been greater people than even the Knickerbocker Annals give them credit for—how else could the phrase: That beats the Dutch, have obtained such general currency? Mr. Bartlett met with it in a Revolutionary song of 1775 already, and to this day it is used whenever a peculiarly astonishing fact is announced. It is much to the credit of the early Dutch vrows and their good works, that the majority of Dutch terms, which have been incorporated. in our language, are attached to names of certain good things prepared in the kitchen, and a few articles of dress, in their day, no doubt, religiously made at home. Unfortunately the good people of New York have kept most of the good dishes to themselves, so that they and their names are rarely known in other States. Their cookey, a little cake so called from Moekje, and still a great favorite at Christmas and New Year, is appar- ently an exclusively Dutch tit-bit, and yet F. B. Harte makes one of his reckless California characters say: “Don’t know whar he is! He lost every hoof and hide, V’ll bet a cookey!” (Luck of Roar- ing Camp, p. 227.) If this dainty seems to be specially appropri- ated to great occasions, a crudler may, on the other hand, be found on many a cake-stand and in countless homes all the year round. Being made of a strip of sweetened dough, which is boiled in lard and then curled up at the two ends, it has received its name from a Dutch term Avruller, meaning a “Curler.” Vegetables were evidently not much to the taste of the old burghers, for it seems they called Corn-salad (Valerianetta) with biting irony Vettikost, something like rich fare, and their descendants, still retaining the dish, have as contemptuously allowed it to appear half classi- cally as Fetticus or in ludicrous English disguise as Matticows. Noodlejees, an humble imitation of maccaroni and used like them for dumplings and in soup, retain in New York at least their old Dutch name, but are hardly known elsewhere. Olycoeks, on the other hand, have become more universally popular. Deriving their name from the Dutch oly-coek, oil-cake, because they are 84 AMERICANISMS. “balls of sweetened dough fried in hog’s fat,” as W. Irving describes them, they have become generally known as doughnuts. The lat- ter were, of course, not unknown in England, for Halliwell already quotes them as being called donnuts in Herts, “a pancake made of dough instead of batter,” but their popularity seems to have been increased by that of their Dutch cousins, and they have ever since maintained a strong hold on the New England palate. “ Doughnuts and pumpkin pies seem to be the delicacies most held in esteem here,” wrote Mrs. Trollope many years ago, and the same is true now. The West, however, does not seem to have appreciated the delicacy yet, if we may trust the account of an observant traveller who asked the waiter of a Western hotel, if he had any doughnuts? “ Dornoots,” said Pat, completely at his wits’ end, “I’m a thinking them noots don’t grow in this coun- thry.” (Putman’s Mag. December, 1854.) They are frequently eaten at New York tea-gatherings, and this leads naturally to the recollection that the pronunciation of pump as pomp is in many cases due to the sound of the Dutch word. The good people in those days were very fastidious in the choice of the best water for their tea— as in fact conscientious tea-drinkers ought always to be—and certain pumps in the old city were renowned for their excellent qualities. These were called tea-pomps, and it is said that old inhabitants still remember some of the most famous, one of which stood in Franklin-street, where a boy was kept in the afternoon, pumping tea-water for the neighbors. udlichies, once called rolletjees, little rolls, are small sausages stuffed with minced meat, cut into slices and then fried, a dish more palatable than wholesome. Smearcase, from the Dutch smeer-kaas, a preparation of curds spread on a flat surface to make into cheese, is the same as the more familiar cottage-cheese and as familiar to Germany under the name of Schmier-Kaese as to Holland. It occurs as early as 1842 in the Philadelphia “ Price-Current.” The same may be said of the fa- mous Spek en Apeltjces, now commonly called Speck and Applejees, fat pork and apples cut up together and cooked; for the Germans and all their near kindred like fat and sweet things combined— a taste not unfamiliar to the New Englander, who loves his pork and molasses. Fat pork with haricot-beans, and thickly covered over with molasses, is a royal dish for seafaring men, and rarely long absent from the cabin of a whaling captain. The sweet con- THE DUTCHMAN. 85 diment is evidently added to modify the richness of the fat, on the same principle which makes us use currant-jelly with mutton or well-larded venison. It is somewhat remarkable, that of all these more or less tempt- ing dishes to which the descendants of the Dutch settlers adhere with patriotic fervor and good taste, none should have become popular beyond the limits of New York and parts of New Eng- land, while the only preparation of theirs which can be said to have become national is one which can be but faintly praised. This is their £ool-slaa, literally cabbage-salad, consisting of cab- bage-leaves cut fine and dressed with vinegar and oil, pepper and salt, hardly equal to the much-berated Sauerkraut of the Germans. Persons who desire to be very correct, and are at the same time happily innocent of any knowledge of foreign languages, have, itis well known, an intense desire to improve unfamiliar words by twisting their shape till they assume a more pleasing, because more familiar, form. To this fate /ool-slaa has nearly succumbed ; it is now almost invariably written as in the following extract from a traveller’s account of hotel-fare in Delaware: “A banquet of half-fried bacon afloat in grease, waxy potatoes, coldslaw appa- rently cut with a harrow, and coffee as weak as the butter was strong.” (Lippincott’s Mag., Feb. 1871.) The few names of articles of wearing apparel which the Dutch have bequeathed to us, are, like their dishes, almost entirely con- fined to the State, and often to the city, of New York, and may, as such, be fairly classed among the genuine provincialisms of America. There is something of old Holland naiveté in their barraclades, as napless blankets made at home continue to this day to be called; the word meant originally baare klederen, bare clothes (German Kleider), and graphically described the absence of the usual long staple. It recalls to our mind at once the picture of an old Dutch dame, so charmingly portrayed in W. Irving’s loving description of Knickerbocker days, bending over her work in her clockmutch (klap-muts), a quaint though not unbecoming cap often seen in Gerard Dow’s paintings, and still worn here and there by old-fashioned ladies of Dutch descent. No wonder that such a form, appearing suddenly among fashionable Biddies and brilliant Phoebes of ebony-color, should be hailed as a Frowchey, a well- nigh desperate attempt to render the staid old Vrowwtje (German 86 AMERICANISMS. Frauchen), with which the wives of the good burghers used to be greeted. We have even heard the term applied to a poor little woman, looking, in her bright chintz gown and odd cap, her bent shoulders and deep-wrinkled face, like a picture of an old master, by boys who were as ignorant of its meaning as of the word hoople, by which they called their trundling hoops, and which they little suspected they owed to the hoeple of Dutch ancestors. Nor did their mothers think probably that they were using another such term when washing their children’s dirty little hands, and calling them “too mussy in all conscience ;” the word looks so like the Old English muss, and recalls so little the Dutch morsiy, from which it is derived. Very much in the same manner Americans are still occasionally heard to speak of a.logy preacher or a logy talker in society, when they wish gently to insinuate that such persons are not peculiarly interesting, but approaching the character of “ bores.’ The term is derived from the Dutch log, which means prosy, slow, or dull, and being by its very sound suggestive of its meaning, has main- tained its hold on our language. This attachment to old words and old customs causes also the word Paas (Paasch) still to be used for Easter in many families of New York, and children especially are fond of calling their bright-colored Easter eggs by their venerable name of Paas-eggs, when merrily cracking them against each other in Russian fashion, trying to break their neigh- bor’s and not their own. As, thanks to the resemblance of the German Blumen, the echo of a similar Dutch word in the form of Blummie and its diminutive Blummachee still survive among many people in the great city and along the banks of the Hudson River, Paas-Blummachee are well known in the flower-markets, and designate the common yellow Daffodill. The early azalea of our woods (Azalea nudiflora), is in like manner called Pinzter Blummachee, for the Dutch were faithful to ancient customs in celebrating after Easter their Pinter (German Pfingsten), the Pentecost of our churches, the Whitsuntide of civillife. Nor do their descendants forget the habit of their fathers of extending the festival over the next day, and Pinter Monday is a great day with their families and servants. “ Pinkster fields,” wrote F. Cooper, and “ spinkster frolics are no novelty to us, for, as they occur at every season, and T am just old enough not to have missed one of THE DUTCHMAN. 87 them all for the last twelve years.” (Satanstoe, I., p.90. B.) There is, of course, no connection between this word and the familiar name of the little finger, also derived from the Dutch (pink), as it appears in the nursery rhyme, which accompanies the interlock- ing of the little fingers of the right hand: “ Pinky, pinky, bowbell, Whoever tells a lie Will sink down to hell, And never rise up again.” It is very different with the name of the flower pink, which was originally derived from the German Pfingsten (the Dutch Pinkster), and owed its name to the season of its blooming. A similar confusion between two similar terms exists with re- gard to the Dutch word pyl, now used in the form of pile by New York boys to designate an arrow, and the good old English pileas applied to money. When we call the stone of a cherry or the hard kernel of any fruit a pit, we use unconsciously an old Dutch word (pit), by which our idiom hag been enriched, so that the image of a“ peach-pit put into the ground and rising in due time to grow into a beautiful tree” is an oft-quoted illustration of our own resurrection, employed in the pulpit. The potty baker of Mr. Bartlett, from the Dutch pott-bakker, has, however, entirely ab- dicated in favor of the shorter native potter himself, and retains only an antiquarian interest, like the once familiar praadje of Dutch burghers, which long survived in the painful corruption of prawchey, to designate a pleasant neighborly gossip. Zo scup instead of to swing, is still here and there a boy’s term, and feraw- chey, made after the manner of prawchey from te rage, “ the little mouse,” a familiar word in English, as well as Dutch nurseries, for the less poetical creepmouse. Among the almost local terms of Dutch origin, which barely survive in districts inhabited by Dutch families, but which every now and then startle us by their sudden reappearance in poetry or in local description, are the following: Brogues (brock in Dutch) have entirely given way to breeches, but Blauser, from the Dutch blazer, is still the name of the Deaf Adder (Vipera berus), which blows up its neck and head, and therefore well deserves its graphic 88 AMERICANISMS. name. There is less poetry in the old term dblickey from the Dutch dk (Germ. Blech), which is used in some parts of the States of New York and New Jersey for a tin pail, while boonder, originally applied to a brush, much in demand and in use by Dutch ladies, has lately derived a new lease of life from F. B, Harte’s sketch of his dog Boonder. The word feast, a corruption of the original vies, and meaning “ fastidious,” can hardly be said to exist any longer; the Anglicized term fyke from the Dutch furk is however still in use among fishermen for a large bow net, with which certain fish, like shad, are caught in New York harbor; and hay-barrack, a somewhat ludicrous corruption of hootberg (hay-mountain), is in like manner locally applied to a thatched roof supported on four posts, under which hay is protected against the weather. Bockey, also, denoting a vessel made from a gourd, is derived from the Dutch, but limited in its use to the city of New York and its immediate vicinity. There are, however, a few Dutch words in general use through- out thecountry. Among mariners, for instance, a droger or drog- her has ever been well known, from the days of the old English drugger to our own cotton-droger, as a vessel built solely for the transportation of heavy loads. A scow also, a large, flat-bottomed boat, called originally schouw, is quite familiar to great cities, where itis employed as a dredger to clear the harbor or narrow basins, and to the Northern lakes, where they are often rigged so as to become fast sailers, a transformation, no doubt, little anticipated by their first builders. The word school, pronounced like shoal, and only provincial in England, but universally used in America, belongs to the Dutch, but of course long before their appearance on this con- tinent. Hence Captain John Smith already reports, regardless of all orthography, of the bays of Virginia, “Here are infinite skuls of divers kindes of fishe more than elsewhere” (Virginia, L., p. 11), while the poet Saxe plays upon the resemblance to school in the lines: “No school to him was worth a fig Except a school of fish.” (The Cold- Water Man.) If the Dutch term portaal is in all probability only a Latin word, familiar to Holland as well as to England, and deseryes, there- THE DUTCHMAN. 89 fore, no place among Americanisms, the stoop of our houses is, on the contrary, a genuine addition which we owe to New Nether- lands. The good burghers loved to sit on their stoeps (seats) smok- ing their pipes in peace and “lordly silence,” and having wife and children on the stoep bancke by their side. The custom was pleas- ant and well adapted to our climate, and hence soon spread all over the country; with it the stoop became the common name for any covered or open porch with seats, in front of a house. Thus was Governor Peter Stuyvesant “found, according to custom, smoking his afternoon pipe, on the stoop or bench at the porch of his house” (Knickerbocker’s New York), and thus in our day the traveller sees: “ Piles of saw-mill slabs fortifying the wood-pile, which, paved with chips, the mangled remains of King Log, spread before the stoop.” (Conn. Georgics, Putnam’s Monthly, April, 1854.) . In Canada the word is often written sfoup and in the West occa- sionally stowp, but probably more from inattention than any pur- pose to naturalize it by a change of form. The word dush has in like manner retained in America the original meaning of the Dutch bosch more faithfully than in Eng- land, where it generally designates a single shrub, while here, as in most British colonies, it means rather a region abounding in trees and shrubs. The term is at home in Canada; hence we read: “The farm-wood is cut off one mile from the river (St. Lawrence). The rest is dusk, and beyond, the Queen’s bush ; old as the country is, each landholder bounds on the primitive forest, and fuel bears no price.” (Putnam’s Monthly, March, 1853.) During the war men “ took to the dwsh” in the South as readily as at the North, and to this day Western papers report that the “ In- dians disappeared in the dush, when they saw the troops approach- ing.” (Cheyenne Chron. Aug. 17,1870). Itisa curious incident in the history of words, showing how two meanings of the same term may gradually become merged in one, that bushwhacking has thus of late received a new signification. Originally it was a harmless word, denoting simply the process of propelling a boat by pulling the bushes on ‘the edges of the stream, or of beating them down with a scythe or a cudgel in order to open a way through a thicket. In this sense, which referred to the indi- vidual bush, W. Irving used it, when he described the Van Bun- schotens of Nyack as “gallant bushwhackers and hunters of 90 AMERICANISMS. raccoons by moonlight.” (Knickerbocker’s New York, p. 110.) Afterwards, however, lawless persons and fugitives from Justice, taking to the bush, were designated by the convenient name of bushwhackers, and during the late Civil War the deserting soldier and the unauthorized raider gave to the term a new and formida- ble meaning. They would infest public roads, plunder defence- less houses, and even invade peaceful towns, to return laden with their booty to safe retreats in the bush. “The general told us frankly,” writes doughty Colonel von Borcke, “ that we had more to fear from dushwhackers than from the enemy, but I trusted in my good old sword and bade my friends dismiss all fear.” (Blackwood, Sept., 1865.) The bushwhacker has unfortunately not disappeared in our days, although the term is probably often applied where another word would be more appropriate. Thus we read of a raid on illicit distilleries in Tennessee, that “in Smith County the gov- ernment officials, with a squad of Federal soldiers, were fired upon by dushwhackers, but no one was injured. One man was shot in the thigh by the accidental discharge of his own pistol, and the remainder of the party is stillin search of contraband distilleries.” (Nashville Banner, March 7, 1871). Among the words that may have come to our speech from more than one source is the word span, which we may owe to a Ger- man word Gespann, or a Dutch term span, familiar as inspan to all readers of works on South African explorations, or books like Gordon Cumming’s Travels. In the United States the word is, however, generally used of horses only, and implies invariably a match in color, if not in all respects. “Commodore Vanderbilt drives a span of bays, which are said to have cost him ten thou- sand dollars, and Dr. Helmbold four in hand, which span admi- rably, of still greater value.” (Philadelphia Inquirer, July 28, 1870.) Another such doubtful word is spook, which may be the Dutch spook, a spirit or a ghost, or the German Spuck, a phantom ora vision. The manner of writing it speaks for the former pre- sumption, and so does the fact that the word is not only used in the British colonies, but even by classic writers like Lord Lytton. But, on the other hand, spooks prevail most in regions where Germans abound, as in the great Valley of Virginia and in the Northwest. A New York correspondent wrote recently of an old THE DUTCHMAN 91 negro in Santo Domingo that “ once he saw Toussaint L’Ouverture spooking about with an air of mournful majesty,” (New York Ziri- bune, Feb. 24, 1871,) and the “ Acorn and Gem,” a half-German half- English journal, published in Pennsylvania, says: ‘People near town firmly believe in the spook, and are afraid of going through that lane after sundown.” (November 30, 1870.) In the Valley of Virginia there remains to this day a region called Powell’s Spook, where a fierce mountain-creek breaks the silence of the night with its roar, and where Old Powell long ago coined money in defiance of the law. Growing rich in accordance with his compact with the devil, he barrelled up his treasure and buried it, but now goes about all night watching it carefully and fright- ening belated wanderers. But of all Dutch words familiar to our ear, none has acquired a wider circulation and a stronger hold on our social system than the term oss, derived from the Dutch daas. It had, originally, with us as in its native land, the primitive meaning of “ master,” overseer, or superior of any kind, and retains it to this day ina