Of, for from. Example: “Received of John Smith fifty dollars.” Usage, perhaps, sanctions this.

At all is a needless expletive, which is employed by many writers of what may be called the forcible-feeble school. For example: “The coach was upset, but, strange to say, not a passenger received the slightest injury at all.” “It is not at all strange.”

But that, for that. This error is quite common among those who think themselves above learning anything more from the dictionary and grammar. Trench says: “He never doubts but that he knows their intention.” A worse error is but what, as in the reply of Mr. Jobling, of “Bleak House”: “Thank you, Guppy, I don’t know but what I will take a marrow pudding.” “He would not believe but what I was joking.”

Convene is used by many persons in a strange sense. “This road will convene the public.”

Evidence is a word much abused by learned judges and attorneys,—being continually used for testimony. Evidence relates to the convictive view of any one’s mind; testimony, to the knowledge of another concerning some fact. The evidence in a case is often the reverse of the testimony.

Had have. E.g. The London “Times” says “Sir Wilfred Lawson had better have kept to his original proposal.” This is a very low vulgarism, notwithstanding it has the authority of Addison. It is quite common to say “Had I have seen him,” “Had you have known it,” etc. We can say, “I have been,” “I had been,” but what sort of a tense is had have been?

Had ought, had better, had rather. All these expressions are absurdities, no less gross than hisn, tother, baint, theirn. No doubt there is plenty of good authority for had better and had rather; but how can future action be expressed by a verb that signifies past and completed possession?

At, for by. E.g., “Sales at auction.” The word auction signifies a manner of sale; and this signification seems to require the preposition by.

The above, as an adjective. “The above extract is sufficient to verify my assertion.” “I fully concur in the above statement” (the statement above, or the foregoing statement). Charles Lamb speaks of “the above boys and the below boys.”

Then, as an adjective. “The then King of Holland.” This error, to which even educated men are addicted, springs from a desire of brevity; but verbal economy is not commendable when it violates the plainest rules of language.

Final completion. As every completion is final, the adjective is superfluous. A similar objection applies to first beginning. Similar to these superabundant forms of expression is another, in which universal and all are brought into the same construction. A man is said to be “universally esteemed by all who know him.” If all esteem him, he is, of course, universally esteemed; and the converse is equally true.

Party, for man or woman. This error, so common in England, is becoming more and more prevalent here. An English witness once testified that he saw “a short party” (meaning person) “go over the bridge.” Another Englishman, who had looked at a portrait of St. Paul in a gallery at Florence, being asked his opinion of the picture, said that he thought “the party was very well executed.” It is hardly necessary to say that it takes several persons to make a party.

Celebrity is sometimes applied to celebrated persons, instead of being used abstractly; e.g., “Several celebrities are at the Palmer House.”

Equanimity of mind. As equanimity (æquus animus) means evenness of mind, why should “of mind” be repeated? “Anxiety of mind” is less objectionable, but the first word is sufficient.

Don’t for doesn’t, or does not. Even so scholarly a divine as the Rev. Dr. Bellows, of New York, employs this vulgarism four times in an article in the “Independent.” “A man,” he says, “who knows only his family and neighbors, don’t know them; a man who only knows the present don’t know that.... Many a man, with a talent for making money, don’t know whether he is rich or poor, because he don’t understand bookkeeping,” etc.

Predicate, for found. E.g., “His argument was predicated on the assumption,” etc.

Try, for make. E.g., “Try the experiment.”

Superior, for able, virtuous, etc. E.g., “He is a superior man.” Not less vulgar is the expression, “an inferior man,” for a man of small abilities.

Deceiving, for trying to deceive. E.g., a person says to another, “You are deceiving me,” when he means exactly the opposite, namely, “You are trying to deceive me, but you cannot succeed, for your trickery is transparent.”

The masses, for the people generally. “The masses must be educated.” The masses of what?

In our midst. This vulgarism is continually heard in prayer-meetings, and from the lips of Doctors of Divinity, though its incorrectness has been exposed again and again. The second chapter in Prof. Schele De Vere’s excellent “Studies in English” begins thus: “When a man rises to eminence in our midst,” etc.,—which is doubtless one of the few errors in his book quas incuria fudit. The possessive pronoun can properly be used only to indicate possession or appurtenance. “The midst” of a company or society is not a thing belonging or appurtenant to the company, or to the individuals composing it. It is a mere term of relation of an adverbial, not of a substantive character, and is an intensified form of expression for among. Would any one say, “In our middle”?

