Philadelphia, November 1850
GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, November 1850
REMARKS ON FOUR OF THE LANGUAGES OF EUROPE.
BY R. J. DE CORDOVA.
THE study of languages is one of the most interesting subjects which can occupy the attention of an American reader. The peculiar freedom of our institutions, the unalloyed liberty which is the moving principle of our country, cause the United States to be regarded as the common home of persons from all other parts of the civilized globe, who have been made the objects of native oppression, or who have suffered the tyranny of arbitrary masters. There is scarcely a kingdom in Europe which has not sent forth a sorrowing son to find happiness and contentment in this land, where "all men are born free and equal." The poor Irishman, denied by his proud and imperious neighbor the right to live on his native soil; the noble Spaniard, exiled because of his patriotism; the high-minded Portuguese, flying from the superstitious rage of a pampered church; the chivalric Frenchman, tired of ambitious anarchy; the learned and philosophical German, weary of royal imbecility; and lastly, the patriotic and enthusiastic Hungarian, driven from his fatherland by the dishonest and grasping might of regal theft - all seek the great Republic of the West as a haven and a resting-place, where speech is as free as thought, and where the Protestant and the Pantheist, the Catholic and the Calvinist, the Jew and the Gentile, the Mussulman and the Methodist, the Hindoo and the Huguenot, the Unitarian and the Quaker, are truly brethren.
There are therefore many languages spoken in our large cities. The musical Italian, the soft French, the sonorous Spanish, and the guttural German, mingle with our own mixed English on all our public thoroughfares, and salute the ear of the passer-by, suggesting a thousand reflections, among which are those which I present to the reader in the present paper.
The origin of primitive languages is a curious study, fraught with many hypotheses, grave and ridiculous, plausible and obscure. We can, however, easily imagine a savage nation, or, more properly so to speak, the germ of a savage nation in the earlier ages, beholding, for the first time, wonderful objects - as the sun, the moon, the stars, the ocean, trees, rain, and so forth. The view of these would, of course, suggest wonder, delight, admiration, joy, and other feelings of a similar nature, which again would find vent in ejaculations descriptive of the sentiments to which the contemplation of these objects gave birth. These exclamations would, doubtless, be repeated frequently, and would in time be identified with the objects which they were intended to indicate, becoming perpetuated by tradition through succeeding generations.
This is, of course, nothing more than imaginative hypothesis; but it is a singular fact that there are, at this day, in many languages, various words which, in their peculiar sound, interpret the meaning which they are intended to convey. Constant association may cause us to regard words in this light; but we incline to the belief that the reason of our so feeling them is rather to be met with in the characteristic construction of the syllables which give rise to the idea. Who, for example, would require an interpretation of the Italian word "amore," or of the French word "petit," or the English word "tremendous," or the Spanish word "magnifico?" In the primitive languages whence these are derived, they were probably originated by involuntary exclamations, caused by coincident circumstances, or elicited by existing objects.
There is, perhaps, no language so made up of modified foreign words, and idioms of foreign origin, as the English. A mixture of the native British with the Latin, Saxon, Danish, and Norman French, it does not partake exclusively of the character of any one of them, though it bears the impress of all in every sentence in which it is employed. It has therefore, notwithstanding its hybrid origin, a distinctive principle, which is at once bold, nervous, emphatic, and energetic, in its construction as a whole, but harsh and irreconcilable with euphony in its expression in particles. The causes of these objections are to be traced principally to the very little use which is made of vowels, and to the frequent doubling of consonants of inconsistent and almost irreconcilable sounds. While Italian and French words are almost wholly composed of vowels, which impart to them a soft, liquid expression, as will presently be more fully adverted to, English words are made up of labial and lingual combinations, which are harsh in the ear of the linguist. Let us, for example, take a few words in the English language and observe their construction - something, perhaps, after the manner of M. Jourdain and his Maitre de Philosophie.
In the simple word "the," there occurs a sound which is a terror to foreign learners, and which by no means adds to the beauty of our mother tongue. The th, as pronounced in this word, is not a lisp, though it is pronounced by setting the tongue beyond the teeth, which almost close upon and beneath it, and forcing the air out between the teeth and the tongue. It seems an inelegant sound, and it is one which is absent from the other languages under consideration.
Our pronunciation of the u is also harsh. In such words as "music," "tune," the u is more than a vowel, because it cannot be sounded by a mere aspiration. We read these words as though they were written "myusic," "tyune," or "meusic," "teune," whereas, in other languages, the u is sounded like "oo," and is given by a slight aspiration of the voice through a kind of tube, which is formed by narrowing the compass of the mouth. The French manner of aspiring the u is very musical.