large measure. Even now a doss shoemaker, or a boss bricklayer’ means the head of a gang of workmen, who deals their work out to them, and pays their wages, as an English master does to his workmen and apprentices. In this sense it is, even in England, now the cant term, if nothing more, with all mechanics, and can boast high antiquity for such a meaning, since as early as 1679, M. Philipse wrote: “Here they had their first interview with the female doss or supercargo of the vessel,” (Harly Voyage to New Netherlands), strangely foreshadowing the “ Advanced Fe- male” of the New World. For the proud Yankee, from the begin- ning, disliked calling any man his master, a word which, as long as slavery existed, he thought none but a slave should employ; and as the relation between employer and employed required a word, the use of boss instead of master, was either coined or dis- covered. Thus the word became early a part of the language in Northern and Western States, and Lord Carlisle could enjoy the naive question propounded to him by his stage-driver: “I sup- pose the Queen is your boss, now ?” In the same sense the slang- loving New York Herald said, in speaking of the Pope: “ Roths- child refused to let him have any (money). The fact is, Rothschild is the real pope and Zoss of all Europe.” It is curious that the 92 AMERICANISMS. word has actually found its way into French also, although only as a cant term; for M. Francisque Michel, in his Dictionnaire @ Argot, has: Beausse, un riche bourgeois, terme des voleurs Flam- ands. It made its way Southward, in America, but very slowly, and reached Pennsylvania only about 1852, with the construction of railways and canals. Since the emancipation of slaves in the South, the negroes also have become too proud to continue their old mode of address, and substitute for it the Northern boss, so that the word may fairly be said to be in universal use all over the Union. It has even been turned into a verb, and fo boss is quite a common expression, meaning to direct anything, from bossing a job, that is, to contract and superintend it, to bossing the house, which means in the case of the husband or the wife, as Providence may direct, to rule and manage it. So familiar has the word become, that we are told of a child not five years old put into a corner for quarrelling, who wished to charge his sister with being the aggressor, and said: “I did not boss the jod, it was sister.” (8.8. Haldeman.) Thus the Dutchman is master in the ‘land after all. The word is occasionally grievously misunderstood at the South. There the negro has apparently not been able to catch the difference of sound in the Dutch boss and the English dass, and when he indulges in his favorite songs, he is quite sure to summon some skillful singer to lead, and promises to “boss him through.” This meant, originally, nothing more than that he would sing the dass to the other’s lead ; but now it refers to the full chorus or refrain. This applies especially to the shouting songs, when the negroes form a ring, in which one half of the assembled company perform a shuffling dance, with a sort of ducking motion of the body, while the other half stand by and sing, one voice lead- . . ing and stringing verse to verse, many of which are made up on the spot, and refer to the company present. These bystanders are said to doss the song. The readers of W. Irving’s delightful work on the History of New York, in which fact and fiction are so amusingly interwoven as to have deceived more than one acute critic, are familiar with his quaint and graphic description of the origin of Moving Day. He ascribes the curious custom which makes the first of May a day of horror in that city, on which every one who is not the fortu- .THE DUTCHMAN. 93 nate owner of a house, vacates his lodgings and seeks new ones for the coming year, to the first great move made by the Dutch inhabitants of Communipaw to New Amsterdam “The anni- versary,” he says, “was piously observed among their sons, by turning their houses topsy-turvy, and carrying all their furniture into the streets; and this is the real origin of the universal agita- tion and moving, by which this most restless of cities is literally turned out of doors on every May-day.” (Knickerbocker’s His- tory of New York.) The custom has certainly survived till now, and as Robert 8. Coffin, the “Boston Bard,” says, “ Hurry, scurry—grave and gay, All must trudge the first of May,” (The First of May.) but it is older than even the ancient settlement called Communi- paw. The Dutch settlers evidently brought the custom with them from their transatlantic home, and to this day, in Bruges and its neighborhood, in Verviers and many other parts of Bel- gium and Holland, the first of May continues to be the general day of moving. It has not only become a characteristic institu- tion of the City of New York, but the tendency to move, con- stantly to shift and drift from one place to another, is, by the home-keeping Scotch and Irish especially, not quite unjustly looked upon as a sign of instability in the national character. The marvellous facility of locomotion which this country affords by its net-work of railways, rivers, and canals, favors the disposi- tion, to which must be added the temptation held out by count- less openings for all in the newer States. The roving propensity subsides, however, in nations as in individuals, and already a strong tendency is perceptible in the United States to crowd the great cities at the expense of the open country. The custom, also, to keep one room in the house as the dest room, and. to call it so, which still prevails in most of the Northern States, has been bequeathed to this generation by the first Dutch settlers of New York. The same name and usage may still be found in all the old towns of Holland, where these rooms are kept as dark as here, to preserve the furniture, and only opened on great occasions, when company is expected. A person entering a. bed-room, also, in some out of the way New England town, 94 AMERICANISMS. would not fail to notice the chintz curtains and the puffy feather- bed with its bolster, not as in England, tucked in under the sheet, but with its own fair case of white linen; nor could he help being struck in the kitchen with the cheap but neat tiles on the hearth, and the delft-ware on the dresser, all features that prove the ‘former presence of stout Dutchmen in these districts. Nor must we, finally, forget, among the many pleasant things left us by our Dutch ancestors, the one Dutchman whom all American children hold dear and in great veneration. This ig Santa Klaus, as the name is commonly though erroneously written, in reality Xlaas, the abbreviation of Nickolas, a Dutch Saint of undisputed nationality, whose name is heard everywhere when his own day, Christmas, is drawing near. THE FRENCHMAN. “Can the leopard change his spots? Can the Frenchman lose his nationality ?’—H. About. Our English contains, of course, a large number of French terms, which we owe, in common with our English cousins, to the supremacy which France has till ‘recently exercised in war and in fashions. It might have been expected that large addi- tions would have been made by the frequent and numerous streams of immigration, which have come to us from France itself and from former French dependencies. The French owned Acadie, and sent their missionaries throughout the whole West; they owned Louisiana, and thus met at the mouth of the Missis- sippi their zealous countrymen from the far North. Noble Huguenots, animated by a fervor and a constancy in no ways inferior to that of the Puritans, came over in large numbers and settled in the Southern States, where climate and national char- acter seemed to be congenial, and the “ charitable exhibition” of King William also sent in 1700 nearly a thousand more, who had left their native land on account of their religion. Ata later period new arrivals came from home and from the colonies; the French Revolution sent many hundreds, the expulsion of the French from San Domingo added large numbers, and dissatisfied Imperialists came to find homes here after the banishment of their idol to St. Helena. French colonies were attempted in Michigan and in Florida; Gallipolis bore the name of its founders ; even in the Great Desert a /renchtown had a brief existence, and the Falls of the Kanahwa were once owned by a French com- pany. French names still remain on the map of the United States as they were first bestowed: Beaufort and Port Royal in South Carolina, speak of the Huguenot and the scholar, as La 96 AMERICANISMS. Moille River, Calais, and Mount Desert, in New England, remind us of the enterprise and zeal of the Jesuits in the very home of Puritanism. There is no lack, in fact, of French elements in our population, and the grateful feeling long cherished throughout the United States for the efficient help rendered by France during the War of Independence, might, it seems, have given moral weight to the | , influence legitimately wielded by the representatives of a polished language, a matchless literature, and highest culture. But few and faint are the marks left by the French on our public life and our language. Their own character is too light and too fickle to impress itself forcibly on the sturdy, thoughtful Anglo-Saxon, as their frequent failures to adapt themselves to Republican institu- tions stand in striking contrast with the success of the latter among ourselves. There are, of course, a number of French words in use among Americans, whose fondness for Gallic words and things has laid them open to the charge that good Americans hope to go to Paris hereafter, but these terms are no more Amer- icanisms than those borrowed by the English can be called Angli- cisms. We shall content ourselves, therefore, with mentioning here only such as designate objects or institutions peculiar to this country, adding a few which have here 4 somewhat different meaning from that given them abroad. Even the geography of the land retains but few traces of the brave French explorers, though Marquette and his brethren are recorded in many a town and river. All the more pleasing is it to find occasionally justice done, as in the case of that beautiful sheet of water now known as Lake Champlain. It was long called Lake Corlaer, after the great man of a Dutch settlement on the Mohawk River, who “for long years swayed the civic sword so potently and with such terror to evil-doers among the Indians, that they adopted his name in their language to signify a white governor. This doughty Dutchman, therefore, left his name to his successors, and the Corlaers went through their decline and fall with as much dignity, in a small way, as history ascribes to the Pharaohs and Cxsars. Like the founders of other dynasties, however, the original Corlaer came to an untimely end, being drowned, and as the catastrophe occurred in the lake, the Dutch stubbornly regarded their own hero as haying the best right to ar ee Hee THE FRENCHMAN. 9% it” But suddenly, and with her proverbial fickleness assigning no reason for the act, Dame Fortune declared for Samuel de Champlain, the brave servant of Henry IV., the father, as he was justly called, of La Nouvelle France,and henceforth the lake bore his name exclusively. Other geographical names and terms in Natural History also are often met with, but the whole class of these words are gen- erally of such exclusively technical meaning, that they can hardly be said to form part of our speech, except when they really be- come the common name of a whole class of similar objects. Such is, for instance, the case with dayou, meaning a stream—like the Bayou la Fourche in Louisiana or the Atchafalaya, connecting this bay with Red River—which takes a wide course, often on the largest scale, such as is, of course, possible only in‘ low, alluvial regions. ‘The English correlative is Gut, as the Gut of Canso—the Gut is a local offshoot of the Susquehanna. The word originally meant literally a gut, or leathern pipe, but in the Southern States is used to designate the outlet of a lake or river. That eccentric river, the Mississippi, with its bed higher than the surrounding country, instead of being sunk in it like other rivers, also boasts, below the mouth of Red River, of dayous running out of it, instead of rivers falling into it. It is of these broad chan- nels that J. R. Lowell’s hero says: “Thad to cross bayous an’ cricks (wal, it did beat all natur’) Upon a kin’ of corduroy, fust log, then alligator.” (Biglow Papers, I1., p. 18.) Near the mouth of the giant river, its powerful current, at times of high water, frequently causes the caving in of a bank for long distances, and then on the opposite side a deposit of sediment ac- cumulates rapidly to the extent perhaps of several acres of land. This is called battwre. The French word butte has in like manner become naturalized since it was first introduced by General Fremont, the Pathfinder, as he was then called. He stated in his report of the great expe- dition to the Rocky Mountains and Oregon, that the word applied “to detached hills and ridges which rise abruptly and reach too high to be called hills or ridges, and not high enough to be called mountains. Knobs is their most descriptive term in English, but 5 98 AMERICANISMS. no translation or paraphrase would preserve the identity of these picturesque landmarks.” (p. 145, 8.) The word has since become more and more familiar in California also, and furnishes the cur- rent term, fo butte, meaning to chop off with a dull axe, used in the Northwest in laying out or recognizing an established log- ging camp. “'T'woof our company, who had lingered behind, came up with the information that they had seen several Indians making observations from behind a small dvéte, from which they fled in great haste upon being discovered.” (N. P. Langford, The Won- ders of the Yellowstone, 1871.) The word coulee, used in Oregon for a rocky valley with sloping sides (not precipitous as in a cation), has not yet made its way beyond the new State. It is very different with crevasse, from créver, “to burst,” a breach in a levee or embankment of a river, a word which represents such a terrible disaster and awakens such intensely painful recol- lections, that it is familiar to all Americans. Whenever the dam that holds the Mississippi in its uncertain bed is broken through by its turbulent flood, the ery of Crevasse! goes forth through the whole neighborhood, and unless plantations, homesteads, and cabins for many square miles are to be swept away into absolute destruction, gigantic efforts have to be made by the united efforts of one or more parishes to fill up the break and thus to stem the current. The Zevee has become so fully naturalized when mean- ing the high embankments on the lower Mississippi, that it is now generally known as vy. From the first séttlement of Louis- iana by the French the importance of protecting against inun- dation the rich alluvial lands on both sides of the river, which are actually at a lower level than the bed of the latter, has been felt and shown in vast earth-mounds, called levees by the old Creole word. The name has subsequently been extended to arti- ficial embankments, like the famous levee of New Orleans, five miles long, and presenting an unparalleled picture of commercial activity and enormous wealth. The late Civil War played, some- times for a purpose, sometimes by forced neglect, such havoe with the river-levees, that their restoration exceeds the financial re- sources of the riparian States, and the Federal Government is expected to make them a national work. It would hardly be necessary to mention that the term levee is _ also used for the periodical receptions held by the President at THE FRENCHMAN. 99 his official residence, the White House, if it were not for the fact that the ridiculous word, derived from the lever or rising of the Grand Monarch, is in this case accented on the last sylla- ble, whilst the embankment is pronounced like levy. The Presi- dent’s wife has, according to established usage, her days also on which she receives the sovereign people, but she is said to hold a reception. The French word arpent also, a French acre, is still used in Louisiana as in the days before it was a State of the Union. “ All that part of my real and personal estate, near Washington, in the State of Louisiana .... consisting of upwards of two hun- dred and eighty arpens or acres of land.” (Will of Stephen Girard, 1832.) But, perhaps, no French word in use among us is more géner- ally known abroad than the Prairie of the West, a level or rolling tract of land, covered with coarse grass, and generally character- ized by a rich soil of great depth. “These are the gardens of the desert, these The unshorn fields, boundless and beautiful, For which the speech of Evgland has no name— The prairies. (W. CO. Bryant.y The Level Prairie is, perhaps, the exception, being found but rarely, and then mostly near, if not in, the valley of the Missis- sippi, while further west the Rolling Prairte prevails, with its gently undulating surface, resembling the great waters of the ocean, when the latter “is just undulating with along ground- swell,” as Cooper describes it in his Oak-Openings (p. 237). New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona boast of vast prairies, often fifty miles square and more, which are covered with a whitish efflorescence of natron or soda, and these are known respectively as Salt Prairies and Soda Prairies. Their aspect is one of utter, almost unbearable desolation, and the thirsty traveller, who has to cross them, not unfrequently endures most painful sufferings. Even more terrible, and certainly more dangerous to life, is the Trem- bling Prairie of the Southwest, which is thus spoken of: “The land that first attracts the attention of the voyager—if indeed a few mud-lumps, a few almost floating isles, and a ¢vem- bling prairie, into which one would sink as into quicksand, can 100 AMERICANISMS. be called land—is scarcely raised above the surface of the water.” (Putnan’s Mag., May, 1869.) It is to be regretted that the fair name of one of the most beau- tiful scenes of American landscape should have suffered, as most foreign words seem to be fated to suffer, in the process of naturali- zation. People living on the prairies themselves, or within sight, hardly ever speak of them otherwise than as pararas or’ pereras, and great is the variety of spelling by which authors have endeay- ored to represent the willful wanderings of the rebellious letter 7 in the word. “Mrs. Morpher,” says F. B. Harte, “a womanly and kind-hearted specimen of southwestern efflorescence, known in her maidenhood as the Per-rairie Rose” (Luck of Roaring Camp, p. 156), and the clever author of Los Gringos, Lieutenant Wise, prefers it thus: “Looks lively ‘nuff here Sundays: that are per- rary ’s fairly peppered with folks.” (Putnam’s Mag., May, 1868.) The prairillon, or little prairie, is fast disappearing from our idiom. The prairies have naturally given their name to many features in their appearance and to customs connected with the life of which they are the great stage. Some of these terms are hardly known beyond their own limits, as the Indian’s free gift, which is profes- sionally called On the Prairie, a phrase almost identical with the less diplomatic “nowhere ;” and the Prairie Bitters, a horrible mixture of water and buffalo-gall, to which great medicinal powers are ascribed by hunters and border-settlers. The animal life on the Prairie is, on the contrary, well-known to the world of science, and to travellers and enthusiastic sportsmen. The Prairie-hen especially is looked upon as excellent game by the latter, and as a luxury now found in every market of the large cities on the seaboard, and a frequent visitor even to Covent Garden. Itis the pennated grouse (Tetrao cupido) of the Western States, akin to the Scotch grouse of England and the Eastern cousin, of which W. C. Bryant sings: “T listened, and from midst the depth of wood Heard the low signal of the grouse, that wears A sable muff around his mottl’d neck ; Partridge they call him in our Northern States, And pheasant by the Delaware.” THE FRENCHMAN. 