Excessively, for exceedingly. Ladies often complain that the weather is “excessively hot,” thereby implying that they do not object to the heat, but only to the excess of heat. They mean simply that the weather is very hot.

Either is applicable only to two objects; and the same remark is true of neither and both. “Either of the three” is wrong; so is this,—“Ten burglars broke into the house, but neither of them could be recognized.” Say, “none of them,” or “not one of them could be recognized.” Either is sometimes improperly used for each; e.g., “On either side of the river was the tree of life,”—Rev. xxi, 2. Here it is not meant that if you do not find that the tree of life was on this side, it was on that; but that the tree of life was on each side,—on this side, and on that. The proper use of either was vindicated some years ago in England, by the Court of Chancery. A certain testator left property, the disposition of which was affected by “the death of either” of two persons. One learned counsel contended that the word “either” meant both; in support of this view he quoted Richardson, Webster, Chaucer, Dryden, Southey, the history of the crucifixion, and a passage from the Revelation. The learned judge suggested that there was an old song in the “Beggar’s Opera,” known to all, which took the opposite view:

In pronouncing judgment, the judge dissented entirely from the argument of the learned counsel. “Either,” he said, “means one of two, and does not mean both.” Though occasionally, by poets and some other writers, the word was employed to signify both, it did not in the case before the court.

Whether is a contraction of which of either, and therefore cannot be correctly applied to more than two objects.

Never, for ever. E.g., “Charm he never so wisely”; “Let the offence be of never so high a nature.” Many grammarians approve of this use of never; but its correctness, to say the least, is doubtful. In such sentences as these, “He was deaf to the voice of the charmer, charm he ever so wisely,” “Were it ever so fine a day, I would not go out,” the word ever is an adverb of degree, and has nothing to do with time. “If I take ever so little of this drug, it will kill me,” is equivalent to “however little,” or “how little soever I take of this drug, it will kill me.” Harrison well says on this point: “Let any one translate one of these phrases into another language, and he will find that ‘ever’ presents itself as a term expressive of degree, and not of time at all. ‘Charm he ever so wisely’: Quamvis incantandi sit peritus aut peritissimus.”

Seldom, or never is a common vulgarism. Say “seldom, if ever.”

Sit, sat, are much abused words. It is said that the brilliant Irish lawyer, Curran, once carelessly observed in court, “an action lays,” and the judge corrected him by remarking: “Lies, Mr. Curran,—hens lay;” but when afterward the judge ordered a counsellor to “set down,” Curran retaliated, “Sit down, your honor,—hens set.” The retort was characterized by more wit than truth. Hens do not set; they sit. It is not unusual to hear persons say, “The coat sets well”; “The wind sets fair.” Sits is the proper word. The preterite of sit is often incorrectly used for that of set; e.g., “He sat off for Boston.”

From thence, from whence. As the adverbs thence and whence literally supply the place of a noun and preposition, there is a solecism in employing a preposition in conjunction with them.

Conduct. In conversation, this verb is frequently used without the personal pronoun; as, “he conducts well,” for “he conducts himself well.”

Least, for less. “Of two evils, choose the least.”

A confirmed invalid. Can weakness be strong? If not, how can a man be a confirmed, or strengthened, invalid?

Proposition, for proposal. This is not a solecism, but, as a univocal word is preferable to one that is equivocal, proposal, for a thing offered or proposed, is better than proposition. Strictly, a proposal is something offered to be done; a proposition is something submitted to one’s consideration. E.g., “He rejected the proposal of his friend;” “he demonstrated the fifth proposition in Euclid.”

Previous, for previously. “Previous to my leaving America.”

Appreciates, for rises in value. “Gold appreciated yesterday.” Even the critical London Athenæum is guilty of this solecism. It says: “A book containing personal reminiscences of one of our great schools appeals to a public limited, no doubt, but certain, and sure to appreciate.”

Proven for proved, and plead for pleaded, are clearly vulgarisms.

