MANY BRITISH READERS have trouble understanding American publications because of certain differences in vocabulary between our two dialects. As a service to his many readers overseas, Dr. Boli explains a few of the more common Americanisms they may encounter in their reading.

Americans call a car park a parking garage.

A moving stairway is an escalator.

A lift is an elevator.

A film is a motion picture.

A house is a machine for living.

A plan is a housing development.

A school is an achievement center.

A shrink is a clinical psychotherapeutic practitioner.

A roundabout is a rotational multiple-access vehicular intersection.

A motorway is a controlled-access high-speed multiple-lane simultaneous movement system.

A cup is a cylindrical gravitationally operated beverage-delivery system.

Parliament is the United States in Congress Assembled.

Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith, Duchess of Edinburgh, Countess of Merioneth, Baroness Greenwich, Duke of Lancaster, Lord of Mann, Duke of Normandy, Sovereign of the Most Honourable Order of the Garter, Sovereign of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Sovereign of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, Sovereign of the Most Illustrious Order of Saint Patrick, Sovereign of the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, Sovereign of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire, Sovereign of the Distinguished Service Order, Sovereign of the Imperial Service Order, Sovereign of the Most Exalted Order of the Star of India, Sovereign of the Most Eminent Order of the Indian Empire, Sovereign of the Order of British India, Sovereign of the Indian Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Order of Burma, Sovereign of the Royal Order of Victoria and Albert, Sovereign of the Royal Family Order of King Edward VII, Sovereign of the Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Order of the Companions of Honour, Sovereign of the Royal Victorian Order, Sovereign of the Most Venerable Order of the Hospital of St John of Jerusalem, Sovereign of the Order of Canada, Sovereign of the Order of Australia, Sovereign of the Order of New Zealand, Sovereign of the Order of Barbados, Sovereign of the Order of Valour, Sovereign of the Order of Military Merit, Sovereign of the Order of Merit of the Police Forces, Sovereign of the Queen’s Service Order, Sovereign of the New Zealand Order of Merit, Sovereign of the Order of St. Andrew, Sovereign of the Order of Logohu, Sovereign of the Order of the Star of Melanesia, is “Barack.”

Dear Dr. Boli: Yesterday afternoon, as I was out driving in the suburbs, I passed a church with one of those slogan boards where the inspirational phrase of the week can be spelled out in plastic letters. This was the slogan on the sign:

JESUS CAN SAVIOR SOUL

I have been worrying about this sign ever since. I thought I knew how the English language worked, but I expect an infinitive without the particle to after the verb can, and instead all I got was two substantives in a row. What does it mean? Has the English language evolved so quickly that it is now unintelligible to a woman of my generation? (Without divulging my exact age, I may mention that I was born as long ago as the Reagan administration.) Am I doomed to sit in sullen silence now while others banter in what I thought was my native language? —Sincerely, A Woman of a Certain Age.

Dear Madam: You are the victim of what is known as a pun, a sort of linguistic diversion in which words of an identical or similar sound are substituted for the words you expect, with the intent of producing a humorous effect. In order to understand the intended meaning, you must pronounce the words aloud, or at least hear them with the ears of your mind (so to speak), and then think of similar words that will convey a more intelligible meaning.

The pun is merely a tool in the writer’s linguistic tool caddy, and like any tool it can be used for constructive or destructive purposes. William Shakespeare, Sydney Smith, Dorothy Parker, Groucho Marx, and James Joyce all made a high art of the pun. Unfortunately, although members of the clergy are frequently addicted to the practice of punning, even the rudiments of the art seem not to be taught in our seminaries. For a pun to have any humorous effect, it is necessary for the substituted words to have a meaning on their own, and one that contrasts with, but at the same time illuminates, the meaning of the original phrase. This is the principle that eludes the punning clergy.

Can nothing be done about these offensively meaningless clerical puns? It is probably pointless to protest to the minister or priest who authorized the sign; you would only be told “I thought it was rather funny,” and against such profound ignorance of literary art there is no argument. There are, however, larger organizations that supervise the activities of some of the clergy, and you may be able to appeal to the diocese, presbytery, synod, or conference to which this particular church belongs. If the church belongs to one of the disorganized evangelical sects, however, little will be accomplished by a formal protest, and your only recourse may be cautious vandalism.

Llama (noun). A hholy mman of Ttibet.

A MOMENTOUS ANNIVERSARY has passed almost unnoticed in the world of letters. Indeed, when Dr. Boli discovered that his secretary had neglected to remind him of it, he raised his voice by nearly a minor third before deciding that mercy in this case was more to be desired than justice.

Three hundred years ago this month, the most elegant, most astute, and most delightful periodical publication in the history of English letters began its run. The Spectator has not only all these virtues, which made its best essays required reading for generations of schoolchildren, but it also has this one additional virtue: it was the inspiration for Dr. Boli’s own Magazine, which has never had any higher ambition than to be a pale shadow of the great and enduring work of Addison and Steele. Without the Spectator, the Magazine you are reading now would never have been conceived.

Nor has the Spectator lost any of its relevance. Indeed, we might say that technology has at last caught up with it: for the Spectator, and all the dozens of similar publications in the same era, were really nothing less than blogs looking for an Internet. Like the blogs of today, they were filled with short occasional essays and miscellaneous matter, updated several times a week; and they built small communities of admiring and engaged readers around them.

What better way to read the Spectator, then, than the way it would doubtless have been read if it had been published today? Here is the Spectator, exactly three hundred years after its original publication, presented in a form that brings the early eighteenth century back to life in the Internet age. Follow it here, and learn why the 1700s were really the golden age of blogging:

THE SPECTATOR
Three Hundredth Anniversary

 

(If you find the site “under review,” check back again in an hour or so. Our esteemed host suddenly becomes a bit twitchy when a new site begins to attract visitors.)

Philosophy (noun). Any elaborate method of justifying our prejudices.