101 Another dweller on the prairie that bears a false name, is the Prairie-Dog (Cynomus ludovicianus), a genuine marmot, and called a dog only in acknowledgment of his short, sharp bark, by which he warns his companions against an approaching enemy. As they live in large communities with their burrows in close proximity, western hunters speak of Dog Villages, and travellers say that “seen through the misty morning air the little conical huts and grotesque dark figures by their side looked, from a dis- tance, not unlike a village crowded with people sitting idle at their doors.” (The Prairie Rose, C. A. Murray, IL, p.19.) They number many thousands in each village, but we are tdld by an ancient traveller that “one arm of Red River is famous for the stupendous Village of the Dogs of the Prairie. The village is no less than twenty-five miles in length, and as many in breadth. It consists of subterranean galleries, sometimes nine feet deep and from four to five inches wide, and of a superstructure formed of earth, thrown up by these dog-voiced, but squirrel-resembling architects.” (L’Abbé Em. Domenech.) In the West they are also known as Gophers, from the French gaufre, perhaps however through the English fo goffer, to flute or crimp, because their countless holes literally honeycomb the soil in which they dig their villages. W. C. Bryant foretells a time when “the gopher mines the ground Where stood their swarming cities,”’ but now-a-days the Western man, as well as the California miner, is content to gopher the ground wherever rich crops, or a harvest of gold and silver, may be found. With the usual carelessness of colonists, and owing in part to the ignorance of settlers of foreign origin, the term gopher has been applied to various animals, often entirely dissimilar inform and mode of life. That the little field- mouse of the West, a pouched, brownish-red rat with mole-like feet (Geomys bursarius), and a gray burrowing squirrel (Spermophilus franklinii), known also as the prairie squirrel, should have received the same name in Missouri and Mississippi, might not appear so far amiss; Kennicott thinks it has the best right to the name of Gopher. (U. 8. Agric. Report, 185%, p. 75.) But there is no such excuse for bestowing the term upon a striped squirrel of Wisconsin (Spermo- philus tredecimlineatus), which does not burrow, and still less a 102 AMERICANISMS. land-tortoise (Testudo polyphemus) of Florida. Even a large snake (Coluber couperi) is so called in Georgia. A ludicrous confusion of ideas has bestowed the name from a different source upon an en- tirely different object. Probably with a dim recollection that the word gopher occurs in Holy Writ, as the name of the wood of which Noah’s Ark was built by divine command, a wooden coulter suit- able for light sandy soil is in Florida sometimes called gopher, and thus an indignant “Cracker” says of a rival still lower in the social scale: “’ve seen him pulling the gopher himself, harnessed to it like a d—d jackass, sir.” (Harper's Monthly, Feb. 1859.) The Prairie Wolf (Canis latrans) is an exclusively American species, about the size of a setter-dog, and lives like the fox in burrows, so that W. C. Bryant could say of him correctly: “ the prairie-wolf Hunts in their meadows, and his fresh-dug den Yawns by my path.” They hunt in packs, and are much less afraid of man than Euro- pean wolves. Further South they are better known under the Spanish name of Coyotes, a term borrowed from the Mexicans. While the majority of prairies are treeless, every now and then an exception is met with, and of course eagerly sought for by settlers. “The sons of the forest,” we are told by one of these emigrants to the Far West, “would seek the shelter of bordering groves for their dwellings, or else in the shade of those singular, but beautiful 7slands-—groves in the midst of prairies—dense and dark within, but bending their graceful boughs over the pure sward of grass all around, bright with green and gay with flowers.” (Overland Monthly, Feb. 1870, p. 148.) These islands, as they are poetically named, in the vast ocean of waving g grass, were called Mottes by the early French explorers, and in many parts of the West still retain their old names. Thus Mr. Olmsted mentions them as striking features in the Southern landscape: “Before us lay beautiful prairies, with the smooth-grassed surface varied here and there by herds of cattle and little belts, mottes and groups of live oak,” (Zevas, p. 13%, B.) while W. G. Simms quotes them in their corrupt form in the words: “In Western Texas a small clump of timber is called a mot.” (The Yemassce, II. p. 110.) We can easily spare the word with its vague unsuggestive mean- THE FRENCHMAN. 103 ing, especially as the English terms of the prairie, almost all taken from the sea, are poetical and yet true to their meaning. Thus, besides tslands, the prairie has also its coves, where small strips of grass-land run into a wood as if seeking for shelter against the blazing sun and the drenching rains, and its days or large openings into a forest on its borders. Most graphically does the Rev. Mr. Cartwright describe how in the early days of his itinerancy as a Methodist preacher he had often to travel fifty and sixty miles a day in ceaseless rains, and how “there was no guide to be had, no road to follow, but the traveller’s only resource was to sight a line from one cape to the other, and thus to cross the days, no other landmarks being visible as ‘far as the eye could reach.” Nor is travelling by water without its incidents and features, which still bear the names given them by early French explorers. There is the sawlt, a low waterfall or rapids, bearing its first name, eloquent of old age by the presence of the 7, which has since left it in French, and the resemblance to Ben. Jonson’s salt, em- ployed by him in the sense of a leap, a jumping. The name, reduced in pronunciation generally to Soo, adheres firmly to rivers which, like the St. Lawrence and the St. Mary of Mackinaw, have been navigated by French missionaries and French boat- men and the familiar voyageur of our day, whether he paddles his canoe on Canadian streams or rises to the dignity of a fur-trader on the Upper Mississippi and in the great Northwest. If the waters rush hastily over obstructing rocks or just on the verge of a great waterfall, they form Rapids, first so called by French explorers on the St. Lawrence. The term was afterward applied to similar features in great water courses, especially the Niagara immediately above the Falls. The use of the plural in this sense is purely American, and the distinction thus made between a considerable descent in the river and a real cascade a very nice one. Lady Lyell, at Niagara, thought “the Rapids at times— especially in moonlight—a finer sight than the Falls themselves.” When voyageurs for their own purposes, or in the service of travellers, make their voyages in canoes, they are apt to avoid these rapids and falls by carrying their light dirches over the interven- ing space, and where this can be done, the latter is called a por- tage. The term, now generally accepted as an English word, 104 AMERICANISMS. applies correctly to the strip of land between two navigable rivers or their head-waters; in fact to any break in a chain of water navigation, over which canoes and stores have to be carried on the men’s backs. In the Eastern States, and especially in the Adirondack and White Mountains, the French term portage is exchanged for the more expressive English term carry. A traveller speaks of it thus: “The boat was taken out of the water, yokes hewn out with axes, and carried by the rapids. Imagine the delights of a carry! A path led by the Falls, but across it were big logs, blown down by some hurricane, and it wound up the sides of hills and through tangled thickets.” (Harper's Monthly, February, 1860.) ‘The process is, of course, very irksome to the voyageurs, and they prefer, therefore, shooting a river, that’ is to say, dashing over the rapids in the swift current. This is actually done in the St. Lawrence with large steamboats, which used to be placed under the direction of a: frequently half-tipsy Indian pilot, and then, in his experienced and skillful hands, al- lowed to shoot the rapids, one of the most exciting scenes the tray- eller can witness in America. The bottom of the vessel actually grates the rocks in the bed of the river, but no lives have ever yet been lost. The word comes, of course, from the French chute, a term which is given extensively to places where a river, either from the nature of its surroundings or by the hand of man, is forced to contract within a narrow compass, and rushes through with great fury. The same word, frequently written chute or shute, is applied to an artificial plankway made on the side of a hill, down which the timber, cut above, is sent to a river in the valley. One of the most picturesque expressions of the West, also, is taken from this vehemence of motion caused by such a contrivance for wood or water: a man, passionately in love, is said to take a shute after his lady-love, and a young clerk may thus be heard saying: “To clap my eyes on her, and take a straight shute after her, was the work of a moment.” (The Country Merchant, p. 221.) The voyageur, when grown old, is apt to settle down into a habi- tant or habitan, as the humbler among the French settlers are still called in Canada and Louisiana, by a term which has come down to the former at least from the days of happy but short- lived Acadie. In the days of the Revolution they were not without political influence, and in one of General Washington’s THE FRENCHMAN. 105 despatches they are called the “French Yeomanry.” The term is, however, fast disappearing from Louisiana, and even in Canada it is rarely heard outside of the purely French districts on the St. Lawrence. One of their familiar terms survives yet, however, throughout the West; any special success they met with they were apt to call a coup, and in this sense the word is still used. “He followed closely on the trail of the savages, bided his time, struck his coup, and recovered a pair of packhorses, which was all he required.” (Life in the Far West.) On his travels and hunting expeditions the voyageur generally carries his most valuable property in curiously constructed saddle-bags called a parfléche. “The teetsook or parfleche,” says General T. F. Meagher, “is generally made.of dried buffalo hide, the hair of which has been beaten off with a stone, which softens it considerably; it is then put in the shape of an envelope. The articles stowed in it are kept secure and compact by thongs passed through holes in the flaps, and with one on each side, looped to the forks of the packsaddle, and lashed firmly together to keep them from slapping and pounding his ribs, the mule or the horse trots along pleasantly.” (Rides through the Rocky Mountains, p. 576.) The French word caravane, once very familiar to all the sct- tlers of Western Virginia, Kentucky, ete. is still not unfre- quently heard in the Southwest, and from the lips of emigrants who cross the Rocky Mountains. In former days caravans furnished the only means of communication between the new settlements and the Eastern cities. “In the fall of the year, after seeding-time, every family formed an association with some of their neighbors for starting a little caravan. A master-driver was selected, who was assisted by two or more young men. The horses were fitted out with packsaddles; a bell and a collar ornamented the neck. Every family collected what peltry and fur they could obtain during the year, to send them East for bar- ter. They had no other stores of any kind, and needed salt and iron. The common price of a bushel of salt was a good cow and calf.” (Wills De Hass, History of Western Virginia.) The caravan is quite at home in New Mexico and Sonora, although frequently called there by its Spanish name, conducta, and the trade which it enables trappers and hunters, as well as 106 AMERICANISMS. distant settlers, to carry on, is often of considerable importance. The term itself is one which has, like many others, very nearly made the circuit of the earth: beginning in Persia as Kdrivdn or Kirwan, it entered Arabia as Aairawdn, in the sense of “ travelling through many countries,” became French, as caravane, and is now on the shores of the Pacific, ready to be wafted back again to Asia, its native land. In Western waters rafts were the first means of conveyance, soon to be followed by the batteaux of French traders; they have not yet entirely disappeared, and J. K. Paulding, in his Letters from the South, says: “The beautiful Shenandoah passes not far from this town, and is navigable for batteaux” (II.p. 71), and by a recent act of the Legislature of Virginia, a company is chartered for batteaux navigation on the Rivanna River (Jan. 17, 1871). The word cache (French cacher), on the contrary, now frequently disgraced into cash, is receding more and more to the West, where it still retains its first meaning of a hole dug in the ground to cache, 2. e., to conceal stores, and to protect them against thieves of all kinds. If properly made, these holes will preserve provis- ions for a year and longer, and great skill is manifested by Indians and Western travellers in effacing every trace of work that could betray the secret. Mr. Bartlett tells us how, on his expedition to settle the boundary line with Mexico, the “ contents of a wagon were cached on the banks of the Gila, and camp-fires built over the openings, that the Indians might not discover it.” The term is used in a wider sense, when a timid syortsman ex- claims: “ Do’ee hear now, boys, thar’s sign about. This hoss feels like caching.” (Life in the Far West.) The old English word cahoot, a slang word of the West and South for keeping company legitimately and illegitimately, is so little used and so far removed from its original in French (cohorte) that it does not deserve a place among Americanisms; calwmet, on the contrary, the old, slightly changed form of the modern chalwmeau, originated with the early colonists of New France, and has held its own mainly among the Indians, and in the intercourse between them and the whites. It is to the French of Louisiana that the few words belonging to their language must be traced back which serve to designate shades of color in the descendants of colored people. Such are THE FRENCHMAN. 107 the grifin, from the French griffon, still frequently heard when applied to a mulatto, especially a woman, and the guadroon, from quarteron, the half-Spanish name of the offspring of a mulatto woman and a white man, among whom the very highest grade of beauty is not unfrequently found. The word is also occasion- ally written cuarteroon, with a leaning to the Spanish original, which, like the French, alludes to the one quarter negro-blood in the veins of the owner of the name. The offspring, in the next generation, of a quadroon and a white person, is called a metif. In the same State, as in all districts where sugar is raised, the term bagasse is one of great familiarity and importance. It comes from the low Latin dagasea, and designates the dry remains of the sugar- cane after the juice has all been pressed out. It is used as fuel under the sugar-kettles, and invaluable in those regions where other fuel is either not to be had at all or likely to be very expen- sive; occasionally also it serves as manure. Among the barely surviving words bequeathed to us by former generations are the banquette, the name of the sidewalk in some of the Southern cities, and the darraque or barrack,as applied to a roof on four posts for the sheltering of hay and other produce. In Canada, in the same manner, a small bedstead is still very frequently called a dodette, and an old-fashioned kind of gig a calash, from the French caleche, a name often applied also to that becoming covering for the head, familiar to English ears as “an ugly,” and by no means improved under its new appellation. Another kind of carriage, of more pretension and greater capacity, is the Carryall, a corrup- tion of the original carriole, so successfully carried out, that few are disposed to admit the French paternity, and stoutly maintain that its purpose is to express the capacity of the small one-horse vehicle to “carry all.” The term originated, perhaps, in Canada, and thus came first to the Northern States, but while in the Dominion it now means a sleigh, its common use has extended throughout the country. “I once crossed Tennessee and Ken- tucky in a buggy,” writes Professor 8. 8. Haldeman, “ which the toll-takers were puzzled how to classify, as it had no place in the Table of Rates. At last it was determined to be a Carryall.” It is a curious question how the terms caveson, quoted already as caves- son in Bailey’s Dictionary, and meaning a muzzle for a horse, and cuttoes, a corruption of couteaua, should have maintained themselves 108 AMERICANISMS. so long in the New England States, where they are still used, when they have neither beauty of form or sound, nor pregnancy of mean- ing, to secure them so longa life-lease. We must assume that words have, like men, a providence which makes them occasionally long- lived for reasons incomprehensible to worldly wisdom. We can better understand how the term vacher connected itself with the almost innumerable herds of half-wild cattle roaming over South- ern prairies, and how the extraordinary class of men, who keep the stock; brand the calves, catch the horses and break them, should have so long retained their original name. In the West and in California the term is fast giving way to a new word, herder, which is thus quoted: “It’s well we’ve a good herder ; they are not com- mon. The first time I crossed the plains, I was a herder. I hadn’t learned the trade at all, and a rough time we had of it.” (On the Plains, Putnam’s Magy., Feb., 1869.) We cannot wish the same long life to the hideous name of Vawdouz, a French term, desig- nating a certain form of worship and the object of this worship alike, introduced from the Island of Santo Domingo. The off- spring of grossest ignorance and most barbarous impulses, ac- cused of demanding human sacrifices and certainly accompanied by ceremonies of the most repulsive nature, the Vawdowx worship has, nevertheless, continued among the negroes of Louisiana, and an assembly was found engaged in it as late as the year 1862 in the State of North Carolina. By some freak of public taste the word vendue, vulgarly pro- nounced vandue, in the sense of public sale, has continued to be used here, while it is but rarely heard in England. “ THis farm is soon to be sold at vendue, and I think of buying it,” writes the author of the Letters from the South. (IL, p. 127.) Vendue-erier is in constant use in Pennsylvania. Unjustifiable are the silly imitations of English ignorance in using French terms with meanings which have no existence in France; and still journalists wil inform us that a great match is on the tapis, or that at such a ball Mrs. Grundy chaperoned two charming young ladies, although the chaperon rouge is the only chaperon known in France! French words have, of course, not escaped corruption among us any more than in England, only we proceed perhaps with more recklessness while our foreign cousins act more from ignorance. We call the fine pear Virgaliew by the more convenient name of THE FRENCIIMAN. 