Bound, for ready or determined. “I am bound to do it.” We may say properly that a ship is “bound to Liverpool”; but in that case we do not employ, as many suppose, the past participle of the verb to bind, but the old northern participial adjective, buinn, from the verb, at bua, signifying “to make ready, or prepare.” The term is strictly a nautical one, and to employ it in a sense that unites the significations both of buinn and the English participle bound from bind, is a plain abuse of language.

No, for not. E.g., “Whether I am there or no.” Cowper writes:

By supplying the ellipsis, we shall see that not is here the proper word. “Whether birds confabulate, or do not confabulate,” “whether I am there, or not there.” No never properly qualifies a verb.

Such for so. E.g., “I never saw such a high spire.” This means, “I never saw a high spire of such a form,” or “of such architecture” whereas the speaker, in all probability, means only that he never saw so high a spire. Such denotes quality; so, degree.

Incorrect orthography. Orthography means “correct writing, or spelling.” “Incorrect orthography” is, therefore, equivalent to “incorrect correct writing.”

How for that. “I have heard how some critics have been pacified with claret and a supper.”

Directly, for as soon as. “Directly he came, I went away with him.”

Equally as well, for equally well. E.g., “It will do equally as well.”

Supplement, used as a verb. There is considerable authority for this use of the word; but it is a case where usage is clearly opposed to the very principles of the language.

Greet and greeting are often improperly used. A greeting is a salutation; to say, therefore, as newspaper reporters often do, that a speaker in the Legislature, or on the platform, was “greeted with hisses,” or “with groans,” is a decided “malapropism.”

To a degree is a phrase often used by English writers and speakers. E.g., “Mr. Gladstone is sensitive to a degree.” To what degree?

Farther for further. “Farther” is the comparative of far, and should be used in speaking of bodies relatively at rest; as, “Jupiter is farther from the earth than Mars.” “Further” is the comparative of “forth,” and should be used when motion is expressed; as “He ran further than you.”

Quite for very. E.g., In Mrs. Stowe’s “Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands,” we read: “The speeches were quite interesting”; “we had quite a sociable time up in the gallery”; and we are told that at Mrs. Cropper’s, “in the evening, quite a circle came in,” etc., etc. The true meaning of “quite” is completely, entirely.

Effluvium. The plural of this word is often used as if it meant bad odors; whereas an “effluvium” may be a stream either of pure air or of foul air,—of pure water or of impure, etc.

None is a contraction of no one, and therefore to say “none are,” or “none were,” is just as improper as to say “no one are,” or “no one were.”

I watched him do it. This is an impropriety of speech rarely heard in this country, but often in England.

Looks beautifully. In spite of the frequency with which this impropriety has been censured, one hears it almost daily from the lips of educated men and women. The error arises from confounding look in the sense of to direct the eye, and look in the sense of to seem, to appear. In English, many verbs take an adjective with them to form the predicate, where in other languages an adverb would be used; e.g., “he fell ill”; “he feels cold”; “her smiles amid the blushes lovelier show.” No cultivated person would say, “she is beautifully,” or “she seems beautifully,” yet these phrases are no more improper than “she looks beautifully.” We qualify what a person does by an adverb; what a person is, or seems to be, by an adjective; e.g., “she looks coldly on him”; “she looks cold.”

Leave, as an intransitive verb. E.g., “He left yesterday.” Many persons who use this phrase are misled by what they deem the analogous expression, to write, to read. These verbs express an occupation, as truly as to run, to walk, to stand. In answer to the question, “What is A. B. doing?” it is sufficient to say, “He is reading.” Here a complete idea is conveyed, which is not true of the phrase, “He left yesterday.”

Myself, for I. E.g., “Mrs. Jones and myself will be happy to dine with you”; “Prof. S. and myself have examined the work.” The proper use of myself is either as a reflective pronoun, or for the sake of distinction and emphasis; as when Juliet cries, “Romeo, doff thy name, and for that name, which is no part of thee, take all myself”; or, in Milton’s paradisiacal hymn: “These are thy glorious works, Parent of Good, Almighty! Thine this universal frame thus wondrous fair! Thyself how wondrous then!”

Restive. This word, which means inclined to rest, obstinate, unwilling to go, is employed, almost constantly, in a sense directly the reverse of this; that is, for restless.

