Notes and Queries, Number 39, July 27, 1850

In Short

This collection represents a single issue of a foundational nineteenth-century weekly journal dedicated to the pursuit of obscure information. It operates as a public forum where readers submit "Queries" on topics ranging from linguistics and folklore to genealogy and rare book history, often receiving detailed "Replies" from other contributors in subsequent weeks. By documenting the Victorian passion for meticulous research, it preserves a snapshot of an era’s collective intelligence, demonstrating how a community of enthusiasts built a shared body of knowledge through persistent, disciplined, and often spirited correspondence.

The Story

The journal begins by inviting readers into a world of meticulous investigation. The opening pages establish the magazine’s identity as a repository for the "much-disputed" and the "minor." It starts with an etymological inquiry into the word "Whitsuntide," debating whether the term stems from the white garments of the baptized or from the Anglo-Saxon witan, meaning "to know." This sets the tone for the entire issue: a blend of high-minded philology and grounded, everyday curiosity. From the solemnity of religious etymology, the text shifts abruptly to the realm of "Folk Lore," where a reader discusses the superstitious belief that eating snakes can rejuvenate the elderly—a claim illustrated by excerpts from old plays by Massinger and others.

As the narrative of the issue progresses, the focus expands to include the physical traces of history. There is a debate regarding "Long Meg of Westminster," a legendary figure whose supposed burial place in the cloisters of the Abbey is questioned by an contributor who views her as a mythical "amazon" akin to Jack the Giant-killer, rather than a historical personage. The issue then moves into the "Minor Notes," which serve as a chaotic, fascinating scrapbook of the age. Here, readers find a pasquinade written about the late Pope Leo XII, an observation that Shakespeare may have been a "brass-rubber" based on his references to taking impressions with wax, and a reflection on the missed opportunity to discover Californian gold over a century earlier.

The middle section of the issue is dominated by the "Queries," a dense thicket of intellectual longing. Readers seek the origins of phrases like "Welcome the coming, speed the parting guest," inquire about the history of the "Stars and Stripes" in American heraldry, and hunt for the whereabouts of long-lost genealogical records, such as those of the Walrond family. These questions reveal a society deeply invested in the provenance of objects and the accuracy of language. The atmosphere is one of intellectual democracy; a question about the "geometrical foot" of sixteenth-century mathematicians sits side-by-side with a request for the lyrics to a forgotten nursery rhyme about a frog and a crow.

The final movement of the journal is occupied by the "Replies." This is where the collaborative arc closes, as contributors provide answers to previous weeks' mysteries. The tone here is sometimes collegial, sometimes sharp. We see a vigorous defense of the word "news" against those who would reduce it to a mere derivative of the compass points, and a scholarly debate regarding Shakespeare’s use of the word "delighted," with critics urging readers to avoid judging the Bard’s grammar by the rigid, modern standards of contemporary textbooks. The issue concludes with a list of "Miscellaneous" notes on sales and catalogued books, reminding the reader that this intellectual hobby was part of a larger ecosystem of printing, collecting, and commerce. The journey ends not with a final resolution, but with an open-ended invitation to keep searching, cataloging, and questioning the past.

How It Unfolds

The search for roots The issue opens with formal, scholarly attempts to trace the etymological origins of ecclesiastical terms like "Whitsunday" and "Mass." These arguments emphasize the importance of looking past modern "refinements" to find the original intent behind language.

The collection of curiosities The narrative shifts to folklore and local history, highlighting the Victorian interest in the "infamous" characters of the past. By examining the legend of Long Meg of Westminster, the text questions how memory and myth become enshrined in physical architecture.

The open forum of inquiry The "Queries" section functions as a wide-ranging, unscripted dialogue between anonymous researchers across the country. Each question acts as a narrative beat, demonstrating the breadth of Victorian interests from medieval heraldry to the technical mechanics of wood carving.

The rectification of errors The "Replies" section provides the intellectual climax, where experts intervene to correct misconceptions. The tone shifts to one of academic rigor, specifically regarding the proper interpretation of Shakespearean grammar and the historical reality of livery collars.

The bibliographic conclusion The issue concludes by grounding these abstract discussions in the material world of publishing. Lists of recent books and catalogs serve as the final reminder that these intellectual pursuits are sustained by a vibrant, ongoing commerce of ideas.

The People

The journal is populated by a diverse cast of contributors who function as the "detectives" of their age. A. De Morgan stands out as the precision-minded mathematician, obsessed with the "geometrical foot" and the exact measurements used by sixteenth-century scholars. His desire for accuracy drives a segment of the journal that seeks to standardize historical data. Conversely, contributors like H.T.G. and J.O. Halliwell act as the linguistic guardians, attempting to preserve the nuance of historical language against the encroachment of modern, simplified grammar.

The "Query" submitters—often appearing only by initials or pseudonyms—are the driving force of the issue. They are characters defined by their intellectual restlessness; they are people who cannot walk past a carving on Snow Hill or hear a fragment of a rhyme without needing to document its origin. They stand in the way of historical erasure. Finally, the editors and the "respondents" act as the anchors of the community. They are the ones who possess the patience to look through old manuscripts and dictionaries, eventually correcting those who, like the "wag" Franciscus, try to impose superficial logic onto the organic, messy development of human language.

In Its Own Voice

"I should observe, that I think it incorrect to say Whit-Sunday. It should be Whitsun (Witesone) Day."

This remark comes from a contributor arguing for a more precise understanding of the religious calendar’s nomenclature.

"A gentlewoman told an ancient batchelour, who looked very young, that she thought he had eaten a snake."

This snippet illustrates the era's fascination with the strange, often humorous superstitions found in the folk-lore of the past.

"We must not judge Shakspeare's grammar by Cobbett or Murray, but by the vernacular language of his own times."

This statement captures the core editorial philosophy of the journal, which advocates for historical context over modern prescription.

What It's Really About

At its heart, this is a document about the democratization of knowledge. It argues that history is not solely the province of professional academics but is a collaborative project that belongs to anyone willing to look closely at a tombstone, a dictionary, or a nursery rhyme. It explores the tension between the "vulgarisms" of the common people and the "refinements" of the elite, ultimately siding with the former as being closer to the true, living nature of language. It is about the preservation of the ephemeral, finding meaning in the detritus of history, and the belief that no question is too small to be worthy of a reasoned, scholarly answer.

Why Read It Today

Readers who find joy in the "rabbit holes" of the internet will feel an immediate kinship with this journal. It is the spiritual ancestor of today’s collaborative knowledge-sharing platforms. Reading it feels like sitting in a quiet, sun-drenched library, listening to the muffled, polite, yet intense voices of people who care deeply about the origin of a word or the fate of a piece of wood carving.

However, modern readers should be prepared for the dense, occasionally dry, and hyper-specific nature of the discourse. The writing is steeped in the conventions of 1850s intellectual life, which can be challenging to navigate; the tone is formal, and the debates are often conducted with a level of pedantry that can feel exhausting. You will encounter the casual prejudices of a nineteenth-century worldview, particularly regarding "vulgar" classes and foreign traditions. Yet, the reward for the patient reader is a rare, authentic look at the Victorian mind in its most active, curious, and inquisitive state. It remains a testament to the idea that a community united by curiosity can turn the pursuit of "minor" facts into a grand, collective endeavor.