The sound also which we give to the i, in such words as vine and mine, is not found in either the Spanish, Italian, or French, and it certainly does not contribute to melody.
Ch is a combination common to the English and Spanish, and the Italian also owns the sound of these letters (though, in this latter language, it is not written in the same manner). It would not be so harsh in the English, were it not for the frequent occurrence of other consonants - an objection to which the Spanish and Italian are not liable. The observation of the English sexton, who expected another appointment, will be remembered for a long time in connection with this subject: "I have a chance, Charles Childe, of changing to Chichester Church and Chichester churchyard."
Not to dwell longer on this branch of the subject, nor to spend time in adducing the many examples which suggest themselves, we will turn to another feature of our language - the different sounds conferred on letters or combinations by custom, and in a great many instances without any rule whatever. For example, "th" has a different sound in "the," and in "thought," and in "Thomas." The vowel i is differently pronounced in "mine" and in "bring." "Gh" is variously sounded in "ought," "cough," and "hough," while ch is different in "archdeacon" and "archangel." Ge is soft in "gem" and hard in "get;" while y has no more sound in that most extraordinary word "eye" than w has in "ewe."
The analysis of idioms in all languages is an interesting study. They are, generally speaking, only expressions formerly created out of marked incidents, and applied, through ages, to coincident circumstances which they have, by the aid of association, a peculiar facility of describing. Some of our English idioms are very curious. We say "let me alone," when we mean "do not annoy or teaze me," and without any reference whatever to a desire to be left in solitude: there is, literally, no meaning in this expression, which requires the filling up of an ellipsis before it can be understood. "Good bye" (said to be an abbreviation of "God be wi' ye," or "with you"), and "by and by," are remarkable expressions. There are also many others which, on analysis, strike us as being very singular: "I don't care if I do;" "There are four short in this lot;" "How do you do?" "I will see to it;" "Remember me to your friends;" "It strikes me very forcibly" (meaning "the thought occurs to me").
On the other hand, other languages possess no word for "home," for "comfortable," nor for others of a similar nature which are peculiarly English. An earlier writer, alluding to the difference between the English and French languages, and boasting the superiority and greater conciseness of the former, says, "If the French want to translate the single word 'Yorkshireman,' they are obliged to write 'homme du comte de York.'" But, on the other side, it may be argued that the English cannot translate the words ennui, gamin, and a great many others which might be adduced.
Different meanings for the same word, and for different words pronounced alike, are also chracteristics of the English language, and they particularly strike the German student as manifesting great poverty in the language: "Do you hear? I can see the sea from here;" "I saw the saw yesterday;" "Have you seen the scene?" "That is the book that I had;" "I put it to my eye;" "Where did you wear it?" "Let the waiter bring a glass on a waiter;" "The man who made this bread is well-bred;" "I will give a pair of boots to boot;" "Do you know whether he sold his wethers before the cold weather came?" "The cord (of wood) was secured by cord;" "The lamp is light, and gives much light;" "I left my bed and went into the garden to work at that bed;" "There is no room for it in my room;" "While you were at the play I heard her play;" "She is fair - I met her at the fair - it was fair weather;" "Your present is acceptable at present;" "My sight is a sight too bad, I cannot see that site." The French has also some instances of this kind, but not by any means so many as the English.
There is, however, quite as much to be said in favor of our language as can be adduced against it. For declamation or oratory, and the sublime flights of poetry, it does not own a superior. Shakespeare and Milton have given sufficient proofs of the power of the English tongue, even did not Byron, Moore, Shelley, and our modern Longfellow furnish other examples.
The powerful imagery of many of our greatest authors could not be better expressed in the German, Spanish, or Italian, and the French is quite incapable of investing them with as much force; while the lighter but very beautiful similes, and the lyric eloquence of Moore, force, if we may so speak, an air of soft beauty on our language which cannot be surpassed in any other tongue. In blank verse and oratorical prose, the English may be said to be pre-eminent, as also in the comic and ironical style of jest and pun, which many - perhaps too many - of our modern writers affect.
There never, perhaps, have been any writers in any language whose works have been submitted to more criticism than has fallen on the devoted heads of English authors. I have, in the course of my experience, been told that Shakespeare's merit was very much exaggerated; that Byron and poor Shelley were atheists; that Sterne was disgusting; and Tom Hood nothing better than a buffoon. We have an instance nearer home of this kind of pert and vain censure. A late writer in this country prefers Carlyle's style of writing to what the wise critic calls the commonplace inanities of Addison, and declares that Pope was deficient of genius!