Quantity, for number. E.g., “A quantity of books”; “a quantity of postage stamps.” In speaking of a collection, or mass, it is proper to use quantity; but in speaking of individual objects, however many, we must use the word number. “A quantity of meat,” or “a quantity of iron” is good English, but not “a quantity of bank-notes.” We may say “a quantity of wood,” but we should say a “number of sticks.”

Carnival. This word literally means “Farewell to meat,” or, as some etymologists think, “Flesh, be strong!” In Catholic countries it signifies a festival celebrated with merriment and revelry during the week before Lent. In this country, especially in newspaper use, it is employed in the sense of fun, frolic, spree, festival; and that so generally as almost to have banished some of these words from the language. If many persons are skating, that is a carnival; so, if they take a sleigh-ride, or if there is a rush to Long Branch in the summer. As we have a plenty of legitimate words to describe these festivities, the use of this outlandish term has not a shadow of justification.

All of them. As of here means out of, corresponding with the Latin preposition e, or ex, it cannot be correct to say all of them. We may say, “take one of them” or “take two of them,” or “take them all”; but the phrase we are criticising is wholly unjustifiable.

To allude. Among the improprieties of speech which even those sharp-eyed literary detectives, Alford, Moon, and Gould have failed to pounce upon and pillory, are the misuses of the word that heads this paragraph. Once the verb had a distinct, well defined meaning, but it is now rapidly losing its true signification. To allude to a thing,—what is it? Is it not to speak of it darkly,—to hint at it playfully (from ludo, ludere,—to play), without any direct mention? Yet the word is used in a sense directly opposite to this. Suppose you lose in the street some package, and advertise its loss in the newspapers. The person who finds the package is sure to reply to your advertisement by speaking of “the package you alluded to in your advertisement,” though you have alluded to nothing, but have told your story in the most distinct and straightforward manner possible, without an approximation to a hint or innuendo. Newspaper reporters, by their abuse of this unhappy word, will transform a bold and daring speech in Congress, in which a senator has taken some bull by the horns,—in other words, dealt openly and manfully with the subject discussed,—into a heap of dark and mysterious innuendoes. The honorable gentleman alluded to the currency—to the war—to Andrew Johnson—to the New Orleans massacre; he alluded to the sympathizers with the South, though he denounced them in the most caustic terms; he alluded to the tax-bill, and he alluded to fifty other things, about every one of which he spoke out his mind in emphatic and unequivocal terms. An English journal tells a ludicrous story of an M.P. who, his health having been drunk by name, rose on his legs, and spoke of “the flattering way in which he had been alluded to.” Another public speaker spoke of a book which had been alluded to by name. But the climax of absurdity in the use of this word was attained by an Irish M.P., who wrote a life of an Italian poet. Quoting Byron’s lines about “the fatal gift of beauty,” he then goes on to talk about “the fatal gift which has been already alluded to!”

Either alternative. E.g., “You may take either alternative.” “Two alternatives were presented to me.” Alternative evidently means a choice,—one choice,—between two things. If there be only one offered, we say there is no alternative. Two alternatives is, therefore, a palpable contradiction in terms; yet some speakers talk of “several alternatives” having been presented to them.

Whole, for all. The “Spectator” says: “The Red-Cross Knight runs through the whole steps of the Christian life.” Alison, who is one of the loosest writers in our literature, declares, in his “History of the French Revolution,” that “the whole Russians are inspired with the belief that their mission is to conquer the world.” This can only mean that those Russians who are entire,—who have not lost a leg, an arm, or some other part of the body,—are inspired with the belief of which he speaks. Whole refers to the component parts of a single body, and is therefore singular in meaning.

Jeopardize. There is considerable authority for this word, which is beginning to supplant the good old English word jeopard. But why is it more needed than perilize, hazardize?

Preventative, for preventive; conversationalist, for converser; underhanded, for underhand; casuality, for casualty; speciality, for specialty; leniency, for lenity; firstly, for first; are all base coinages, barbarisms which should be excommunicated by “bell, book, and candle.”

Dangerous, for in danger. A leading Boston paper says of a deceased minister: “His illness was only of a week’s duration, and was pleurisy and rheumatism. He was not supposed to be dangerous.”