109 Burgaloo, but make a great effort to give the Indian Turnip (Psoralea esculenta) its French name pomme blanche, while the potcau, a stake firmly set in the ground, to which wild cattle and horses are fastened, becomes a vulgar putto on the lips of South- western settlers, and the poule @eau, a small black duck at home in the Gulf of Mexico, reappears as a pulldoo ; and still even this is less grievous than the Lave! with which the guide or chief- hunter rouses his companions from their short slumbers, instead of saying léve! “How I hated the slow, steady Lave! Lave! of our old trapper, when his moccasined foot touched my side, and I had to rouse myself for another day’s tramp through the endless wilderness!” (Scenes tn the Far. West, p. 9%.) Nor can much be said in apology of the shamefaced prudery which dares not say chemise, and tries to conceal it under the disguise of a shimmey: much more pardonable are the sherryvallies of former days, the chevalier’s or horseman’s overalls, by which he protected his trousers against mud and thorny bushes on long journeys on horseback! Names of places have not escaped this process of corruption. Bob Ruly in Missouri bears no resemblance to its French original Bois Brulé, nor does Smack Cover in Arkansas exactly represent Chemin Couvert, as it was first called by French settlers. One of the most striking cases of this class is probably a river in New Mexico, known as Picketwire, a name which was long a great ° mystery to all who had to use it. At last it was traced back, step by step, to the days of Spanish rule, when it had been regu- larly christened as Rio de las Animas, the river of Souls (of the departed). The French, who appeared next on the scene, translated this into Riviere du Purgatoire, and this the American conquerors, after the manner of Norman conquerors in England, changed into the River Picketwire ! A similar corruption has played havoc with a fair Indian name, and transformed it into a most absurd term of apparently French origin, by which not foreigners only, but even natives, have often been misled. On the Kennebec River, not far from the town of Norridgewook, the traveller sees a series of small but attractive falls, which he is told are called the Bombdazine Rips. He is apt to marvel at the oddity of the name, if he has not seen much 110 AMERICANISMS. of the country yet, but he is sure to be still more astonished when he finds in Vermont, near Castleton, a second Bombazine, here applied to a lake. It has only been quite recently discovered— thanks to Whittier’s Mog Megone—that the Indian tribe of the Norridgewocks, which resided in this neighborhood, once had a famous chief called Bomoseen, after whom they named both the falls and the lake. A Yankee trader, with more knowledge of dry-goods than Indian lore, no doubt, heard in Bomoseen noth- ing but Bombazine, and thus the poor chieftain was cheated out of his posthumous fame. Bodewash would remind few hearers of its French derivation from Bois de Vache, as early voyageurs called the Buffalo Chips of the Western hunter and trader. On the treeless plains of New Mexico and Texas, the cow-dung gathered near springs, where cattle are apt to congregate, is often the only fuel, yet is even pre- ferred to green brushwood, since it makes hardly any smoke and gives out a surprising amount of heat. Nor is the use of this strange fuel confined to the Southwestern States: in many parts of the Orient the same custom prevails, and even England is quite familiar with it, for Captain Grose has in his dictionary: “ Cas- ings or cassons; dried cow-dung used for fuel. Northumber- land.” A still stranger disguise is worn by the beautiful shrub known as the Osage Orange. Its wood being specially well adapted for the bows used by the Indians, it was called bois dare by French settlers; the unfamiliar name became in the hands of English hunters Bowdark, in which form it was long familiar along the whole Western frontier, and finally it settled down into the still shorter Bodok, which is now the common designation in many parts of the Union. “The chief stopped under a beautiful Bodok-tree, and calling Ouachita to him with an imperious ges- ture, he bade her kneel at his feet.” (W. G. Simms, Tales, L, p. 89.) A few French words have entered our idiom either with greater force or a more special purpose than appears in English, and may, to that extent, at least, be looked upon as Americanisms. Thus the verb to demoralize, is, of course, not unknown to Eng- lish authors, but Sir Charles Lyell tells us of his visit to Dr. THE FRENCHMAN. 111 Webster, that “when the Doctor was asked how many words he had coined for his Dictionary, he replied, only one, to demoralize, and that not for his dictionary, but in a pamphlet published in the last century.” (B.) Since then the word has become a great favorite in the United States, and is used on every occasion that will furnish a pretext for itsemployment. Hence the well-known anecdote of the Southern soldier in the late Civil War, who was found at the bottom of a ditch during the battle of Gettysburg, and when picked up for dead, piteously informed General Lee that he was not hurt, nor scared, but “terribly demoralized.” The term depariment has here the special meaning of one of the prin- cipal branches of government, the Treasury, War, Navy, etc., with a Secretary at the head of each, corresponding to the min- isters of continental monarchies. Here departmental business is transacted by a number of clerks, who for the sake of greater efficiency and method are distributed among so many dwreaua, in each of which again a subdivision of departmental business is performed. In another connection we find the name of the royal Bourbons applied, now politically to any old-fashioned party which acts unmindful of past experience, and now as a trade-term to a superior kind of whiskey distilled in the county of Bourbon, in the State of Kentucky, or to successful imitations. Pelage is still heard in the West, as it was in the days when Bacon used it, to designate certain furs; thus sea-otters are described as having a “fur much lighter inside than upon the surface, and extending over all are scattering, long, glistening hairs, which add much to the richness and beauty of the pelage.” (Overland Monthly, Jan. 1870, p. 25.) The French rode, on the other hand, is limited to the skin of a buffalo, while those of other animals are simply called skins. They are brought in packs of robes, ten being tied together, to the great fur markets, and thus a “coachman sat on the high box in splendid livery, with a costly buffalo robe thrown carelessly over his knees.” (New York Herald, Jan. 9, 1870.) Other French words, like promenading, instead of simply walk- ing; prestige for a peculiar influence more felt than enforced ; and oortemonnate, for a compact mouey-pwrse, dre probably not more common in America than in England; and when a writer says of the mouth of the Mississippi: “Here and there, shaded by a 112 AMERICANISMS. graceful group of bananas, is a latanier hut with adobe walls, and a roof thatched with the fan-shaped leaf of the palmetto” (Put- nan’s Mag. May, 1868), he would have been better understood in both countries by simply saying, “ Bourbon palm,” instead of latanier. The abuse of douguet, which is commonly pronounced and often even printed doqguet, is “a corruption as dissonant to the ear as were to the eye the plucking a rose from a variegated nosegay, and leaving only its thorny stem.” (George H. Calvert, Popular Errors.) Even Boquet River, in Essex County, New York, has been thus contaminated. The hope that it might derive its name ‘from Colonel Boquet, who encamped on its banks with a British force in the colonial time, has failed; since it has been ascertained, from a letter written years before, that the correct name, Bouquet River, was given it from the flowers on its banks, which to this day make it one of the most lovely and romantic of American rivers. Nor have proper names of persons been able to protect them- selves against the overwhelming power with which the English language absorbs all foreign words, as the English character absorbs other nationalities. Frenchmen and French Canadians who came to New England, had to pay for such hospitality as they there received, by the sacrifice of their names. The brave Bon Ceur, Captain Marryatt tells us in his Diary, became Mr. Bunker, and gave his name to Bunker's Jill of famous memory; Pibaudiére was changed into Peabody, Bon Pas into Bumpus ; and the “most unkindest cut of all,” the haughty de ? Hétel, be- came a genuine Yankee under the guise of Doolittle. A curious form under which French still continues in Louis- iana and some of the riparian counties on the Mississippi, is the Creole-French, a dialect or patois, consisting in the main of strangely disguised and disfigured French words, with an admiy- ture of some English and a few genuine African terms. — Its grammar has been written, and the learned librarian of Yale College, Mr. Van Name, has examined it philologically with great success. As it is rapidly passing away, a stanza of a popular Coonjai (congé), or Minuet, well known to Louisiana planters, may not be out of place here: THE FRENCHMAN. 118 “Mo déja roulé tout la céte, Pancor (pas encore) ouar (voir) pareil belle Layotte, Mo roulé tout la céte, Mo roulé tout la colonie, Mo pamor ouar grifforme 1a, Qua mo géut comme la belle Layotte.” THE SPANIARD. “He has no Savey.” Mark Twain. Tue Spaniards have been so long masters in Mexico and Flor- ida, that the acquisition of the latter State, and the formation of California and the territory obtained after the Mexican war into several new States, have made our people familiar with many terms belonging to their language. They remember with deep interest that the oldest town in the United States is St. Augustine, in Florida, founded in 1565 by the Spaniards, while venerable Jamestown, in Virginia, dates back only to 1607, and Plymouth, in Massachusetts, to Governor Winthrop in 1620. Santa Rosa and Fernandina, in Florida, retain with their ancient names many a relic and ruin of Spanish days, and California is almost altogether Spanish, as far as local names and the most familiar expressions are concerned. Spanish words, especially those re- lating to horses and mules and to their equipments, have of late come into general use in Oregon, owing to intercourse with California. A number of these Spanish terms bequeathed to us by the former owners of the soil, are, of course, parts of the great Eng- lish language, and as well known abroad as with us, but in the great majority of cases such words have assumed here either a new form or a special meaning, which makes them more exclu- sively part of our own speech. Known in England only to the few, they have become with us the common property of the’ peo- ple, and are understood not only by the dwellers in formerly Spanish districts, but quite as well by the general weader. Thus we owe to Spanish distinctions, made at an early period of their dominion on this continent, several of the names by which shades of color are designated in the descendants of white THE SPANIARD. 115 and black persons who had intermarried. Their term mudlato, from mado, simply denoting a mixed breed, became our Mulatto, the name of a person whose parents were black and white. The name is in the United States given more loosely to any one who has white blood in him, though, strictly speaking, the offspring ofa mulatto and a white man is a guadroon, or cuarteroon, as he is sometimes called by the Spanish term, and an octaroon (with an rin it which is inorganic, and has slipped in merely from a fanciful analogy to guadroon, while the proper form would be “Octoon ”), is the offspring of a quadroon and a white. The latter is also sometimes called a Mustee, a term obtained from Cuba, but properly the Spanish mestizo, the child of a Spaniard and an Indian, which again produces Mustafina, the offspring of a mustee and a white, having therefore only one sixteenth of black blood in his veins. These nice distinctions have, since the emancipation, lost all the importance they had in the days of slavery, and the only interest that now attaches itself to the multattoes especially, is the question how far they will show a superiority over the negroes, such as has been noticed in some of the West India Islands. So far two facts only have been estab- lished which bear upon this question. One is, that the mulatto is invariably a decided improvement on one of his producers, and not at all incapable of reaching the full stature of mental and moral manhood. The other is, that while an infusion of white blood thus beyond all doubt intellectualizes the black, it brutal- izes the Red-man—a fact proven by the superiority of Brazil over other Spanish-American countries. In the Empire the mixture of Caucasian and negro blood has apparently not impeded prog- ress of every kind—in the latter the fusion of European and Indian blood has produced utter and universal ruin. The negro himself bears his first Spanish name, which simply means a black man, though the term is not often heard. now in the United States, where a sickly philanthropy prefers speaking of freedmen and colored men, while contempt stigmatises them as niggers, and ludicrously as people of the “ Fifteenth Amendment Persuasion,” alluding to the amendment to the Constitution, which secured to them their rights of citizenship. The word nigger is, however, not to be charged to this country. In Wix’s Newfoundland Missionary Journal we find: “Here we saw the 116 AMERICANISMS. wreck of the Royal Wigger (qu. Niger ?), a fine vessel which had run ashore” (p. 79), and beyond all doubt of a possible mistake, in an article of the London Telegraph, written by W. G. A. Sala: “There seem to be as many negroes in Africa . . . full-blooded, black niggers.” (Nov. 2, 1865.) The late Civil War procured for him a title, by which he was subsequently even officially known in many an Order of the Day and municipal proclamation. Gen- eral Butler, when first stationed at Fortress Monroe, in Virginia, remembered his acuteness, so often shown at the bar, and drew the line between the negro as property held by a rebel, and the same man as property useful to the enemy. He saw that the moment had come when the status of such a person had to be legally defined, and declared in his official orders, that he should hereafter be considered as “ Contraband of War.” From that day the former slave was known as a contraband, a reality soon to be changed once more into the ghastly phantom of a citizen. General But- ler’s claim to the honor of having invented or originated this very happy designation, has subsequently suffered under the misfor- tune which has so maliciously followed other claims of his algo. It was discovered that the term contraband, as applied to negro slaves, yas not unknown in English literature; we certainly read in Captain Canot’s amusing account of his life: “Scandal declares that while brokers are selling the blacks at the depot, it is not unusual for their owner or his agent to be knocking at the door of the Captain-General’s secretary. It is even said that the Cap- tain-General himself is sometimes present in the sanctuary, and after a familiar chat about the happy landing of the contraband, the requisite rouleaux are insinuated into the official desk under the intense smoke of a fragrant cigar.” (Twenty Years of an African Slaver, 1854, p. 108.) The Negro or nigger has lent his name to various other objects peculiar to American life. The Negro-minstrel is the artist who blackens his face, adopts the black man’s manner and instrv- - ment, and recites his field and plantation songs, interspersed with laughable parodies of classic music. Miggerheads, again, are in the far South and Southwest the tussocks or tufts of grass and sedge standing out of a swamp, and bearing a faint resemblance to the woolly head of an African; while the same regions are familiar with the phrase of niggering out land, which marks the THE SPANIARD. 117 improvident and destructive method of working the same field, year after year; without manure. Among the cant words pro- duced by the late Civil War, nigger babies also became very popu- lar; the term originated with the veterans serving under the Confederate General Hardee, who gave that name to the enor- mous projectiles thrown into the city of Charleston by the Swamp Angel of General Gilmore, as his monster-gun in the swamps was ironically called. The real nigger baby is known under the name of pickaninny, a word frequently derived, after the example of Boucher, in his Glossary, from the Spanish words pequeto nifio, little child, but quite as likely of African origin; used in the West Indies to de- signate any young child, it is applied in the Southern States only to the offspring of colored parents, as J. R. Lowell says: ‘oTain’t quite hendy to pass off one o’ your six-foot Guineas, Aw git your halves an’ quarters back in gals and pickaninnies.” (Biglow Papers, IT., p. 25.) The word has since made its way across the Atlantic, where it “is now completely naturalized among the sailors and waterside people of England.” (Slang Dictionary, p. 200.) The Guinea so pleasantly introduced by the poet, the small change for which is represented by the little ones, is the Guinea Negro of not many years ago, when the designation was quite common, though generally applied to a full-blooded negro, as if he had but recently arrived from his African home. The Rev. Mr. Cartwright says thus, with an energy which is, we hope, not often required in the pulpit, while speaking of an incident which occurred while he was preaching in the State of Tennessee: “Just then my fastidious preacher pulled my coat and whispered: ‘ Gen- eral Jackson has come in, General Jackson has come in!’ I felt a flash of indignation run all over me dike an electric shock, and facing about to my congregation, and purposely speaking out audibly, I said: ‘Who is General Jackson? If he don’t get his soul converted God will damn him as quick as he would a Guinea Negro”” (Autobiography, p. 192.) The word creole, from the Spanish word criodlo, meant origi- nally nothing more than a child born of European parents in the West Indies, or on American soil; but it has long since been 118 AMERICANISMS. almost universally applied to any one born in the Tropics, with- out regard to race or color. In the United States, the meaning of the term is very vague, but a general feeling prevails, that the ’ ereole has some slight admixture of African blood in his veins— an impression probably imported from the West Indies, where negroes born on the islands are called creole negroes, in order to distinguish them from the African negroes, imported directly. In the Spanish colonies the creole was also often a man of color, as distinguished from the gapuwchin—an Aztec word—the Spanish resident. In the South, on the other hand, the term is now most generally used.for Americans of French descent, and this impres- sion is strengthened by the existence of a dialect or patois, known as Creole-French, of which a sample has been given. The Spanish word Zambo, originally meaning “ bandy-legged,” was by the Spaniards first applied to the offspring of a negro and a mulatto, and afterwards, in the South American colonies, to the child of a negro and an Indian woman. In the West Indies and the United States, the term has gradually come to be applied to all colored persons alike, and Sambo, as it is generally written, denotes simply a negro. It is of him Mrs. H. B. Stowe writes so enthusiastically: “No race has ever shown such capabilities of adaptation to varying soil and circumstances as the negro. Alike to them the snows of Canada, the hard rocky soil of New England, or the gorgeous profusion of the Southern States; Sambo and Cuffey expand under them all.” The word peon, from the Spanish term denoting first a foot- traveller and then a day-laborer, is of more recent date in our speech than in English, where it had become known through its use in India. We found the peon in the Spanish possessions, which now constitute California and the adjoining States, together with the system of peonage, as the peculiar relations were called, which existed in Mexico between’ the land-owner and his humbler ten- ants, or, worse still, between the creditor and his debtor, who, unable to discharge his obligations, voluntarily entered into a kind of serfdom to pay his debt by labor. The peon, in this sense of the word, is of course unknown to the territory annexed to the United States, but the term remains in use and is now applied mainly to humble laborers or small farmers of Spanish blood. Thus F. B. Harte says: “Leaving our horses in the charge of a THE SPANIARD. 