To musical purposes our language is not adapted. The frequent occurrence of consonants and the proportionate absence of vowels interfere greatly with the correct expression of musical sounds, and mar, in most instances, the harmony of slow and soft airs. This is easily accounted for. If the reader will take any word or common occurrence ending with a consonant, or with the sound of a consonant, and endeavor to sing it in a lengthened musical note, he will find that, immediately the tone proper to the final letter has been enunciated, there remains nothing but a buzzing or confined sound, which is tiresome to the ear. For example, try the words "love," "heart," "vain," "more," "dream," "youth," "hill," &c. In the Italian, the case is very different. There are scarcely half a dozen words in that language which end with a consonant. Nearly all its terminations are vowels, which may be prolonged, like two parallel lines, almost to infinity. Take, for example, "amore," "bene," "cuore," "dolore," "caro," "lei," "lamento," "gemiti," "cielo."
The Italian language may most correctly be considered as the Latin language modified or modernized. It is regarded as the softest and sweetest language in Europe; but it yields to the Spanish in melodious grandeur, if I may so express it, and to the German and English in oratorical and sonorous magnificence. It is truly the language of women. Delicate to a fault, there is scarcely a harsh sound in its vocabulary, and its poetry glides smoothly on the ear in liquid eloquence. Italian words, unlike those of the English language, are composed chiefly of vowels, and, with very few exceptions, no word terminates with a consonant. Take, for example, the words "gioja" (the j being pronounced like i), "mai," "quello," "agli" (pronounced alye), "figliuolo," "giungere," "razzare," "vieni," &c. &c.
The construction of Italian poetry does not materially differ from that of Latin poetry, except that more attention is paid to rhyme, for which the language affords great facilities. Every poet, however, has his own manner of writing, his own peculiar abbreviations, and methods of expression. The greatest of Italian poets stands Dante, the monarch, the demigod, the immortal monument of southern poesy. I feel all the desire to say as much as possible of what I feel on this subject; but the Divina Commedia has been so beautifully criticised in Longfellow's translation of Schlessing, which appeared in the June number of Graham's Magazine, that my remarks would be useless supererogation. Besides-
After Dante comes Torquato Tasso in the estimation of the Italian reader. His style differs from that of Dante, in that it is more measured and less metaphysical, equally charming, but less grand. His similes are generally very beautiful, but they are as inferior to those of Dante as Byron's are to the immortal Shakespeare's.
Travelers have often described the veneration in which Tasso's name is held among all classes in Italy, and I have frequently admired the pride with which the gondoliers and lazzaroni of Venice cherish the verses of their departed countryman. His "Gerusalemme Liberata," written in the prison of Ferrara, is deservedly his most popular effort; while "Aminta," as a dramatic essay, does not greatly contribute to the fame of its great author. The domestic history of Tasso, one of the noblest suffers of unprovoked tyranny, is extremely interesting.
Petrarca is another of the illustrious writers of Italy. The works of the "leaf-crowned poet of Arqua" owe their celebrity, however, only to the excessive beauty of their style. There is no design, no plot, no aim - the majority of his compositions being only addresses to "Laura," for whom the poet appears to have entertained a sort of enthusiastic, but Platonic affection, which, but for the powerful genius with which it is herald forth, would render him very ridiculous. As specimens of lyric composition - the original style from which the epic and dramtic sprung - they are beautiful; but their want of any good moral object prevents the author from assuming so high a position in the estimation of the world as that to which is unquestionable talent and ability entitle him.
The name of Ariosto will live as long as the "Orlando Furioso," that strange yet beautiful conception, is remembered. In our day, it seems to be as popular as ever, and, although it perhaps owes its fame more to boldness of conception than delicacy of execution, it is enthusiastically admired.
Alfieri's tragedies are admirable specimens of the capabilities of the beautiful Italian language. His effects appear to be studied, but not strained; and, although his style is difficult to the foreigner, it possesses too many charms to allow of his resigning the study of these great conceptions before he has mastered them.
Goldoni's comedies are still admired by Italians, while to the foreigner they do not appear entitled to so much honor as is paid to them. A great deal of their attraction is owing to the humorous introduction of the Venetian patois, which is a harsh, and, to my ear, a disgusting libel on the Tuscan. With the same questionable taste, the old English dramatists filled their comedies with the Yorkshire, Cornwall, and other provincial dialects of England, which might have been very amusing formerly, but which do not please in our day.