Nice. One of the most offensive barbarisms now prevalent is the use of this as a pet word to express almost every kind of approbation, and almost every quality. Strictly, nice can be used only in a subjective, not in an objective, sense; though both of our leading lexicographers approve of such expressions as “a nice bit of cheese.” Of the vulgarity of such expressions as “a nice man” (meaning a good or pleasing man), “a nice day,” “a nice party,” etc., there cannot be a shadow of doubt. “A nice man” means a fastidious man; a “nice letter” is a letter very delicate in its language. Some persons are more nice than wise. Archdeacon Hare complains that “this characterless domino,” as he stigmatizes the word nice, is continually used by his countrymen, and that “a universal deluge of niaserie (for the word was originally niais) threatens to whelm the whole island.” The Latin word elegans seems to have had a similar history; being derived from elego, and meaning primarily nice or choice, and subsequently elegant.

Mutual, for common, or reciprocal. Dean Alford justly protests against the stereotyped vulgarism, “a mutual friend.” Mutual is applicable to sentiments and acts, but not to persons. Two friends may have a mutual love, but for either to speak of a third person as being “their mutual friend,” is sheer nonsense. Yet Dickens entitled one of his novels, “Our Mutual Friend.”

Stopping, for staying. “The Hon. John Jones is stopping at the Sherman House.” In reading such a statement as this, we are tempted to ask, When will Mr. Jones stop stopping? A man may stop a dozen times at a place, or on a journey, but he cannot continue stopping. One may stop at a hotel without becoming a guest. The true meaning of the word stop was well understood by the man who did not invite his professed friend to visit him: “If you come, at any time, within ten miles of my house, just stop.”

Trifling minutiæ. Archbishop Whately, in his “Rhetoric,” speaks of “trifling minutiæ of style.” In like manner, Henry Kirke White speaks of his poems as being “the juvenile efforts of a youth,” and Disraeli, the author of “The Curiosities of Literature,” speaks of “the battles of logomachy,” and of “the mysteries of the arcana of alchemy.” The first of these phrases may be less palpably tautological than the other three; yet as minutiæ means nearly the same things as trifles, a careful writer would be as adverse to using such an expression as Whately’s, as he would be to talking, like Sir Archibald Alison, of representative institutions as having been reëstablished in our time “by the influence of English Anglomania.”

Indices, for indexes. “We have examined our indices,” etc., say the Chicago abstract-makers. Indices are algebraic signs; tables of contents are indexes.

Rendition, for rendering. E.g., “Mr. Booth’s rendition of Hamlet was admirable.” Rendition means surrender, giving up, relinquishing to another; as when we speak of the rendition of a beleaguered town to the besieger, or of a pledge upon the satisfaction of a debt.

Extend, for give. Lecture committees, instead of simply inviting a public speaker, or giving him an invitation, almost universally extend an invitation; perhaps, because he is generally at a considerable distance. Richard Grant White says pertinently; “As extend (from ex and tendo) means merely to stretch forth, it is much better to say that a man put out, offered, or stretched forth his hand than that he extended it. Shakespeare makes the pompous, pragmatical Malvolio say: ‘I extend my hand to him thus’; but ‘Paul stretched forth the hand, and answered for himself.’ This, however, is a question of taste, not of correctness.”

Except, for unless. E.g., “No one, except he has served an apprenticeship, need apply.” The former word is a preposition, and must be followed by a noun or pronoun, and not by a proposition.

Couple, for a pair or brace. When two persons or things are joined or linked together, they form a couple. The number of things that can be coupled is comparatively small, yet the expression is in constant use; as “a couple of books,” “a couple of partridges,” “a couple of weeks,” etc. One might as well speak of “a pair of dollars.”

Every. E.g., “I have every confidence in him”; “they rendered me every assistance.” Every denotes all the individuals of a number greater than two, separately considered. Derived from the Anglo-Saxon, œfer, ever, œlc, each, it means each of all, not all in mass. By “every confidence” is meant simply perfect confidence; by “every assistance,” all possible assistance.

Almost, as an adjective. Prof. Whitney, in his able work on “Language, and the Study of Language,” speaks of “the almost universality of instruction among us.”