119 few peons in the court-yard, who were basking lazily in the sun, we entered a low doorway.” (Luck of Roaring Camp, p. 218.) Another Spanish term of the kind, the jwez del campo, is now more generally used in the English form of Judges of the Plain. As such they appear already in the last code of California Laws, where they are appointed to attend the rodeos or great gatherings of all the cattle on a plain, for the purpose of separating, counting, and branding the stock belonging to each farmer; they have large powers in deciding all disputes concerning the ownership of every kind of cattle. The filibuster, whether his name be derived from the Dutch Viy-boot, a sort of fast-sailing clipper, or from the German Frei- beuter, the familiar freebooter of the Low Country wars during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, obtained his unenviable reputation among us and with it the naturalization of the word among our words, during the unfortunate attack of Lopez on Cuba in 1851. The term, therefore, is an addition we owe directly to the Spanish word jilibustero, as denoting first a small but swift vessel, and then a lawless adventurer, a pirate, landing in such vessels on a defence- Jess coast. Hence the Fenians also, in their unwarrantable inroad upon Canada, were called land-filibusters. It came prominently forward in the newspapers of the United States during the year 1852, mainly in connection with the ill-starred expedition against Cuba, but it must have made its way rapidly to England, as we find already in 1858 a work of high authority use it Abe “ By connect- ing the maritime wars of the Etruscans with the piratical expedi- tions of the Lydians, and lastly by confounding the Torrhebian pirates with the filibustering Pelasgians, who roamed over every sea, plundering wherever they came, there has arisen, one of the most deplorable confusions of historical tradition.” (Mommsen, Earliest Inhatitants of [taly, p. 59.) Since then the word has come into general use among us to designate any process wliich attempts to achieve a rightful end by unfair means, and even in political slang it plays a prominent part. “The Democrats tried by every means to prevent the vote being taken; they Jilibustered for twelve hours, but the majority sat watching them with indiffer- ence, sure of success as soon as their hour should come.” (Debate on the Enforcement Bill, Feb. 25, 1871.) The arriero, the muleteer so well known to all travellers in 120 AMERICANISMS. Spain, has of late become, in name and in duty alike, familiar to Americans ; since Mexicans, who are the most expert in managing horses and mules, are universally employed in all the trains that cross the Plains. Now he is seen riding on his gayly caparisoned mule at the head of a picturesque cavallard, as the long strings of horses and mules, laden with merchandise, are called in the Southern States, from the Spanish cadallada; and now he carefully leads a long mulada, “a drove of mules, hiding behind the swell- ing of the prairie, and watching the outline of the heights to see if no curious Indian is lying in wait there. If redskins or out- laws approach, the mzdada is instantly collected in a body, and the drivers, under the direction of the arriero, stand ready for service with their pieces cocked.” (Ruxton’s Adventures, p. 65, B.) “The caballada,” says, on the other hand, a more recent traveller, in purer Spanish, “contained not only horses and mules, but also here and there a stray burro (Mexican jackass), destined to pack wood across the rugged hills of New Mexico.” (A Ride with Kit Carson, G. D. Brewerton.) Certain features of the landscape in the South and West also continue to bear their original Spanish names, which are daily becoming more familiar as a part of our speech. The alamo (Populus monilifera) represents in Texas and all the formerly Spanish states the Cottonwood of the older parts of the Union, a most useful tree, so called from the cotton-like substance in which the seeds of this poplar are protected against the cold. Already in Lewis’ and Clarke’s Hzplorations of the Rocky Mowntains we find it stated that: “During the cold weather the squaws cut down the Cottonwood trees as they are wanted, and the horses feed on the boughs and bark of the tender branches, which are also brought into the lodges at night.” (L, p. 219.) They are found almost near all the bottom-lands and along the banks of streams and ‘lakes growing wild, and carefully planted in the public walks of Southern and Western towns, which hence derive the name of Alamedas.- The calabash of the United States is not the tree generally known by that name, but, when at all applied to a plant, the Gourd (Cucurbita lagenaria), and more generally the drinking vessel, made from its bottle-shaped fruit, which procured for it the Arabic name, from which the Spanish calabaza was derived. By THE SPANIARD. 121 far the most frequent use made of the word is, as a cant term, for a weak and empty head, and thus employed in humorous language, as in the words: “Mind how you chuck, or you'll break his cala- bash.” (J.C. Neal, Charcoal Sketches, p. 223.) Far more generally in use is the Spanish word chaparral, from chaparra, an ever- green dwarf oak, which in its turn is derived from the Basque. The meaning of the word was, however, in the colonies extended to any thicket or succession of thickets, consisting not of oaks only, but of other plants peculiar to the district. In California, therefore, and the formerly Mexican states, chaparra with its collective termination -al, denotes a tract of land covered with shrubs and bushes, mostly armed with spines, but belonging to different classes of plants. The chaparral of Palo Alto, for instance, is described as being “defended by gigantic cactus here, sharp-pointed yuccas there, and cat-claw briars everywhere” (New York Spirit of the Times, B.) ; and we are told that a new town, “ Middletown, on paper, flourishes like a green bay tree ; on terra firma it is the dry chaparral and the forlorn hillside.” (Overland Monthly, October, 1870, p. 322.) In other regions the mesquite, and some other shrubs of the family of the mimosa, are most common, and still others, like the Creosote plant, and the Greasewood of the Americans, known locally under its Spanish name chimisail, predominate in the Northern-parts of the State. F. B. Harte describes a man, in an inundation, rowing on the vast expanse of water and saying: “ With my hands dipped listlessly over the thwarts I detected the tops of chimisal, which showed the tide to have somewhat fallen.” (Luck of Roaring Camp, p 229.) The origin of Greasewood is doubtful. Some derive it from the Greaser, the popular name of the Spanish Californian ; others from the well-known fact that the Grizzly Bear gathers the leaves of the herb when he is wounded, and, his own surgeon, stuffs them into the wound tightly. The Mesquite or Muskeet (Algarobia glandulosa), a bastard- locust, is frequently derived from an Indian word, simply because the Spantal term, Mezquite, from which we derive the name, is not an original word of that language. It represents in the South- western States not only the tree, which is thought by botanists to be identical with that which furnishes the Arabic gum of com- merce, but also a fine, short grass, growing in great abundance, 6 122 AMERICANISMS. though only interspersed with other grasses, on the Western prairies. Of the former we read that: “ By the roadside there was a Texan emigrant wagon, which had turned aside into the almost impenetrable mezquite brakes,” and of the grass: “Now we come occasionally under the sweet influence of female angels, whose hoof-marked valley has no staple productions save jerked beef and mesquite.” (Overland Monthly, Aug., 1870,.p. 154.) The long, narrow pods of the tree, a mere shrub in less favorable localities, are not only a favorite food of all kind of cattle, but are ground by some of the more provident Indian tribes, and mixed with wheat-flour, giving their bread a peculiar and most palatable sweetness. The grass, also, has special virtues, among which the fact that it preserves its sweetness long after it is dried, is by no means the least important. Our kidney-beans form on South- western plains and in many of the old Mexican districts so con- stant an article of food, that they have become there universally known by their Spanish name of /frijoles, while the palmetto (Chamerops palmetto), called palmita or little palm in Spanish, reaches up as far as the State of South Carolina, to which it has given its name and its flag, and is extensively used for thatching cabins, for making piles of wharves, and a number of similar purposes. A pine-tree, the Spanish pion, has become quite naturalized also as pinion, since its edible nuts, long since appre- ciated by the animals of the forest, have become a favorite with the new settlers in Arkansas and the adjoining States. It is probably to the same language that we owe the term ratoon, used to designate the cuttings of sugar-cane of the second and third years’ growth, which serve for planting new fields. Derived from the Spanish retofo, a sprout or shoot from a plant cut down pre- viously, it has come into general use, and is even employed asa verb, so that planters will say: “the cane ratoons well. this season, and everything bears a most promising look on the plantations.” (New Orleans Delta, Feb. 21, 1869.) The prickly pear cactus, known also as Indian fig (Cactus opuntia) bears a purplish pear-shaped fruit, which in Southern countries becomes not only edible, but luscious, and is there generally known under its Spanish name ¢wna—a term which also serves to designate the pleasant beverage made from the fruit. The features of the landscape in our formerly Mexican States THE SPANIARD. 123 are but rarely left in possession of their Spanish names; they either recall familiar objects at home, and then receive the same appellation, or they are new and suggest at once a special name. Some of the older terms have, however, stoutly maintained their right, and have thus become incorporated in our speech. Prom- inent among these is the cafion, often written canyon, to represent the Spanish pronunciation of the word, which originally meant nothing more than a hollow tube. It represents now a feature probably exclusively peculiar to the Southwestern States, gorges or ravines worn by violent watercourses, of such vast dimensions as to fill the beholder with feelings akin to awe. At times they are long, and so overhung by precipitous rocks as to resemble tunnels; at other times the sides rise to the height of several thou- sand feet, and the traveller riding along on a high table-land finds himself suddenly arrested by a rent in the rocks which allows him barely to discern the tiny watercourse at the bottom of the gigantic fisstire. Where such narrow channels separate spurs or buttresses of the mountains, the Redwood generally follows the moist channel of the cafon, while in California there pour through these guiches the mountain torrents, the wet diggings of the gold regions. The word, but recently naturalized, has not escaped the common fate of being forthwith used as a verb, and hence already Captain Mayne Reid says: “I soon came to a bend, where the stream, after running parallel to the ridge, swept round and cafioned through it.” The word gulch, which is so often found in connection with California matters, that it is largely believed to be of Spanish origin likewise, is of course nothing more than the good old English guich, a “ravine,” which after long neglect has come to new honor in the new States. They abound in the South- western States, and are quoted as “Steep gulches, where every- thing was absolutely and hideously naked” (Afoot in Colorado Desert), while new ones are formed continually, especially after earthquakes. “In places one side of the crevice was two feet higher than the opposite wall, and the long, straight gudch, from one to three feet deep, and nearly as wide, could be seen for several miles.” (Overland Monthly, Aug. 1870, p. 161.) The word and its meaning are, however, well known to other countries also, for in Wix’s Newfoundland Missionary Journal we find: “I have met with places in Fortune Bay, two or three miles only from each 124 AMERICANISMS. other, to visit which, in winter, it might be necessary to make a circuit of fifteen miles, to get round the deep precipitous chasms or guishes and ravines.” (p. 19.) As if to make amends for its homely origin, the word frequently appears in its Spanish form of arroyo, which is, at least in certain districts, as familiar as the former, while the darranca, another Spanish-American term for a ravine, is generally applied only to deep breaks, produced sud- denly by heavy rains or swollen watercourses, and having steep and abrupt banks, like perpendicular walls. The word farailon, meaning an isolated island or promontory, is at least of local importance, as the islands on the coast of Cali- fornia are so called, and hence the term is often misunderstood, and taken to be a proper name. The Lagoons of the South owe , their origin quite as often to the French settlers, who certainly gave the name to the many bays and inlets of Louisiana, as to the Spaniards in the more southerly States. The Jano, on the con- trary, is the name of plains and prairies in the districts bordering on Mexico, unchanged as it was bestowed upon them by the first conquerors ; the hills and long ridges with flat tops, which fre- quently border them, are, in like manner, still called lomas, and when very low, with the diminutive ending, lomitas. A high plain or table-land, on the contrary, is called a mesa or table, and hence, in a Report on the Pacific Railroad, it is thus intro- duced: “The mesa or table-land character is exhibited only along the line of the river-valleys, as high bluffs, the result of denuding forces, subsequent to the origin albasin-depositions.” (Vol. I, p. 84, B.) Where they occur on a smaller scale, the diminutive form mesilla is used. Quite a poetical term survives yet in the lower plains, where occasionally a tuft of rank grass rises suddenly from . amidst the arid waste, and cheers the parched and weary traveller with its promise of a spring. These springs, inexpressibly wel- come in the vast deserts of those regions, were so heartily greeted by the first explorers, that. they called them ojos, or eyes, and this name they still bear. A picacho, or pointed summit, is the term by which, in New Mexico and Arizona especially, the peaks are known, which rise abruptly from a level plain and serve as land- marks far and near. The Spanish word placer has long since lost the primitive sim- plicity of its first meaning, whether it be derived, as some say, THE SPANIARD. 125 from plaza, and denoted nothing more than any particular spot, or really come from the word placer, a “pleasure,” in allusion to the delight caused by the finding of gold in the shape of dust in cer- tain localities. At all events, it was borrowed from the Mexicans in the latter sense, and for many years used to designate the de- posits of drift-sand in which gold was found. The term became, however, soon so familiar to American ears through the astound- ing reports of gold-findings m California, that it was applied to the discovery of any good thing which promised, a large reward. A careful writer in the Atlantic Monthly could, therefore, safely say: “The Homer of Chapman is so precious a gift, that we are ready to forgive Mr. Smith’s shortcomings. It is a vast placer, full of nuggets for the philologist and lover of poetry” (April, 1858), and “Elegant Tom Dillar” in Putnam’s Monthly says: “ Because it is all Ineed. Ithink I have found a placer ; I shall make money by it, and after this I shall be rich again.” The word has even given a flourishing town the barbarous name of Placerville! The plaza itself, the public square, has become a familiar term with the acquisition of so many towns in which it formed a‘prominent feature, while playa, literally the “strand or seashore,” finds in the Southwest an entirely new purpose to fulfill. It is there applied to those vast inland plains, known farther North as salt and water prairies, the surface of which is covered with a thick incrustation or nitrous efflorescence, known as fesqutte, so as to give them the appearance of a large motionless lake. Mr. Bart- lett himself describes them thus: “ Emerging from the pass into the plain, our eyes were greeted with the sight of a white streak, which we would have taken for a lake, had it not been called the playas. This playa seemed to have an extent of twenty-five or thirty miles. The surface was an indurated clay, so hard that the wheels of our wagon scarce made an impression. After rain this basin receives a large amount of water, which seems to evaporate before vegetation getsa foot-hold.” (Personal Narrative, I., p. 246.) The presidio, also, the name of a military post in the former prov- inces of Mexico, has been inherited from the Spaniards; and as many of these posts are now within the new States of the Union, the name is retained for the village, which generally occupies the place of the former fortifications. The same fate has been that of the casa, a word originally meaning simply a “house,” but % 126 AMERICANISMS. being by the Spaniards applied to conntry houses especially, the Americans have adopted it in that sense, and thus say: “ His casa’s built too high up the foot-hills. O, thar ain’t any water thar, you bet.” (F. B. Harte, Luck of Roaring Camp, p. 228.) The term pueblo, also, in Spanish used to designate the village inhabited by Indians, under the care of a Spanish priest, and by him directed in worldly as well as in spiritual matters, still clings to the place. It has a peculiar interest in the case of the Puwebdlo- Indians, said to be the legitimate descendants of the ancient Aztecs, the former rulers of the country, who have given up their roving life and devote themselves to agriculture and domestic pursuits. But while they are thus semi-civilized and at least nominally good Christians, they nevertheless look piously and anxiously for the return of Montezuma, burning as of old his eternal fires, and celebrating his festivals in strictest secrecy. Pueblo itself is not unfrequently heard for a town or village that was formerly Spanish, and many of these continue to bear their old Castilian name. San Francisco alone seems to be in danger, at least colloquially, of losing its identity, as miners and others now very generally shorten it into Frisco. “They advised me to send him to /risco to the hos- pital, for he was no good to any one, and would be a baby all his life” (F. B. Harte, Luck of Roaring Camp, p.51.) Nor must it be forgotten that the same term, pweblo, is applied also to the ruins in New Mexico and Arizona, peculiar erections, very nume- rous in the region between the Rio Grande, Colorado, and Gila rivers, which owe their origin to a partly-civilized race, differing from all others. “The Puedlo Pintado is one of the most remark- able. It is built of small flat slabs of grayish sandstone; between the stones are layers of small colored pebbles, the edifice at a dis- tance resembling brilliant mosaic work. It is thirty feet high, and embraces three stories, the upper portion of each story form- ing a terrace. The building is one hundred and thirty yards long, and contains fifty-three rooms on the ground-floor. The Pueblo Una Vida is about three hundred and thirty yards long, while that called the Ohettro Kettle, is four hundred and thirty- three yards long, and each story has one hundred and twenty-four rooms.” (Charles Morris, Monuments of Ancient America.) In like manner the Spanish word sitio, a square league of land, nearly equal to 4428 English acres, is perfectly familiar to all THE SPANIARD. 