Metastasio's works have also gained great celebrity. His style is smooth and flowing, and therefore very pleasing to the ear. His operatic dramas are, perhaps, the best of their kind.
There are very many Italian writers of great celebrity, whom it would be tedious to mention in detail. Italy is well stored with both ancient and modern literature, but it must be owned, to her discredit, that the former far outweighs the latter in worth, if not in volume. As an example of the adaption of this musical and harmonious tongue to the poetic art, I will conclude my remarks on the Italian language by appending two verses of a little allegorical poem by an unknown author:-
The melody of the language, in these few lines, is too obvious to need comment.
The French language differs in pronunciation from the others under present consideration; but there is a remarkable affinity between it and the Italian in the radices of its words, and especially of its verbs. For example, the French say "chanter," to sing, the Italians "cantare;" "danser," to dance, "danzare;" "mettre," to put, "mettere;" "vouloir," to be willing, "volere;" "manger," to eat, "mangiare." The Spanish use for the above words, "cantar," to sing; "bailar," to dance; "poner," to put, "querer," to be willing; and "comer," to eat; which, it will be observed, differ materially, except in the instance first above quoted, from the French and Italian. As a general rule, admitting few expections, it may be noticed that every regular verb in Italian assimilates very closely in sound with a corresponding French verb, which is one reason of the extreme facility with which persons who know anything French may acquire the other language.
The French is a very musical and soft language, composed of a great proportion of vowels, diphthongs, and triphthongs; but its pronunciation is rendered extremely difficult by characteristic peculiarities, which an Englishman rarely masters. The eui, for example, in "feuilleton" and "portefeuille," and the u in such words as "lune," "resume," "etude," "vu," "etendu," &c., is a sound which most strangers find it impossible to acquire. The frequent use of accents in this language also constitutes a difficulty, which makes the study of French somewhat tiresome.
The great obstacle in the way of learners, however, is the capricious use of the masculine and feminine genders. In Italian and Spanish, with very few exceptions, the terminations of words decide the gender; but in French no other aid than practice can determine the question. For example, "bonheur," masculine; "chaleur," "froideur," feminine; "l'eau," feminine; "le bureau," masculine; "terre," feminine; "parterre," masculine; "une exemple," feminine; "un temple," masculine, &c.
If the French language be not so well adapted to music as the Italian, it is certainly more so than the harsh English; but it is by no means as well suited to serious poetry. Blank verse is almost unknown in the language, and the consequence is that French tragedy never pleases a foreigner half so well as English tragedy. Take, for example, the works of the great Corneille, and of his rival, Racine. The really beautiful ideas of these highly gifted men suffer materially in English ears from the jingling monotony of the rhymes in which they are expressed. Any one who hears Rachel ( unquestionably the best actress of the day, except Miss Cushman, to whom, however, she is quite equal) enunciate
On the other hand, comedy is nowhere so good, so brilliant, so keen, so witty, so piquante as in the French language. It is the idiom of Calembourgs, of quolibets, of "bons mots," of jeuz d'esprit, and doubles entendres; and, as French comedy liberally employs these appliances, its effect is irresistible. The plots, or intrigues, as they style them, of the old French dramatists are quite as faulty as those of the old English authors, inasmuch as the valet is always on the most friendly footing with his young master, counseling and advising him on delicate points with inconvenient freedom, and showing ill temper and petulance to an extent which would, in our day, and in sober life, be immediately followed by a notice to quit. Dramatists, however, have always been allowed great license, and it must be owned that the old French writers were somewhat profuse in the use of this facility.
Of all French writers of comedy, Moliere is deservedly the most popular. His manner is at once inimitably witty and irresistibly droll. His finest effort, in one style of comedy, is considered to be "Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme," a play which I believe to be without an equal in any language, while, in the more serious walks of comedy his "Tartuffe" and "Avare" are rich gems. His "Ecole des Femmes," a very satirical work, met great opposition in Paris when it was first brought out, simply because it was unpalatable to the "huat ton," and the "creme a la tarte" dispute which sprang out of this farce is almost a matter of literary history. Among his other successful works, are "Le Medecin Malgri Lui," "Monsieur de Pourceaugnae," &c.
Destouches follows Moliere at a humble distance, and is much admired. His "Fausse Agnes," his "Tresor Cache," and "Le Glorieux," are clever compositions.