Condign. E.g., “He does not deserve the condign punishment he has received.” As the meaning of condign is that which is deserved, we have here a contradiction in terms, the statement being equivalent to this: “he does not deserve the deserved punishment he has received.”

Paraphernalia. This is a big, sounding word from the Greek, which some newspaper writers are constantly misusing. It is strictly a law-term, and means whatever the wife brings with her at marriage in addition to her dower. Her dress and her ornaments are paraphernalia. To apply the term to an Irishman’s sash on St. Patrick’s day, or to a Freemason’s hieroglyphic apron, it has been justly said, is not only an abuse of language, but a clear invasion of woman’s rights.

Setting-room, for sitting-room, is a gross vulgarism, which is quite common, even with those who deem themselves nice people. “I saw your children in the setting-room, as I went past,” said a well-dressed woman in our hearing, in a horse-car. How could she go past? It is not difficult to go by any object; but to go past is a contradiction in terms.

An innumerable number is an absurd expression, which is used by some persons,—not, it is to be hoped, “an innumerable number” of times.

Seraphim, for seraph; the plural for the singular. Even Addison says: “The zeal of the seraphim breaks forth,” etc. This is as ludicrous as the language of the Indiana justice, who spoke of “the first claw of the statute,” or the answer of the man who, when asked whether he had no politics, replied, “Not a single politic.”

People, for persons, “Many people think so.” Better, persons; people means a body of persons regarded collectively, a nation.

Off of, for off. “Cut a yard off of the cloth.”

More perfect, most perfect. What shall be said of these and similar forms of expression? Doubtless they should be discouraged, though used by Shakespeare and Milton. It may be argued in their favor, that, though not logically correct, yet they are rhetorically so. It is true that, as “twenty lions cannot be more twenty than twenty flies,” so nothing can be more perfect than perfection. But we do not object to say that one man is braver than another, or wiser, though, if we had an absolute standard of bravery or wisdom,—that is, a clear idea of them,—we should pronounce either of the two persons to be simply brave or not brave, wise or not wise. We say that Smith is a better man than Jones, though no one is absolutely good but God. These forms are used because language is inadequate to express the intensity of the thought,—as in Milton’s “most wisest, virtuousest, discreetest, best,” or the lines,

Milton abounds in these illogical expressions, as do the best Greek poets; and one of the happiest verses in the poems of W. W. Story is a similar intentional contradiction, as

Ugly, for ill-tempered. A leading New York divine is reported as saying of an ill-tempered child, that “he wants all he sees, and screams if he does not get it; ugly as he can be, no matter who is disturbed by it.”

Is, for are. One of the most frequent blemishes in English prose is the indiscriminate use of singulars and plurals. E.g., Junius writes: “Both minister and magistrate is compelled to choose between his duty and his reputation.” Even Lindley Murray writes: “Their general scope and tendency is not remembered at all”; and Milton sings:

Some grammarians defend these forms of expression on the ground that when two or more nouns singular represent a single idea, the verb to which they are the nominative may be put in the singular. The answer to this is, that if the nouns express the same idea, one of them is superfluous; if different ideas, then they form a plural, and the verb should be plural also. Another quibble employed to justify such expressions, is that the verb, which is expressed after the last noun, is considered as understood after the first. But we are not told how this process of subaudition can go on in the mind of the reader, before he knows what the verb is to be; and while ellipsis not only is in many cases permissible, but gives conciseness and energy to style, yet there is a limit beyond which it cannot be pushed without leading to literary anarchy.

Caption, for heading. E.g., “The caption of this newspaper article.” Caption means that part of a legal instrument which shows where, when, and by what authority it was taken, found, or executed.

To extremely maltreat. This phrase from Trench is an example of a very common solecism. To, the sign of the infinitive, should never be separated from the verb. Say “to maltreat extremely,” or “extremely to maltreat.”

Accord, for grant. “He accorded them (or to them) all they asked for.” To accord with means properly to agree or to suit; as, “He accorded with my views.”

Enthuse, a word used by some clergymen, is not to be found either in Worcester’s Dictionary or in Webster’s “Unabridged.”

