Note 154 — Chapter V

This is a French word, but I cannot help it—let reviewers say what they will. The sound of z in the song of West African birds is salient; our insipid “warbling” is tolerable and not to be endured. I distinctly deny that English or any other language contains all the desirable shades of expression; and I cannot see why, in these days, when French is familiar to us as in the times of William the Conqueror, we should be condemned for borrowing from it. “Rot your Italianos; I loves a simple English ballad,” appears to underlie the feeling.