127 Americans who either live or own land in the former Spanish possessions, as all ancient grants and charters mention this meas- ure; the term occurs constantly also in the courts of law, and thus is brought to the higher courts in other States, also. One of the few local terms taken from the Spaniards, which is used in the older States of the Union, is the word Savannah, well known as the name of the great seaboard city of the State of Georgia. The euphonious name has its very modest origin in the Spanish term sabana, a “linen sheet,” which was applied by the followers of De Soto already to the prairies of the South. It became of general use in Florida, and when the State was incor- porated into the Union, it was adopted into our speech. It was, of course, well known to English writers, and used by them also, as in Thomsou’s lines: “Plains immense, And vast savannas, where the wand’ring eye, Unfixt, is in a verdant ocean lost.” (Summer.) That its form and its meaning was not always quite clear, how- ever, to English minds, we may presume from the Salwanners, which the old English innkeeper in Barnaby Rudge believed to be the name of a ferocious tribe of Indians, whose sole occupation was digging up tomahawks, and uttering unearthly war-whoops. When the savanna is a dry desert of considerable extent, it has the expressive name of Jornada, or the Day’s Journey, and some of these terrible plains, which look as if they were forsaken by man and beast, and labored under a curse, are thus familiarly known. The Jornada del Muerto, the Plain of the Dead Man, as it might be translated, is ninety miles long, and requires several days to traverse ; the trail is strewn with bleached bones, and early trav- ellers, especially, used to look upon this part of the Overland Route as the most dangerous part of the whole undertaking. Efforts are, however, made to deprive these deserts of their terror by sinking Artesian wells, which would soon “change many dreaded jornadas from waterless deserts into cultivated plains.” (Wislizenus, New Mexico.) The Sierra, the suggestive name of a mountain-ridge resem- bling, with its numerous pointed peaks, the “saw” with its sharp teeth, seems peculiarly appropriate to the serrated mountain- chains of the Pacific coast. But Archbishop Trench, who first made 128 AMERICANISMS. this remark, was immediately taken to task by Alderman Moon, who destroyed the poetry of the resemblance at a blow, by declar- ing that sierra came from the two Arabic words sah rah, which simply means a desolate mountain-tract. Spanish authorities have, so far, preferred the saw doctrine. Two names of very special and peculiar localities will conclude this list. Tinaja, originally nothing more than an earthenware water-jar, is in the once Spanish districts very generally applied to small holes in the rocks on mountain-slopes, which, during the rainy season, are filled with water, and generally preserve a small quantity dur- ing the year. They furnish, in many regions, the only supply to travellers and hunters, and are hence most highly prized. The other term is the name of the State of Texas, literally meaning tiles, which, on the Mississippi and Western waters generally, is applied to the upper deck of steamboats. This is now a most desirable place, a light structure with glazed sides, in the very centre of the steamer, and immediately around the little glass house, from which the boat is steered, so as to afford ample room and a fine view. The cabins below this and above the grand saloon, where the officers of the boat are accommodated, also belong to Zexas. Formerly, however, the space was open, with- out guards at the side or awning above-head, and frequented by the personal friends of the pilot and their associates, men of great daring, no doubt, and expert in the use of bowie-knife and pistol, but as little desirable company as the first settlers in the republic of Texas, which attracted all the lawless and desperate characters of the Union. It was then the name was given to this part of the boats, and the application was probably not altogether inap- propriate. The two Spanish terms, hacienda and rancho, have become so familiar to Americans in the former Mexican provinces, and all along the Pacific slope, that they have become incorporated in our speech. Hacienda is generally the name of a large and exten- sive plantation, with the mansion of the owner, while the ranch, as it is almost universally called now-a-days, is the small farm or peasant village, and the owner is called ranchman. The larger rancho, again, passes sometimes still under its old Spanish name of estancia, managed by a mayor-domo or upper butler. “The hacienda of Encarnacion, thirty miles south of Agua Nueva, was THE SPANIARD. : 129 an estancia or stock-ranch, supplied with a bitterish but drinka- ble water from two deep wells worked by mules.” (Old and New, June, 1871.) The term meant originally nothing more in Northern Mexico than a hut rudely made up of a few posts and covered with branches, in which the vagweros or herdsmen would sleep at night and seek shelter in bad weather. For with the Spaniards a rancho was a cattle-station or a hunting-lodge in a desert or a forest, far from the haunts of men; and itis from this meaning that the common tendency of corrupting words, and the national ingenuity shown in perverting their legitimate use, have derived the application of rancho, in Washington, to a place of evil report. (Slang Dictionary, p. 221.) In California a rancho sometimes means also the buildings on such a farm, while the lands put in cultivation for the purpose of raising corn or any other crop, are called a dabor, pronounced like the Spanish word from which it is derived. All three names have been adopted, unchanged, and are in common use on the Pacific coast and in Arizona. The proper name for the buildings on a rancho used to be rancheria, but American carelessness dispenses with the word, and uses the shorter term for all it can mean. ‘The owner or occupant of such a farm is the ranchero, a word long incorrectly pronounced ran- kero, if we may judge from J. R. Lowell’s poems, who makes his hero, Hosea Biglow, say: “'These fellers are very propilly called Rank Heroes, and the more they kill the ranker and the more heroick they bekim.” (Biglow Papers, 1, p. 122.) A Milk-ranch has of late become the familiar Californian term for a dairy. The vast herds of cattle owned in those States are generally pastured all the year round; but where a dairy is attempted, the cows and their calves are every day driven into a Corral, as the large enclosure of cedar logs (Redwood) is called wherever it is used. The Spanish word, derived from corro, a circle, is quite as ‘frequently applied to the ring formed by the wagons of an emi- grant or hunter’s train, into which all the horses and cattle are driven at night to graze, and to be protected against prowling Indians. On the outside the tents are pitched, with their flaps opening outward, and here the camp-fires are lighted. A travel- ler, therefore, writes: “The wagons were all corralled, t. ¢., run together in the form of a horseshoe, so that the live stock, after - 6* 130 AMERICANISMS. feeding, could be driven into it.” (On the Plains, Puinam’s Mag, Feb., 1869.) “On the 10th inst., sheriffs Morse of Contra Costa, and Harris of Monterey, corralled a party of Spaniards in the Pacheco mountains. One of them was of the party that murdered three Frenchmen in Suscal Valley. A desperate fight ensued, but the Spaniard was shot dead and his companions were cap- tured.” (San Francisco paper, January, 1871.) If the corral is near a house, it serves as stock-yard, and, as mentioned before, the cows are daily driven into it, to nurse the calves. The people of the ranch then crowd in with their milking-pails; the calves are caught by little boys with lassos, and their necks tied to the hind leg of the mother, who then, under a pleas- ing delusion, allows herself to be milked. The “cattle,” on such occasions, often includes the mustangs, as the wild horses of the prairies are called, from the Spanish word mestefo, referring to studs and cattle-raising generally. “At sundown,” G. W. Kendall says, in his lively description, of the animals, “a drove of mustangs, or wild horses of the prairies, paid us a visit. When seen on a distant hill, standing with their raised heads toward a person, and forming a line as is their custom, it is almost impossible to take them for anything but mounted men. Having satisfied their curiosity, they wheeled with almost the regularity of cavalry, and galloped off, their long thick manes waving in the air and their tails nearly sweeping the ground. They are beautiful animals, always in excellent condition, and although smaller than our American horses, are still very compact and will bear much fatigue.” (Santa Fé Expedition, I, p. 88.) They are caught with the lasso, the Spanish lazo, a long, slender rope, often made of rawhide, and having a loop at the end, which the Indians and the whites of the Plains know how to handle with amazing skill. Texans twine or rope a horse, instead of “catching” him, as it is called elsewhere, and then stake him out with a stake-rope.. This may be either a cabresto, when it is made of hair, or—as is invariably the case in California—a Jariat, of rawhide twisted. ‘The word is derived from the Spanish Ja reata, and the rope is used to tie horses and mules together into a line, or to fasten them to a peg or stake driven into the ground. Hence J. R. Lowell makes his hero say, as he passes, on his return from the Mexican War, through parts of Texas: THE SPANIARD. 131 “You see a feller peekin’ out, an’, fust you know, a lariat Is round your throat, an’ you a copse, ’fore you can say: wut air ye at?” (Biglow Papers, I., p. 22.) Occasionally the original word asserts its right, and then the word is more correctly used as riata, without the article. “I’m a coiling up my riata” (Overland Magazine, March, 1871) means, very graphically, I am preparing for my death. “There was a stake driven near its summit, with the initials L. E.8. Tied half- way down was a curiously worked riata. It was George’s.” (F. B. Harte, Luck of Roaring Camp, p. 230.) With this /ariat or a shorter rope also, a horse is hobbled out to grass, which consists in confining his two forelegs to each other, so that he cannot step more than six or ten inches at a time. Cunning mules, however, with their usual perverseness, soon learn to lift both forefeet at a time and gallop off; hence they are lined, that is, the forefoot is tied to the hindfoot on the same side, so that the step is very much shortened and their gait reduced to a kind of pace. As this rope is of the utmost importance, it is the invariable accompaniment of every horseman, and generally hangs from the horn of the saddle, as the pommel is here called from its horn-like shape. If the saddle should be a pack-saddle, it is known by its Spanish name of aparejo, and all saddles, for riding as well as for carrying burdens, are apt to have an apishamore, a saddle- blanket, made of buffalo-calf skins, under them, so as to protect the animal’s back from being chafed. The main purpose of forming a corral is to prevent a stampede, as a general scamper of the horses and mules of a cadallada (con- ‘tracted in Texas into caballad and pronounced cavayard), and of the cattle from their pasture-ground, is called in the Southwest from the Spanish word estampida. The word was first used of the herds of cattle and mustangs, which were so common in the North of Mexico, then applied to every drove, and to the horses, mules, and dronchos, as the packhorses are called (pronouncing the ch as in chocolate); but it is now employed to denote any sudden fright, which starts a drove of animals on a wild flight, or a start given them by thievish Indians and white outlaws, who wish to possess themselves of the more valuable part of the drove. The scene is full of terror, and yet not without grandeur: oxen, horses, and mules, all racing in various directions and at full 132 AMERICANISMS. speed across the plain, with eyes distended and glowing in wild fear, with tails on high, and strange sounds filling the air. If this happens at night, even the experienced hunter is rarely able to resist the panic, and thus Kit Carson himself, probably the coolest. and most expert of Western hunters, was once carried away by the sudden surprise. “Some inexperienced traveller had given the alarm of Indians during his turn of guard-duty, or, as Western men express it, stampeded the camp. Kit Carson sprang to his feet, and, while yet half asleep, seeing some dark object advancing upon him through the long grass, seized one of his unerring pistols and shot, not an Indian, but his own particular riding mule, right through the head.” (A Ride with Kit Carson, p. 237.) The term has, like many similar words, become so current as to find ready application to every kind of sudden start or fright. “The Virginia Legislature, becoming frightened at the approach of the cholera, have stampeded to the White Sulphur Springs, there to legislate in the ballroom of the principal hotel,” says the New York Tribune of June 12, 1849; and in Blackwood we find it related of the Charleston Hotel, that “a shell had struck a house close by, and a sort of panic had been the result. Some had stampeded without waiting to dress, and had been seen with coats flying in one hand and pantaloons in the other, rushing frantically in the direction of the railroad-depot.” (Jan., 1865.) Anather word which has, in like manner, obtained currency among us, and a meaning far beyond the original signification, is Fandango, in Spanish the name of a popular dance and the appro- priate tune. Certain authorities, however, claim for it an older date, and recognize in it an African word, believing that the dance and its name were both brought from Guinea to the West Indies by slaves, and that it had made its way from there back to Spain, which in its turn sent it to the American colonies. At all events, a fandango was found to mean in Mexico, where American soldiers first were initiated into its mysteries, any kind of noctur- nal gathering, where the main entertainment consisted in dancing. In this form it is known in California and all the adjoining States. Miners and hunters delight in getting up an occasional fandango when they happen to be in town, and the Spanish residents are quite willing to attend, the men in their expensive scrapes, Mexi- can blankets with an opening in the centre, woven by hand, and THE SPANIARD. 133 rich in gaudy colors, and the women with their rebosos drawn closely over the face, serving for bonnets, which they never wear. The men, ou the contrary, seem reluctant to part with their sombreros, as the broad-brimmed hats are appropriately called in Spanish, from somora, “shade,” so that we read: “The old man extinguished his black-silk cap beneath the stiff, uncomely som- brero, which all native Californians affect.” (F. B. Harte, Luck of Roaring Camp, p. 214.) Such is the fandango in its native land, but the term is used in the Eastern States also. Here, however, the idea of more than usual noise seems to be intimately connected with the term, and any very boisterous assembly, even a row, is familiarly called a fandango. “You must have had a real fan- dango last night,” says the sleepless neighbor in a recent novel, “*T heard your friends making merry till late in the morning, and not a wink could I sleep.” (New York Home Journal, Dec. 14, 1850.) On such occasions, as well as at the somewhat more for- mal entertainments called ¢ertulias, the refreshments are of the simplest, consisting mainly of tortillas, little flat round cakes made of corn-meal and cooked upon a sheet of iron, and a large supply of aguardiente or “fire-water,” a kind of brandy distilled from the red wine of the country. ‘The former constitute the ordinary bread of Mexico and its provinces. The grains are first soaked in ley till they are soft, and the outer covering peels off; then they are thoroughly washed in water and made ready for the mill, a flat. stone, the upper surface of which is slightly concave, and a cylindrical crusher of the same material. A woman, by these simple means, crushes a handful of meal, which becomes soft and pulpy, and is then turned into a trough, kneaded, and made ready for the baking. In camp, men soon learn the mysteries of the art- less process, and easily prepare the wholesome, palatable food, vastly preferable to the atole, a gruel of corn-meal familiar to all the regions which are or once were Spanish. The latter resembles in its simplicity, at least, the equally familiar pinole, parched corn ground and mixed with sugar and spices, which is much used by travellers, because of its compact form and extremely nutritious character. After the morning’s work every Spaniard and every dweller in the former Spanish possessions, yielding to the force of established usage, indulges in his séesta, a Spanish word derived from the 134 AMERICANISMS. name of the “sixth” hour after the beginning of day, our “noon.” As the rest then taken is not necessarily confined to that hour, the term siesta, quite familiar to Europeans also, has become well known among Americans from two sources at once, and thus obtained so complete naturalization, that few persons using the word remember its foreign origin. They here also learnt a word which seemed to come quite nat- urally to them, the Spanish ¢izaja, which they promptly declared to be nothing better than a Mexican ‘effort to naturalize the famil- iar ¢¢n (tin-bucket) of the Americans. They had an opportunity of using the word in a complimentary sense, while admiring the Indian women, who carry these ¢inajas (earthenware vessels) of water gracefully on their head, when coming back from well or river, and thus acquire the same graceful, upright carriage, which is so striking in the women of Egypt and of the Kast Indies. If the refreshments are simple, there is no lack of entertain- ment, for while part of the guests amuse themselves with dancing, others enjoy the favorite game of the Mexicans and American settlers, known as Monte, and taking its name, very graphically, from the “mountain” of gold which the banker piles up before him to attract customers. The very fact that it is a game of pure chance, and hence continually varying, makes it peculiarly attractive to gambling Mexicans and adventurous men of all nations, who stray and drift to California and the new States of the Southwest. A few stray terms have, besides, found their way-from the Spanish into our speech, and acquired there more or less perfect naturalization. Among these the most undesirable are probably the two vile companions, which we apparently shrink from nam- ing in good English, the chinch and the mosquito. The former, mainly found in southern latitudes, bears its Spanish name of chinche, not only when it designates the common bed-bug (Cimex lectularius), but also when applied to an insect of similar offen- sive odor, which infests the wheat, and often does serious injury toa whole crop. The mosquito (Culex mosquito) seems to have been dreaded from of old, for even Bailey has already something to say of the moschetto, as he calls it after Italian manner. Our mosquito is, of course, a little fly only, but of most blood-thirsty nature, and eyen more intolerable in high northern latitudes than THE SPANIARD. 135 in the south. Mosqwito-nets or burs, curtains of a light, trans- parent material, which are closely drawn over the bed, are therefore known and used almost in every part of the United States, and indispensable for those who would enjoy their rest at night. Nor does the word garrote, which we owe, of course, quite as much to England as to our Spanish neighbors, awake pleasant recollections within us in its various applications to tight collars, to robberies by means of partial strangulation, and to the Spanish mode of execution practised in Mexico; it is, however, much more generally used in America than in England. The word adobe, the Spanish term for a brick not burnt, but baked in the sun, has on the other hand become quite naturalized. The material of which they are mide is abundant in California, and the bricks are hence, largely used in all the Southwestern States. “Some years ago,” says a traveller in those regions, “I passed along a by-road in Alameda County, through one of these adode fields, which had been sown in oats. ‘The crop was in blossom, and, riding on horse- back, the top of the grain had an average height somewhat exceed- ing the level of my eye sight.” This adobe soil is found in parts of the State outside of the great Central Valley. “In the county of Santa Cruz it is largely diffused, and there is a rancho, adjoining a creek, both of which bear the same name, which was given by the natives with reference to the physical character of the alluvium Salsapentos, which means, Get out of it, if you can.” (Overland Monthly, August, 1870, p. 160.) The word has made itself so much at home with us, that J. R. Lowell says of the Red Robin: “ Choosing out a handy crotch an’ spouse He goes to plast’ring his adobe house.” (Biglow Papers, Il., p. 157.) The common jail is, in Southern States, very frequently known as the Calaboose, a term which is probably a corruption of the Spanish calabozo, partly due to an intermediate French word, calabouse. It is quoted as sea-slang in the Slang-Dictionary (p. 93), but in America serves regularly, as, for instance, in the case of the common jail at New Orleans, which bears that name. “ More than thirty men were last night confined in the Caladoose, and with the present imperfect arrangements there, their sufferings must have been well-nigh intolerable.” (New Orleans Picayune, June 30, 1869.) Another word, similarly corrupted, but treated 136 AMERICANISMS. much worse, is the geographical name of Key, as applied to ledges of rock rising near the surface of the water, and low, flat islands in the West Indies. The word is derived from the Spanish Cayo, a name given, among others, to the small islands on the coast of Florida, which was retained after the acquisition of that State, but pronounced as it now is written. One of the best known among them, Key West, has suffered still further ill treatment; it was originally Cayo Hueso, Bone Island. Where formerly Spanish coins were current the word pieza, a piece, may still be occasionally heard in the transactions between Americans even, when a small silver coin, the Spanish real (de plata), is meant. In other parts of the Union it is represented by a term which has come from the West Indies.’ There—especially in Jamaica—a dit meant the smallest silver coin current, worth about sevenpence ha’penny; from thence the Southern States obtained their did, fully known as ji-pvenny-bit, amounting to six and a quarter cents; a defaced twenty-cent piece being called a long bit. With the disappearance of the Spanish coins from the United States, the word has gone nearly out of use. In England, however, fourpence continues to be called a dit, at least in city slang. The picayune, on the contrary, originally a Carib word, or possibly akin to French pécune, has not only held its own but be- come a popular word in familiar language. It was long used to designate, in Louisiana, Florida, etc., the Spanish half-real, and was next transferred to the American sixpence. The coin no longer exists in currency, but the term remains to designate any- thing peculiarly small and pitiful. “The whole thing this year was a miserable picayune affair,” says the New Orleans Delia of the Beeuf Gras of 1866, an expression exactly corresponding to the Northern phrase: “a one-horse affair” “A dozen Picayune Amnesty Bills,” states the New York Tribune, “ will do much to inflame and diffuse Southern discontent, nothing to allay it.” (Dec. 12, 1870.) The only serious use made of the term is found in the name of a very clever daily newspaper, published under the name of the Picayune, in the city of New Orleans, and sold for that coin, a fact which strangely recalls the name of the very first of all newspapers, published in Venice, and called Gazeta, from the coin of that name, for: “If you will have a stool, it will cost you a gazet, which is almost a penny.” (Coryat. Cradities, U., p. 15.) THE SPANIARD. 137 Of ill-treated Spanish words, perhaps none has suffered more grievously than piragua, a word probably of Indian origin in the first place, but introduced into the world of letters in this form, and soon adopted by the French also as pirogue, which is most familiar to American ears. Meaning, originally, a canoe formed of a single large tree, or sometimes two such trunks lashed to- gether, it is in the United States used promiscuously for any small boat or canoe, and even for a larger vessel carrying two masts and a leeboard, such as were formerly used as ferryboats in the neigh- borhood of New York. But the word was soon Americanized in a variety of ways, and, except in print, its true form is hardly ever preserved. Itappears in the West as periauger, a form under which it is used by W. Irving ( Washington, IL., p. 2'72), as pert- auga in Virginia, and thus quoted from the Western papers (p.13), and even as pettiauger in the Far West. A mere grammatical perversion, involving, however, no less violence, is the use of the Spanish imperative, Vamos, as an English verb, which has of late become so universal that it is actually often written: to vamose. The interjection, corresponding very nearly to our: Well! became familiar to the American troops during the Mexican War in 1847, and being uncommonly popular among them, it soon spread as a cant term all over the Union. Now it is a verb: “Before the speaker’s voice could be heard every democratic member had vamosed, and since that day no quorum has ever been present,” was said of the Indiana Legislature. (February 18, 1870.) Mr. Bartlett quotes from a book, “Southern Sketches,” the phrase vamosed the ranch, and calls this process of appropriating words: “breaking Priscian’s head with a vengeance.” (Dict., p. 496.) Since J. R. Lowell, however, has used to vamose, the word must probably be considered naturalized. In a recent poem by John Hay occur the following lines: “The nigger has got to mosey From the limits o’ Spunky P’int.” (Banty Tim.) This mysterious word mosey is, probably correctly, said to be nothing more than a mere variety of the Americanized verb vamose, With the final vowel sounded, and the first syllable lost. It certainly has the same meaning, of leaving suddenly, and gen- erally involuntarily. “My friend, let me tell you, if you do not 138 AMERICANISMS. mosey this instant, and clear out for good, you'll have to pay pretty dear.’ (Louisville Journal, October 9, 1857.) In this sense it has crossed the ocean, and reappears in English slang, especially as a summons: “Now, Mosey/” Its derivation from a mythical Moses, warmly as it is supported by English writers, has no foundation in fact, and is “only a new instance of the tendency to mythologize, which is as strong as ever among. the uneducated.” (Atlantic Monthly, August, 1860.) The Celtic proves its usual readiness to supply an ancestor to the quaint word, and proves its claims by the habit of Cornish miners to say, Moas, for Go! The verb is, of course, an entirely different word from that which enters into the composition of Mosey- sugar, molasses-candy with the meat of nuts mixed up with it. The latter comes from Mosaic, which the kind of inlaid work produced by the two colors, white and brown, resembles in some manner. Few would recognize the proud old Spanish word cavar, which denoted the haughty, impatient pawing of a spirited horse, in the half-ludicrous term: to cavort. It is true, its derivation is some- times sought in the verb: to curvet, from the French courbetter, but the fact that the term is very frequently not only pronounced but also written cavault, seems to speak in favor of its Spanish origin. It is now used, especially in the South, for any very ex- trayagant manner of speaking or acting, with an intention of ridiculing the action. Thus Judge Longstreet makes one of his heroes of “Georgia Scenes” say: “In they came, boys and girls, old and young, making a prodigious noise, and prancing and cavorting at a tremendous rate.” A recent traveller in South Carolina describes a court-scene thus: “In the court, a judge ina black silk gown, and a jury of nine whites and three blacks, were trying a black, evil-looking, one-eyed negro, for disturbing a reli- gious meeting. The witneases were all negroes, and the gist of their testimony was that Tony, ‘the accused, came to the meeting- house, and—jes kep cavortin’ round.” (New York Tribune, May 7, 1871.) Spanish terms may appropriately come to an end with the word Zombi, a phantom or a ghost, not unfrequently heard in the Southern States in nurseries and among the servants. The word is a Creole corruption of the Spanish somdbra, which at times has the same meaning. THE GERMAN. “TI schpeaksch English.”—Hans Breitmann. Even that more remarkable than creditable propensity of the German, to assert his cosmopolitan character by abandoning his nationality, and by repudiating, after a few years’ residence abroad, all attachment to his own language, his national views, and private convictions, has not prevented statisticians from finding more than five millions of Germans in the United States. They are, moreover, not limited, like the Dutch and the French, to certain circumscribed localities; they are not scattered and lost in the great Anglo-Saxon family, like the Irish and the Welsh. Far from it; they constitute a large proportion of the population of great cities, and own vast tracts of land in all the agricultural States; they have their temples to worship Gambrinus in Boston and in New Orleans, in Norfolk and in San Francisco. Their press is powerful and high-toned, their potent voice is heard in State Legislatures and in the national Senate. Their influ- ence is felt in every State, and their vote is decisive in great crises. And yet they have not enriched our language by a dozen im- portant words! ‘The very fact of their excessive readiness to adapt themselves to all the exigencies of their new home, their unwillingness to use their own idiom as soon as they have acquired sufficient English to converse in it freely, and their prompt admission of the superiority of American terms as well as institutions, have well-nigh neutralized the influence they might nave exercised by their numbers, their intelligence, and their superior education. They have, no doubt, powerfully affected the national mind in all that pertains to the realm of thought— 140 AMERICANISMS. American churches, American letters, and even American man- ners bear more or less the impress of German teachings; but the marks are not visible, because the action has been too subtle and slow, too secret and silent, to leave its traces on the surface. This is all the more true of our speech, as their own beautiful and highly improved idiom, so near akin to our tongue, has sadly suffered by the contact with English. Scholars coming over from Germany remark with deep regret how rapidly their beloved language is yielding to the might of American nationality. They point with ineffable pain to the jargon spoken, written, and even printed in Pennsylvania—a hopeless departure from the old standard, and shocking in its barbarous admixture of English terms, which it mutilates as savagely as its own. The lines: “My Mary cot one leetle sheeps, Hees flees so vite mit schnow, Und efry blace als Mary pin, Dat tam leetle sheeps will go,” show the havoc the uneducated German, whose ear cannot dis- tinguish between 4 and p, or d and ¢, plays with English; and the following will, in like manner, illustrate the injury done to the mother-tongue: “ Mudder, may I a schwimming went ? Nix, my grosse dotter! I bet twice more als foofty cent, Dat you get drowned in de votter.” (Acorn and Germ, Millwood, Pennsylvania, Sept. 14, 1870.) Hans Brettmann’s Ballads (by Charles G. Leland), give an example of the process which, artificial in the poems, goes on naturally in the regions where uneducated Germans and the des- cendants of such come in contact with the superior English which is spoken throughout the United States. On the other hand, in cities and a few specially favored districts, where a higher class of Germans are brought in contact with each other, they still speak their own language, publish their own newspapers, almanacs, and light literature, and have their own schools and churches, where instruction is given and services are held in German. The result is, that with the exception of one or two German THE GERMAN. 141 words of greater importance, our speech has been enriched only by a few terms, relating either to slang or to—eating. The word standpoint, a literal version of the German Standpunkt, is gen- erally considered as having originated in America; its use, how- ever, has met with such prompt and general success in the pages of English writers, that America would probably find it difficult to prove the paternity. A Turner, however, has become literally what Americans call an “ institution.” The word represents our “Gymnast,” but being applied to members of clubs and societies who make gymnastics a subject of pleasure as well as of health, it is now universally admitted into our speech. Turnerfeste, as their annual festivals are designated, excite the utmost interest, and their performances the greatest admiration in the large cities, while their clubs, or Turn Vereine, as they begin to be called even by many who are ignorant of German, exercise a most salu- tary influence on the people by inducing them to bestow that attention upon physical exercise, the want of which has so se- riously affected the health of Americans. It is somewhat strange that the word designating the very opposite to the Turner's character, the Loafer, should, in like manner, come from the German. He is the vagabond or idle lounger, who so oddly contradicts the world’s impression of Amer- ican energy anil irrepressible activity; who meets you at every corner and in every grogshop of a city; disfigures every village as he sits on empty boxes and windowsills, lazily whittling a stick, and spitting his villanous tobacco; who supports bar-rooms and ruins his prospects, disgraces his family, and destroys his own life. He is far worse than the lazzarone of Naples in his forced inactivity under a wretched government, and in a climate where life is possible without labor; worse than the Mexican lepero, cursed with an incurable malady, and helpless in all his efforts. In vain has he been painted in quaint humor by many a clever artist, in vain has Walt Whitman declared that the forte of his nation is “confessedly loafing and writing poems.” Although R. W. Emerson tells us gravely that the poet’s “ Leaves of Grass” are “the most extraordinary piece of wit and wisdom that America has yet contributed,” we believe better things of his nation. The term, common as it is, has, like many other common words, given the learned much trouble. The Philadelphia Vademecum 142 AMERICANISMS. said: “It is a convenient word, much needed in language, but without etymology.” Many are the sources, on the other hand, from which other writers have tried to derive the puzzling word, and the oddest suggestions have been made in good earnest. One claims it as a descendant of the Dutch land-looper, a vagrant; another traces it back to loaf, and sees in it a beggar for bread, Can it be a contracted form of low-fellow? asks a third, and still another is sure it owes its origin to Rabelais, who among hig wonders of word-coinage speaks of a certain good-for-nothing person, encountered by Gargantua, as lipe-lope. The fact that loper or loafer was in general use as a cant term in the early part of last century, when landloper was a vagabond who begged in the attire of a sailor (hence no doubt land-lwbber, Slang Dic. tionary, p. 172), would seem to speak in favor of the Dutch deriva- tion. The true origin of the word ‘must, however, be sought in German, where Ldufer is a term applied by the steady and phlegmatic people to men who are irregular and unsettled in life. Half of Germany pronounces this word with the vulgar sound of aw as lofer, and from this, in all probability, the German term Lofer and our loafer are derived. The usual freedom is taken with the word in forming derivatives: to loaf is quite frequent, as in J. C. Neal’s Charcoal Sketches: “One night, Mr. Dobbs came home from his loafing-place, for he loafs of an evening like the generality of people,” (IIL, p.11,) and the Philadelphia Mercury actually had a word loaferishly. (Jan. 13, 1867.) The word suggests almost logically the familiar Zager, as the famous Lagerbier of Germany is now called, since thousands of breweries furnish the favorite beverage to thirsty Teutons and Americans alike. Its popularity was unbounded, and the con- sumption perfectly amazing, till quite recently a formidable rival arose in the shape of duckbeer, the renowned Bock of Bavaria. Whilst Zagerbeer is so weak that judicial proof has been brought into-a Court of Justice of its inability to intoxicate a man even when several gallons have been drunk, the Buckbeer, on the contrary, is one of the strongest made in Germany, and hence represented by a he-goat, from which it derives its name, and whose effigy may be seen in countless deer saloons all over the country. ‘The other extreme, an exceedingly weak and insipid beverage, Shenkbeer, the Schenkbier of Germany, is so called THE GERMAN. 143 because it has to be put on draught (schenken) as soon as it is made, for fear of turning sour if not immediately consumed. Whatever may be the objections to the immoderate use of beer, there can be no doubt that it favors temperance by weaning foreigners especially from the habitual use of Schnaps, as almost any distilled liquor is called by the Germans, even in America; and all who know the sad effects produced in habitual tipplers of this country, or the still greater horrors produced by absynthe, will readily concede some advantages at least to comparatively harmless beers. The German is accused of being unable to enjoy life without a dish, which is as frequently —and as correctly—-called his national dish as frogs were considered that of the Frenchman: his sowr- crout. The Sauerkraut, cabbage cut fine, pressed into casks, and frequently allowed to ferment, is certainly a favorite with many Germans here as well as in their native land, but by no means more frequently to be met with than the coleslaw of the New Englander and his descendants. Aypple-butter, not unlike the famous apple-sauce of Yankeedom, and made by stewing apples for twenty hours or longer in cider, is a dish peculiar to Pennsyl- vania and the valley of Virginia, where it is produced in enormous quantities. Here it has been inherited from the first settlers through several generations ; among recent immigrants it is com- paratively unknown. The German word IMetzelsuppe (from metzeln, to kill, to butcher) has, in Pennsylvania and the Western States, where Germans abound, acquired the naturalized form Metzel- soup. When the “killing season” arrived, it was—-and probably still is—a common practice among farmers to send their friends and near neighbors as much of the puddings and sausages they made as was necessary for one meal for the family, at least, and as this was sure to be reciprocated, the practice was usually ac- companied by no special sacrifice. Still, there were cases in which no return was expected, as when the savory morsels were sent to tailors, shoemakers, and other humble persons employed by the family. This gift was called the Metzel-soup, although the term originated in a kind of sowp made out of the broth, in which the puddings were “boiled off.” The pudding itself is, in tho same districts, and especially in “ Pennsylvania Dutch,” called a Leverworscht (Leberwurst, 1. ¢. liver-sausage), and thus distin- 144 AMERICANISMS. guished from Blootworscht, (Blutwurst, 1. e. blood-sausage.) The real pudding was called pawnhost by the negroes, with whom it was a great favorite. The German Bretzeln have been adopted, with only slight modifications, wherever the peculiar twisted kind of bread is known, but the Schnitzel, slices of dried fruit, are almost universally called snits. A schoolmaster in a public school in the interior of Pennsylvania was drilling his class in arithmetic. He said: “If I cut an apple in two, what will the parts be?” “Halves!” was the answer. “If I cut the halves in two, what would you call the parts?” “Quarters!” “If I cut the quarters in two, what will the parts be?” The answer was unanimous, “ Snits /” Noodles, also, derive their name from the German Nudeln, and differ from the vermicelli of Italy only in the addition of eggs, With the dish the term of reproach, noodlehead, has come over from Germany, where NVudeln and Gritze (grits) are apt to be considered as the favorite food of fools. Hence J. C. Neal says: “Be sassy, be anything, Mr. Woodlesoup” (Charcoal Sketches, 1, 137), alluding to the German Nudelsuppe. Thus also dummer- head is not unfrequently heard in Pennsylvania and some of the Western States, where the German element is prevalent—an imi- tation of Dummkopf, our “blockhead.” The first part of the compound, the adjective dumm, is often used as dummy, not only to represent the absent partner at cards, but also any stupid, silent person. In this sense it is an inheritance from the Scotch as well, claiming near kindred to our dumb, as used in Allan Ramisay’s well known lines: “ Auld Gabbi Spec wha was sae cunning, To be a dummie ten years running.” In the sense of stupid, it is employed by the great Seer, Andrew Jackson Davis, who says of a medium that “he was the laughing- stock of his brothers and sisters, who nicknamed him a dummy, whilst his father averred that he would never earn his salt, for he had not gumption enough to make a whistle.” (The Great Har- monia, p. 339.) Sagnichts is almost the only political term ever employed by the Germans in America and adopted asa party-cry. They had been roused to an unwonted degree of indignation by the offen- THE GERMAN. 145 sive doctrines of Know-Nothings, who claimed all rights and privileyes in a country peopled entirely by immigrants, for natives only, to the exclusion of all foreign-born, naturalized citi- zens. With a fine instinct of political irony the Germans changed the term into Sagnichts, or Say-Nothings. It is not certainly known whether a similar political allusion lies at the bottom of a peculiar feature in the popular game of Zuchre, but if the latter is really, as many maintain, a German game, the explanation would be easy. In this game the knave of the trump-suit is called the Right Bower, and the knave of the suit of the same color the Left Bower, and these two cards trump king and queen as well as every other card. Now Bower is evidently the German Bauer, and here, therefore, as certainly in a very similar German game, the Bauer or yeoman is given the place and power of the. king. The term has become so familiar that Right Bower is now a common though perhaps still a cant term of high praise; hence an occurrence, in a recent debate in Congress, was thus reported : “They threatened to filibuster to prevent the bill from being con- sidered, and as their Right Bower, General Butler, was abseut, the stratagem would have succeeded, had not help come from an unexpected quarter.” (Globe, November 17, 1870.) Among the corruptions of German terms introduced into our speech may be noticed two ridiculous terms: Aatoose, used in the New England States for any sudden unpleasant noise, and said to have been derived from the German G'etdse (?), and Kriss Kingle, the sadly mutilated form of the beautiful word Christ Kindlein. The latter is in Germany already quite frequently contracted into Christ Kindel, the “Child Christ,” on whom German children rely for their gifts on the Christmas-tree, and this form has the more readily degenerated, as it was, after the manner of words, prone to follow the analogy of Criss-Cross,a game played on a slate by children, and derived from old-fashioned Primers. ‘These almost uniformly began the alphabet with the sign of the Cross, which was called Chiist Cross, from the first lesson learned by children ; for one of the oldest authorities on the subject, “The Boke of Curtasye,” directs children to give special attention to the seven initiatory lessons of the Christian child. 1. The Cross Christ. 2. The Lord’s Prayer. 3. The Ave and Creed, etc. Among the many evidences of the absurdities to which the 7 146 AMERICANISMS. freedom of phonography, so warmly advocated by many earnest men, but happily abandoned even in Webster’s last edition of his great Dictionary, must inevitably lead, few are more striking than the word fillipeen, bravely quoted in Bartlett’s American- isms. As the pleasant custom which the term designates, is not known ever to have been connected with the giving of fillips, this manner of writing seems to be inexcusable; it certainly recalls neither of the two favorite derivations of the puzzling word. For- tunately it concerns Americans very little, whether the term is derived from the Greek péiAos and zouvn, or from the German Vielliebchen, since they use it only as they have received it from their English forefathers; but it ought surely to be -protected against such utterly lawless spelling. The mzley-saw, a saw which is not hung in the gate, is almost as bad; few would at first recognize in the English-looking word, with its squint at a mule, the German word Mithlen sdge, from which it is in reality derived. But what shall we say of German phrases which seem gradually to force their way into English, like the hold on! used thus: “ When the police-officer saw him quietly walk out of the door, as if to leave the court-house, he called out to him, hold on, my good friend, you are wanted!” (Cincinnati Inquirer, July 1%, 1865), or the what for (was fiir) of the New Englander, who had lived so long in Missouri that he could rise in the House and say: “Mr. Speaker, I demand to know who dared present such a peti- tion. What for a boldness is that, to come here and ask us, who have fought against treason for four years, to honor the very traitors whom we have crushed?” (St. Louis Democrat, Aug. 21, 1866.) They are simple barbarisms which the genius of our lan- guage may endure for a time, but which ought not to be encour- aged and endorsed by careful writers, even in the pages of a news- paper. There is much less harm in the introduction of German phrases drawn from nature or local peculiarities. Thus, while the French and English draw, their terms of contempt or pity for youthful inexperience from unfledged birds with green or yellow bills, etc, the German fancifully notices that newly-born animals are apt to be licked dry promptly everywhere except behind the ears, and hence their colloquial phrase: “The youngster is not dry yet behind his ears”? The expression having become familiar to THE GERMAN. 147 American ears in Pennsylvania first, has from thence spread to other States also. “Rustic maidens rejecting the attentions of youths, whom they consider too young to be of special value as lovers, are fond of saying: You are not dry yet behind the ears, you had better wait!” (Professor 8. 8. Haldeman.) THE NEGRO. “Dark sayings, darkly uttered.” THE negro formerly occupied too subordinate a position in the social scale to influence the speech of his masters. His ignorance, his carelessness, his inability, with peculiar organs of speech un- trained for many generations, to repeat certain sounds at all, and his difficulty in perceiving others by the ear, account amply for the havoc he played with-the king’s English. These impediments haye made themselves clearly felt, since zealous and intelligent teachers of both sexes have devoted themselves in numbers to the training of freedmen’s children. They have encountered almost insuperable difficulties, even where mental capacities were appar- ently fully equal to those of the white race, and the zeal to learn was almost irrepressible. The most successful among the well- educated negroes, who have risen to honorable positions at the bar, or earned distinction in other professions, men of eloquence, often, and always forcible speakers, retain nevertheless certain peculiarities of sound, of utterance, and accentuation, which would mark them, even if they bore no trace of their origin in their appearance, at least as much ag foreigners are marked who have mastered a foreign idiom perfectly. Did not even the elder Dumas in his speech as in his writings betray his descent unmis- takably ? The habits of the negro in his pronunciation of English words must, however, not be judged, as is too frequently done, by so- called negro minstrelsy. As French and German characters in comedy have passed into a conventional mispronunciation, as no American ever spoke like the Yankee on the boards of minor theatres in London, so haye these so-called minstrels done great THE NEGRO. 149 injustice to the negro, whom they claim to represent. Foreigners, especially, believe in the conventional negro, as Englishmen believe in the long-legged, tobacco-chewing, bowie-knife-carrying Yankee in Punch. The bulk of American play-goers, we fear, are as frequently misled. The error arises often from utter ignorance of the vast difference that exists between certain classes and varieties of negroes. The Virginia slave, for generations accustomed to the nicer functions of a house-servant, in daily contact with gentle- women, and accustomed to hear at table and during long journeys on horseback or in private carriages, the conversation of intel- ligent men, was far above the average of the British laborer, to say nothing of the French peasant. He spoke fair English, in- finitely better, at all events, than the Yorkshire yokel, or even the thorough-bred Cockney. The slave on a sugar or cotton plantation in the Southwest, on the other hand, was but a step _removed from the African savage; his speech, largely intermixed with African terms, was well-nigh unintelligible. But even in the so-called Border States there was an immense gulf between the house-servant and the rnder Field-hand. Some of the former possessed not only knowledge, but even refinement; body- servants, as they were called, taken abroad by their. masters, astonished European gentlemen by their politeness of manner and their inbred courtesy, and the Ex-President of Liberia, long a slave in Virginia, never once lacked the dignity and self-posses- sion required by his high office, when presented at foreign courts, or on the far more trying occasions, when he returned to his native State and met his former masters. But the jield-hand was, what Mr. Olmsted says of him: “on an average a very poor and very bad creature, much worse than I had supposed before I had seen him, and grown familiar with his stupendous ignorance, duplicity, and sensuality. He seems to be but an imperfect man, incapable of taking care of himself in a civilized manner, and his presence in large numbers must be considered a dangerous cir- cumstance to a civilized country.” (Journey in the Back Coun- try, p. 432.) Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that even the most intelligent of the race seem to have some difficulty both in their hearing and in their organs of speech, which prevents their perceiving the 150 AMERICANISMS. more delicate modifications of sound, which abound and are of such paramount importance in English, and of reproducing them accurately. As the German, whose native dialect has from child- hood up accustomed his ear to an utter disregard of the differ- ence between d and ¢, and 4 and p, never ceases to confound them in English also, so the negro finds it often utterly impossible to hear certain sounds, and can consequently not imitate them. One of the most striking evidences of this inability is found in the unique and very interesting manuscript, in Arabic charac- ters, made by a Mandingo slave, who belonged to a Mr. Maxwell, of Savannah. His American name was London, and having become a zealous Christian, he transcribed the Gospel with rare precision, using even the vowel-points—harakat—of the Arabic grammar, proving thus his careful training at home in making copies from the Koran. But in spite of all this training, and with all his intelligence, he could only write the English words as their sounds affected his ear, and thus his vocalization was in this wise: (First Chapter of John) “fas chapta ob Jon. Inde beginnen wasde wad ; ande wad waswid Gad, ande wad was Gad.” The manuscript caused a ludicrous mistake, such as had hap- pened even to Mr. de Sacy, the great Orientalist, who states him- self that having received an Arabic manuscript from Madrid, he examined it carefully, and failing to discover a single Arabic word in it, suggested that the book was probably written in the language of the Hovas of Madagascar. Subsequently he found that the MS. was in Spanish, and had been written, according to the ear, by a converted Moor. In like manner the MS. of the intelligent Mandingo slave was presented to Mr. W. B. Hodgson, of Savan- nah, who also looked for Arabic words corresponding to the Arabic letters, and abandoned the task of deciphering it in des- pair. A chance remark suggested the turning of the latter into Roman letters, and he discovered at once by the sound what the eye had failed to perceive. Still, the very imperfect manner in which the writer had evi- dently only been able to catch the English sounds, accounts at once for. the majority of peculiar forms and sounds, which are so often exhibited as Americanisms, due to the influence of the negroes in our midst, while they are in effect nothing more than unsuccessful efforts to speak correct English. It is a grave mis- THE NEGRO. 151 take to imagine-that the language adopted by negro minstrels is that of the negro; the Englishman might as fairly be judged by the “ Mylord Goddam ” of the French stage; and the use of had for have, 7ub for love, massa for master, is by no means universal, nor has it ever been common to all slaves. Of genuine African words which have become sufficiently well- known to be considered Americanisms, there are probably but three in our speech. One is the term Buckra, which, on the African coast, is universally applied to white men, meaning originally “a spirit, a powerful being,” and is used in that applica- tion throughout the Southern States. Hence, Mr. Bartlett quotes the negro song: ‘ “ Great way off at sea, When at home I binny, Buckra man take me From de coast ob Guinea.” Its meaning is occasionally transferred to white objects, and negroes thus speak of duckra yam, with the understanding, how- ever, that it is not only white, but peculiarly good also. The word is occasionally enforced by the addition of swanga, an African term, meaning elegant or bright-colored, so as to strike and please the eye. A Swanga Buckra serves, therefore, among negroes, to designate a specially well-dressed white man. From this African term is, curiously enough, a word derived which has made its way to New England, and is now quite at home on the banks of Newfoundland. This is Swankey, the name given—probably as something very elegant in taste and effect—to a beverage consisting of molasses, vinegar, and water, the favorite drink of fishermen. “Roll along here, shouted the cook. Tumble up an’ git your swankey, boys. It’s as good as ever you cocked a lip at. And at the word each man, his face glowing with excitement and exercise, took his turn at the swankey pail.” (Newfoundland Fisheries, p. 110.) It is presumed, though not proven, that the Moonack, a myth- ical animal known to negroes only, is also of African origin. The beast lives, according to their belief, in caves or hollow trees, and the poor negro who meets it in his solitary rambles is doomed. His reason is impaired, till he becomes a madman, or is carried off by some lingering malady. He dare not speak of it, but old, 182 AMERICANISMS. experienced negroes say when they look at him: “He gwine to die; he seed the »oonack.” Cuffy, which is often claimed as a negro term, is in all proha- bility nothing more than a corruption of the English slang term, a cove, and quite as frequently heard abroad as in the United States. “The fine dash of Virginia upper cuffyism, it is gone,’ gone forever. Sambo has settled down into a simple bourgeois.” (Putnam’s Magazine, December, 1854.) Nor is the number of words large which express the rela- tions of master and slave, and to which ignorant negroes, dull of bearing, have given anew meaning. Even the familiar appellations of Uncle and Aunt, by which for many generations every colored man and woman was called, were not peculiar to America, as Pegge’s Supplement to Grose distinctly states that the two words are “in Cornwall applied to all elderly persons.” The house and stable servant, in like manner, went by the generic term of boy, irrespective of age. A word as hideous in sound as of import, connected with the negro, is the famous Black Code, a collection of laws first made by Bienville in Louisiana, which was ever after the model for all legislation on the relations of master and slave. When the colony was taken possession of by the Crown of Spain in the year 1769, the provisions of the Black Code were retained with such modifica- tions as the “Siete Partidas” made on the subject of slavery. This system of laws has ever since been the Blackstone of Spain and her colonies, and is still the authority in the parts of America settled by Spaniards. Its power continued long in Louisiana, and controlled largely the rights of negroes, even after the colony be- came a State of the Union. It is comforting to turn from such a subject to the term of tenderness, by which the black nurse was, for so many generations, known to the children of the South. This used to be Mammy, the same name formerly given in England to grandmothers, and by some derived from the Gypsy word Mam, which means grand- mother. Even now many a Mammy is spending her declining years in the family of-those whom she has nursed and reared, and thus the name still lingers on in the Southern States. In South Carolina and some of the Gulf States, the word is sounded and written Marwmer, and thus it is quoted by a recent writer: THE NEGRO. 153 “An old Maumer (the general term of Southern children for their nurses), whose gray hairs are still covered by the bright turban, which always gave such dignity to the appearance of the nursery ruler. Where are those mauwmers, whom the children loved only less than those who bore them, and with whom the friendship only ceased with life? They, too, belong now to the past.” Indirectly, at least, the negro has given us the verb, to maroon, from maroon, the name applied in the West Indies to runaway negroes, who lived as outlaws in remote and inaccessible parts of the country. .The term is used in the Southern States, though now less frequently than formerly, to designate a pic-nic or excursion party extending over several days.