Personalty. This word is supposed by some persons to mean articles worn on one’s person. Some years ago, a lady, in England, who had made this mistake, and who wished to leave to her servant her clothing, jewels, etc., described them as her personalty, and unwittingly included in her bequest ten thousand pounds.

Do. This verb is often used incorrectly as a substitute for other verbs; as, “I did not say, as some have done.” We may properly say, “I did not say, as some do” (say), for here the ellipsis of the preceding verb may be supplied.

On to, for on, or upon. “He got on to an omnibus;” “He jumped on to a chair.” The preposition to is superfluous. Say, “He got upon an omnibus,” etc. Some persons speak of “continuing on,” which is as objectionable as “He went to Boston for to see the city.”

Older, for elder. Older is properly applied to objects, animate and inanimate; elder, to rational beings.

Overflown, for overflowed. “The river has overflown.” Flowed is the participle of “to flow”; flown, of “to fly.”

Spoonsful, for spoonfuls, and effluvia for effluvium, are very common errors. “A disagreeable effluvia” is as gross a mistake as “an inexplicable phenomena.”

Scarcely, for hardly. Scarcely pertains to quantity; hardly, to degree; as, “There is scarcely a bushel”; “I shall hardly finish my job by night-fall.”

Fare thee well, which has Byron’s authority, is plainly wrong.

Community, for the community; as “Community will not submit to such outrages.” Prof. Marsh has justly censured this vulgarism. Who would think of saying, “Public is interested in this question”? When we personify common nouns used definitely in the singular number, we may omit the article, as when we speak of the doings of Parliament, or of Holy Church. “During the Revolution,” says Professor M., “while the federal government was a body of doubtful authority and permanence, ... the phrase used was always ‘the Congress,’ and such is the form of expression in the Constitution itself. But when the Government became consolidated, and Congress was recognized as the paramount legislative power of the Union, ... it was personified, and the article dropped, and, in like manner, the word Government is often used in the same way.”

Folks for folk. As folk implies plurality, the s is needless.

Mussulmen. Mussulman is not a compound of man, and, therefore, like German, it forms its plural by adding s.

Drive, for ride. A lady says that “she is going to drive in the park,” when she intends that her servant shall drive (not her, but) the horses.

Try and, for try to. E.g., “Try and do it.”

Whole, entire, complete, and total, are words which are used almost indiscriminately by many persons. That is whole, from which nothing has been taken; that is entire, which has not been divided; that is complete, which has all its parts. Total refers to the aggregate of the parts. Thus we say, a whole loaf of bread; an entire set of spoons; a complete harness; the total cost or expense.

Succeed, for give success to, or cause to succeed. E.g., “If Providence succeed us in this work.” Both Webster and Worcester justify this use of succeed as a transitive verb; but if not now grammatically objectionable, as formerly, it is still to be avoided on the ground of ambiguity. In the phrase quoted, succeed may mean either cause to succeed, or follow.

Tartar should be, strictly, Tatar. When the Tatar hordes, in the thirteenth century, burst forth from the Asiatic steppes, this fearful invasion was thought to be a fulfilment of the prediction of the opening of the bottomless pit, as portrayed in the ninth chapter of Revelations. To bring the name into relation with Tartarus, Tatar was written, as it still continues to be written, Tartar.

The following is an example of a very common error in the arrangement of words:

Though such is not the writer’s intention, he really speaks of Jesus as being “dead in sins and in transgressions”; for the syntax of the verse admits of no other meaning.

Numerous, for many. To speak of “our numerous friends” is to say that each friend is numerous.

That of; as, “He chose for a profession that of the law.” This is equivalent to saying: He chose for a profession the profession of law; or, he chose a profession for a profession. Why not say, “He chose law for a profession”?

Fellow countrymen. What is the difference between “countrymen” and “fellow countrymen?”

Distinguish, for discriminate. To distinguish is to mark broad and plain differences; to discriminate is to notice minute and subtle shades of difference.

Transpire, for to happen. “Transpire” meant originally to emit insensible vapor through the pores of the skin. Afterward it was used metaphorically in the sense of to become known, to pass from secrecy into publicity. But to say that a certain event “transpired yesterday,” meaning that it occurred then, is a gross vulgarism.

Ventilate, for discuss.

Hung, for hanged. “Hang,” when it means to take away life by public execution, is a regular verb.