French fondness for spectacle affords great room for dramatist, and results in the constant production of new works by innumerable writers - of greater or less merit. Monsieur Gaillardet, who for many years conducted the "Courrier des Etats Unis," in the city of New York, has contributed a fine work to the French drama in the "Tour de Nesle," one of the most terrible, but at the same time most talented, productions of the day.
The French have assisted as much as any other people in the instruction of the world by the production of histories, travels, and scientific works. The noble-hearted and philanthropic Lamartine - that wise and good, but unappreciated patriot - has contributed largely to this branch of French literature.
It would of course be impossible to name all the novel-writers of the day whose works are prized and admired; but it will not perhaps be considered out of place to allude particularly to some of them.
Eugene Sue, one of the most popular novelists of France, is one of those writers who love to grasp at mysteries, and who delight in horrors. He is often philosophical in his reflections, and pleasing in his style, when one is acquainted with it; but as the moral effect of his works is rather questionable, and the taste for them is to a certain degree an acquired one, it is doubtful whether it is improving in any way to learn to like the productions of this embodiment of French socialism.
Victor Hugo, the President of the Paris Peace Congress, is a literary ornament to his country and one of whom she may well be proud. His "Notre Dame de Paris" is an extant monument of his wonderful genius, and "Quasimodo" and "La Esmeralda" will build for him a monument in the hearts of his countrymen long after he shall have ceased to write.
Poor Frederick Soulie has been gathered to his fathers. Soulie, the Walter Scott of France - imaginative, and bold in imagination; but never once passing the bounds of probability in his pursuit of fiction. His "Vicomte de Beziers" is considered to be his best work.
Alexandre Dumas, the greatest coxcomb and the greatest (numerically only) writer of the age, also claims consideration. Volume after volume, novel after novel, feuilleton after feuilleton, and frequently several at a time, has this wonderful man showered upon a greedy public. His "Comte de Monte Cristo" is certainly his best work, and is an excellent type of Dumas' genius. Made up throughout of the most improbable, nay impossible, incidents, the scheme of the author is carried out with a grandeur of design, a power of execution, a continuousness of action,and a consistency of plan, which first attract and afterwards astonish you. Not to be disgusted with it, it is necessary to read it as you would a fairy tale; and, if you once regard it in this light, you will be delighted with the genius of the author. Dumas has perhaps written as much as any author: I should not like to hazard the opinion that he has written as well.
George Sand is a lady of unquestionable talent, and is very enthusiastic in her style. She appears to aim at writing like the Germans, but she fails and falls into the opposite extreme, becoming too French. Her "Consuelo" is admired by many persons, among whom I stand not.
The Spanish language, the language of the gods, and the most beautiful idiom in Europe, next commands our attention, and we turn to the task with pleasure. The Spanish is sonorous and yet soft, grand and yet delicate, bold and yet gentle, nervous and yet sweetly measured, and, in its measures, musical.
The Spanish differs from the French and assimilates with the Italian in this respect - that every letter (except in some cases where u follows q, giving the latter the hard sound of k), must be sounded distinctly. It assimilates with the English and German, and differs from the French, in having final consonants which are distinctly pronounced, and it possesses the same or perhaps a greater facility than those have, of changing its genders. For example, bueno, lindo, bonito, hermoso are masculine singular. To make them masculine plural, an s is added, as buenos, lindos, bonitos, hermosos; to make them feminine, change o into a, either in the singulr or plural - buena, buenas; linda, lindas; bonita, bonitas; hermosa, hermosas. This is an element of facility in acquiring a language which is not perhaps so fully characteristic of any other tongue as of the Spanish. The u, pronounced n-y, and the ll, pronounced l-y, constitute great beauties in the pronunciation; for example - "risueno," pronounced re-su-ane-yo, and "amarillo" a-ma-ril-yo.
There is little doubt that the Spanish, as we have it, owes much of its vocabulary to other nations. The Romans, who overran Spain in the earlier periods of her history, have left in the Spanish language a distinct trace of the Latin. The Goths, who also spread over a great part of the country at the irruption of the Northern nations into the South, have tinctured many of the Spanish words with the wild character of their language; and the Moors, who for so long a time exercised a powerful influence over the destinies of Iberia, the garden of Europe, have bequeathed to those who could not conquer without exterminating them, a marked similarity of speech which is distinctly to be recognized. All these traits, however, have been softened, harmonized, and modified by the genius, the dominant principle of the Castillian, which is melodious grandeur.
The greatest writer that has ever appeared in Spain is Cervantes. His "Don Quixote de la Mancha" exhibits at once satire as pointed as that of Dickens or Thackeray, humor as sharp as that of poor Tom Hood, and observation as keen as that of Sterne. The whimsical history of the mad knight is read with delight even at this day, and although it suffers immeasurably in the translation, it is amusing even in English.
An anecdote is told of a hungry applicant, who was very assiduous for "something good" at the hands of one of those dispensers of unlimited patronage - an English minister. Weary of his applications, the great man said on one occasion, "You want 'something good;' can you read Spanish?" "No," said the hungry office-hunter, "but I will soon acquire it." The minister had been relieved from his attentions for some weeks, when he again presented himself with a reiteration of his old desire for "something good;" and, certain of being appointed vice-consul in some part of Spain, stated that he was master of the Spanish language. "Then," said the minister, "if you know the Spanish language thoroughly, and want something really good, read 'Don Quixote' "!
The world-renowned Sancho Panza, one of the most perfect original conceptions that have ever been published, will never die. He and his ass are alike immortal. "No man," said Sam Weller "ever see a dead donkey." Sancho's is one of this class, and will live forever with the doughty squire's refranes, or proverbs, which are among the wisest and most quaint axioms that can be imagined.
Lope de Vega has also gained considerable fame, and Moratin's comedies are among the finest in the world.
Commercial slang in all languages is very absurd, but perhaps there is nothing so truly ridiculous as English letter-writing, as applied to business purposes. "We confirm our respects of the 1st inst.;" "Due honor is prepared for the bill which you advise;" "Your favor of the seventh ulto. is duly at hand, enclosing two firsts, &c.;" "Coffee is languid and drooping;" "Sugar is extremely active;" "Molasses is looking up, but rosin has a downward tendency;" "Butter is extremely firm, while cheese fluctuates considerably, and pig iron is extremely buoyant;" "Pork is lower to-day, but it is the general opinion that the article has not yet touched bottom;" "Coal-tar has changed hands easily, but feathers are extremely heavy;" "There is considerable depression in spirits, and gunpowder will not go off;" "Opinion is taken freely, but without noticeable improvement."
All this slang, for it appears to be no better, is Greek to the uninitiated, who naturally wonder how coffee can feel languid, why sugar should be animated, what the object of molasses in looking up can possibly be, and by what earthly means pig iron can become buoyant. They regard the depression of spirits as very probable, but assume that the gunpowder which will not go off cannot be very good, and that feathers which are heavy must be mixed with hidden substances of greater gravity.
All descriptions of business have their technical peculiarities in every language, and among all people; but it is a question whether a great deal of vexatious obsecurity is not caused by a too great indulgence in an unnecessarily mysterious vocabulary. Moratin shows up a pompous scholar who, on being asked for an opinion by ignorant persons, sententiously delivers an address in Latin; but, condescendingly, adds, "Pero lo dire a vms. en griego para mayor claridad." - "But, to make it clearer, I will explain it to you in Greek."
The manner of closing letters is different among different nations. Lord Chesterfield thought that the words at the beginning and end of a letter meant nothing; but he never attempted to prove that such ought to be the case. And yet a great deal is conveyed by the mode of address at the beginning and end of a letter. "Sir," is formal and distant. "Dear Sir," implies cordiality and good feeling. "My dear sir," manifests affectionate but respectful familiarity. "My dear John," or "My dear Thomas," is still more cordial; but "My dear Jack," or "My dear Tom," is the ultimatum of affectionate freedom. To go further - "My dearest Maria," "My sweetest Louisa," or "My angelic darling," would be to outstep the proper limits of my subject, and I therefore decline to enter on such delicate ground.
At the end of an epistle, there is also much difference between the several gradations of etiquette and friendship. "Your most obedient servant," "Your faithful servant," "Yours truly," "Yours faithfully," "Yours respectfully," &c. Then, again there are, "Thine till death," "Thine for ever," "Thine eternally," all of which latter mean, generally, "Thine till after marriage."
The Spaniards close their communications generally with letters standing for certain words, as for example, "S. S. S., Q. B. S. M.;" meaning, "Su seguro servidor, que besa sus manos," or "Your faithful servant who kisses your hands."
The French say "Agreez, Monsieur; mes salutations respectueuses or amicales." "Receive, sir, my respectful or friendly salutations."
There is an old and ill-natured saying in Spanish, to this effect, as alluding to pronunciation:-
Godey's Lady's Book is brought to you by 
Your Comments Welcomed! Copyright © 1995 EHP