Bid, for bade. E.g., The London “Times” says: “He called his servants, and bid them procure fire-arms.”

Dare, for durst. “Neither her maidens nor the priest dare speak to her for half an hour,” says the Rev. Charles Kingsley, in one of his novels.

In, for within. E.g., “Is Mr. Smith in?”

Notwithstanding, for although. E.g., “Notwithstanding they fought bravely, they were defeated.” “Notwithstanding” is a preposition, and cannot be correctly used as a conjunction.

Two good ones. “Among all the apples there were but two good ones.” Two ones?

Raising the rent, for increasing the rent. A landlord notified his tenant that he should raise his rent. “Thank you,” was the reply; “I find it very hard to raise it myself.”

Was, for is. “Two young men,” says Swift, “have made a discovery, that there was a God.” That there was a God? When? This year, or last year, or ages ago? All general truths should be expressed by the use of verbs in the present tense.

Shall and will. There are, perhaps, no two words in the language which are more frequently confounded or used inaccurately, than shall and will. Certain it is, that of all the rocks on which foreigners split in the use of the Queen’s English, there is none which so puzzles and perplexes them as the distinction between these little words. Originally both words were employed for the same purpose in other languages of the same stock with ours; but their use has been worked out by the descendants of the Anglo-Saxons, until it has attained a degree of nicety remarkable in itself, and by no means easy of acquisition even by the subjects of Victoria or by Americans. Every one has heard of the Dutchman who, on falling into a river, cried out, “I will drown, and nobody shall help me.” The Irish are perpetually using shall for will, while the Scotch use of will for shall is equally inveterate and universal. Dr. Chalmers says: “I am not able to devote as much time and attention to other subjects as I will be under the necessity of doing next winter.” The use of shall for will, in the following passage, has led some critics strongly to suspect that the author of the anonymous work, “Vestiges of Creation,” is a Scotchman: “I do not expect that any word of praise which this work may elicit shall ever be responded to by me; or that any word of censure shall ever be parried or deprecated.” This awkward use of shall, we have seen, is not a Scotticism; yet it is curious to see how a writer who pertinaciously shrouds himself in mystery, may be detected by the blundering use of a monosyllable. So the use of the possessive neuter pronoun its in the poems which Chatterton wrote and palmed off as the productions of one Rowlie, a monk in the fifteenth century, betrayed the forgery,—inasmuch as that little monosyllable, its, now so common and convenient, did not find its way into the language till about the time of Shakespeare. Milton never once uses it, nor, except as a misprint, is it to be found anywhere in the Bible.

Gilfillan, a Scotch writer, thus uses will for shall: “If we look within the rough and awkward outside, we will be richly rewarded by its perusal.” So Alison, the historian: “We know to what causes our past reverses have been owing, and we will have ourselves to blame if they are again incurred.” Macaulay observes that “not one Londoner in a thousand ever misplaces his will and shall. Doctor Robinson could, undoubtedly, have written a luminous dissertation on the use of those words. Yet, even in his latest work, he sometimes misplaced them ludicrously.” But Doctor Johnson was a Londoner, and he did not always use his shalls and wills correctly, as will be seen by the following extract from a letter to Boswell in 1774: “You must make haste and gather me all you can, and do it quickly, or I will and shall do without it.” In this anti-climax Johnson meant to emphasize the latter of the auxiliaries. But shall (Saxon, sceal = necesse est) in the first person, simply foretells; as, “I shall go to New York to-morrow.” On the other hand, will, in the first person, not only foretells, but promises, or declares the resolution to do a thing; as, “I will pay you what I owe you.” The Doctor should have said: “I shall and will do without it.” putting the strongest term last. The confusion of the two words is steadily increasing in this country. Formerly the only Americans who confounded them were Southerners; now, the misuse of the word is stealing through the North. E.g., “I will go to town to-morrow, and shall take an early opportunity of calling on your friend there.” “We will never look on his like again.” A writer in a New York paper says: “None of our coal mines are deep, but the time is coming when we will have to dig deeper in search of both coal and metallic ores.” Again, we hear persons speak thus: “Let us keep a sharp lookout, and we will avoid all danger.”

Shakespeare rarely confounded the two words; for example, in “Coriolanus”: