forced to yield to advances she does not desire. The play opens when the Earl of Lincoln informs Oatley, the Lord Mayor of London, that his nephew is wooing Oatley’s daughter Rose. Oatley laments, “Too mean is my poor girl for his high birth. / Poor citizens must not with courtiers wed, / Who will in silks and gay apparel spend / More in one year than I am worth by far” (i. 11-14). The submissive language of this reply cloaks a not-so-subtle insult, to which Lincoln is far from oblivious: “I know this churl, even in the height of scorn / Doth hate the mixture of his blood with thine” (79). Oatley gets away with expressing scorn to the earl’s face and asserting that citizen values are superior to those of courtiers, something that would be impossible in I Edward IV, where the power imbalances are real and grave. Lincoln cannot deny his nephew’s spendthrift tendencies, but he retaliates by exaggerating the gap in social status and dismissing the Lord Mayor as a “churl”. (Ford, similarly, is “the peasant” to Falstaff, despite his “masses of money” [MWW II. ii. 283, 294].) His rage, however, is impotent – Oatley has left the stage and cannot hear him, and the conventions of comedy demand that the two mismatched lovers will eventually marry. The closest the play comes to a real case of sexual coercion is the story of Ralph Damport’s lost wife Jane, who is perhaps deliberately evoking Jane Shore when she refuses the wealthy Hammon’s addresses: “Whilst he lives, his I live, be it ne’er so poor; / And rather be his wife than a king’s whore” (78-79). Hammon later offers Ralph a bribe of gold to give up his claim to her, which Ralph angrily rejects: “[D]ost thou think a shoemaker is so base to be a bawd to his own wife for commodity?” (xviii. 92-94). By acting together, Ralph and his fellows successfully resist the demands of the wealthier and more powerful Hammon, defusing the threat of forced
The fact that pray is primarily used by the upper ranks also relates to the observation that it exclusively co-occurs with requests in the Drama Corpus. As mentioned in Section 2, Culpeper and Archer (2008, 74) indicate that the scarcity of support moves such as pray in their EarlyModernEnglish request data underlines the power structure, because of a perceived lack of a need for politeness or mitigation (based on assumed rights and obligations associated with social position and power). Our study does not extend to unsupported requests, which would be more of a direct reflection of the power differential, since it is limited to mitigated requests including pray forms. Nevertheless, it is likely that higher-ranking characters would have had more opportunities to make requests (whether mitigated or not), because of their position at the top of the hierarchical structure. Therefore, pray, despite its hedging effect, can be seen as a sign of the highest ranks’ power over the lower ranks. What is interesting about our data is the fact that all these characters of high social rank use a polite marker in contexts where their high status does not seem to oblige them to do so. We noted earlier in Section 2 that, in dramatic dialogue, such choices are of course imposed by the dramatists in constructing characters in particular ways. It is possible that this is a somewhat idealised or stereotyped representation of the language of polite upper class people (whose patronage of the plays would have been important to the dramatists).
Widow will perform in terms of financial gain. Addressing the Widow in the second person, while referring to Diana as “this virgin,” creates a distinction in the impact of Helena’s action: the “virgin” gets the precepts, but the Widow reaps the rewards. Furthermore, Helena’s language deploys social class in a way that highlights the difference between the women. The basic premise of her thought – that she should “requite [the Widow] further” – positions Helena as the overly courteous benefactress and the Widow as her magnanimous host, when in fact the only “requital” Helena owes the Widow is fee for lodging. This is not unlike what Helena does with Bertram and the service she owes him, rhetorically transforming economic and domestic bonds with the language of courtesy and chivalry. The oddity of Helena’s offering to the Widow is highlighted by the dissonance produced by her use of the formal “you” rather than “thee” to address a subordinate; this underscores the newness and strangeness of Helena’s social position, as if she were unaccustomed to the language she can now speak of mastery – or, perhaps, this is a deliberate move on Helena’s part, designed to flatter the Widow. Most importantly, Helena’s offer of overcompensation for the service the Widow renders as Helena’s hostess puts the Widow in a kind of debt to Helena, which the Widow and Diana can (and will) repay upon receiving the “precepts” Helena “bestow[s].”
morphizing it, by its intimate proximity to both lady and lap dog), reverses the terms of this voyeurism. In an address to the ladies and gentlewomen of England at the beginning of Euphues and his England, the book seems to become a kind of surveillance device, infiltrating feminine spaces theoretically closed to the author and to male readers: “It resteth Ladies, that you take the paines to reade it, but at such times, as you spend in playing with your little Dogges, and yet will I not pinch you of that pastime, for I am content that your Dogges lye in your laps, so Euphues may be in your hands, that when you shall be wearie in reading of the one, you may bée ready to sport with the other: or handle him as you doe your Iunckets, that when you can eate no more, you tye some in your napkin for children, for if you bée filled with the first part, put the seconde in your pocket for your wayting maydes: Euphues had rather lye shut in a Ladies casket, then open in a Schollers studie.Yet after dinner, you may ouerlooke him to kéepe you from sléepe, or if you be hauie, to bring you a sléepe, for to worke vpon a full stomacke is against Phisike, and therefore better it were to holde Euphues in your hands, though you let him fall, when you be willing to winke, then to sowe in a clout, and pricke your fingers, when you begin to nod.” Lyly’s language here is shamelessly suggestive, as it moves from the lady’s hands, to her pockets, and is then “shut in a Ladies casket” before finally being taken to bed. Though the passage may begin in playful imitation of Catullus, the book moves far beyond the achievements of Lesbia’s sparrow by the end of the first paragraph as it becomes a kind of paper dildo.
In this treatise, Packe – a chemical physician – attempts to persuade his readers to purchase medical salts that he himself was selling, and through the use of the verb observe, he backs up his claim that he has indeed witnessed the efficacy of these salts on a number of occasions. That language should reflect such a massive philosophical shift as the transition from Scholasticism to Empiricism is to be expected (Taavitsainen 2001a, 2002; cf. Bates 1995), especially in the domain of evidentiality, which is directly concerned with how language users mark sources of information and knowledge (Aikhenvald 2004). The nature of these changes in medical writing will be examined from both qualitative and quantitative angles, using data from the Corpus of EarlyModernEnglish Medical Texts (EMEMT), which contains a representative sam- ple of sixteenth- and seventeenth-century medical writing in English from a number of genres (Taavitsainen and Pahta 2010). This study complements extant diachronic studies on English medical writing that focus on various aspects of stance or expressions of knowledge (Gray et al. 2011; Hiltunen and Tyrkkö 2009, 2011; Moessner 2008, 2009a, 2009b; Taavitsainen 2001a, 2002, 2009) by providing both a qualitative and quantitative study of evidentiality, a category yet to receive exclusive attention in the broader focus on the linguis- tic realisation of medical epistemologies.
his shame. Weeping, he pleads with Jack to save himself a similar experience—reflecting Jack’s earlier claim for his reader to “buy experience of mee better cheape”—and to find refuge in England, assuming the language of Christ’s parable: “Let no man for anie transitory pleasure sell away the inheritance he hath of breathing in the place where hee was borne. Get thee home, my yong lad, laye thy bones peaceably in the sepulcher of thy fathers, waxe olde in overlooking thy grounds, be at hand to close the eyes of thy kindred” (II: 303). Finally, he likens himself to the devil, positioning himself as suffering a similar type of alienation as the great enemy of God: “The divel and I am desperate, he of being restored to heaven, I of being recalled home” (II: 303). The Banished Earl here mirrors the language of the biblical prodigal son, reaffirming God as the godly father at home, and himself as the penitent son unworthy of forgiveness, eagerly awaiting the possibility of mercy and the father’s blessed command. But it is not enough. As Callimachus dismisses the advice of the hermit, so Jack rejects the experience of the Banished Lord. Through his liberal use of Lyly’s model, Nashe mocks didacticism, invalidating the interpretive safeguards of admonition and repentance. As such, Nashe fulfills another requirement of the prodigal paradigm while simultaneously highlighting its emptiness.
Just as this codex contains significant witnesses to Old English (OE), it also contains more broad-ranging linguistic evidence with additions from Middle (ME) and EarlyModernEnglish (EModE). This description speaks to the trans-temporal and multilingual scope that this book offers for thinking about the history of English both synchronically and diachronically.
John Foxe experienced his evangelical conversion during the Henrician persecutions. By the second English edition of his now famous Acts and Monuments (1570), ideas of heresy had significantly changed, not least because of Foxe’s own intervention. With the fall of English Catholicism, the old heresy hunters were recast as heretics whose diabolism caused the fanatical persecution of many true believers. Loewenstein hones in on Foxe’s association of persecution with fanaticism and how it gave Foxe cause to represent an account of the ‘mylde and constant Martyrs of Christ’ that stayed true to their faith in the face of awesome brutality (p. 118). For Loewenstein this is an under-researched area and one which demonstrates Foxe’s crucial role in ‘fashioning’ Protestant ideals of ‘“mild” martyrdom’ through narratives of ‘resistance’, ‘unity’, and ‘godly restraint’ (p. 104, p. 104, p. 106, p. 106, and p. 120); a design which helped re-define the Church militant and rendered ‘radical Protestantism’ problematic, even subversive, to the reformist cause (p. 106). In a ‘self- conscious work of cultural memory’, Foxe offered an ‘imaginative’ narrative of the depravity of persecutors contrasted with the meekness and mildness of martyrs, who were ‘forced to play parts in a shocking tragedy … subjected to symbolic acts of theatrical degradation and humiliation’ (pp. 123–4). The demise of the ‘hero’ Thomas Cranmer (1489–1556) was archetypal (p. 144). The cases of more ‘extreme’ figures like William Flower (d. 1555) and Joan Bocher (d. 1550), the latter unhelpfully despatched during the reforming reign of Edward VI, were painful anomalies for Foxe’s ‘ideal of moderate martyrdom’ (p. 128). The way in which Foxe struggled to mitigate these cases highlighted the uneasy tension between anti-Catholic reform and evangelical heresy. In the heat of the Marprelate controversy (1588–9), Richard Bancroft’s Sermon at Paules Crosse (1589) was a ‘rhetorical tour de force’ which constructed ideas about anti-establishment, separatist heresies of ‘false prophets’ within late Elizabethan England (p. 161 and p. 159). Thomas Nashe’s fictitious The Unfortunate Traveller (1594) satirized radical puritans by raising the spectre of the Münster Rebellion. In the wake of the 1593 executions for seditious separatism, this rhetorically ‘unstable’ work facilitated the ‘demonizing’ of ‘extremism’ whilst offering a ‘divided response’ on the ‘violent efforts to eradicate it’ (p. 172). Similar tensions were presented in the poetic allegories of Book Five of Edmund Spenser’s The Faerie Queene (1596). Anti-Familist writers responded to the mysterious Family of Love by both mocking and demonizing their unconventional ideas, language, and behaviour. Together, these
In this paper we focus on automatic part-of-speech (POS) annotation, in the context of historical English texts. Techniques that were originally developed for modernEnglish have been applied to numerous other languages over recent years. Despite this diversification, it is still almost invariably the case that the texts being analysed are from contemporary rather than historical sources. Although there is some recognition among historical linguists of the advantages of annotation for the retrieval of lexical, grammatical and other linguistic phenomena, the implementation of such forms of annotation by automatic methods is problematic. For example, changes in grammar over time will lead to a mismatch between probabilistic language models derived from, say, Present-day English and Middle English. Similarly, variability and changes in spelling can cause problems for POS taggers with fixed lexicons and rule- bases. To determine the extent of the problem, and develop possible solutions, we decided to evaluate the accuracy of existing POS taggers, trained on modernEnglish, when they are applied to EarlyModernEnglish (EModE) datasets. We focus here on the CLAWS POS tagger, a hybrid rule-based and statistical tool for English, and use as experimental data the Shakespeare First Folio and the Lampeter Corpus. First, using a manually post-edited test set, we evaluate the accuracy of CLAWS when no modifications are made either to its grammatical model or to its lexicon. We then compare this output with CLAWS’ performance when using a pre-processor that detects spelling variants and matches them to modern equivalents. This experiment highlights (i) the extent to which the handling of orthographic variants is sufficient for the tagging accuracy of EModE data to approximate to the levels attained on modern- day text(s), and (ii) in turn, whether revisions to the lexical resources and language models of POS taggers need to be made.
In general terms, EarlyModernEnglish grammar does not differ significantly from that of Present-day English. However, in a number of key areas, the general lack of standardisation in English, and ShakespeareÕs upbringing away from the south-east where stanbdardisation was most advanced, meant that Shakespeare had choices to make where today we have none. Frequently, these choices have stylistic connotations, with older variants being associated with formality Ð though variation in linguistic form was also a useful metrical resource. Grammatical variation tends not to trouble readers or playgoers unduly Ð they are often unaware of it until it is pointed out to them Ð but it does concern editors, who need to know if an unusual form is a misprint, or a possible EarlyModern usage. Shakespeare editing began in the age of prescriptivism, and this often resulted in EarlyModern variant forms being labelled as ÔerrorsÕ, and encouraged an approach to modernisation which, explicitly or implicitly, regarded the early texts as inherently faulty, and ripe for ÔimprovementÕ.
In the grandest terms, Linguistic DNA can therefore claim to access and analyse the ‘universe of earlymodernEnglish print’. Yet we are compelled to be cautious in certain respects. The composition of EEBO is haphazard by nature: it reﬂects the portion of printed matter that survived to be catalogued and microﬁlmed. Book historians remind us that there are patterns in what survives: large reference works were more likely to remain secure (and perhaps unread) in libraries, whereas ephemera seldom survive unless someone cared to collect them. Some genres (recipe books, grammars) were eminently disposable as they wore out, or were supplanted by ‘new improved’ versions. The nature of the texts represented in EEBO-TCP is therefore accidentally but in some very particular ways unrepresentative of what was printed (cf. Bruni & Pettegree 2016). In corpus linguistic terms, it is also undesigned: this is not a corpus built through intentional sampling to oﬀer a representative perspective of earlyModernEnglish discourse. It is a digital collection, not a corpus. Importantly, it is a collection skewed toward some particular interests, insofar as the subset of EEBO that has been tran- scribed consists of items chosen because of a perceived historical, literary or perhaps book historical interest. These facts about our principal dataset are something to be aware of, and these are limitations we accept. (And of course the discourse of earlymodern England, like EEBO itself, was not limited to English-language texts.)
In fact, there is already some evidence that reformers were using language in other ways to create a sense of belonging. Ruth Ahnert has argued that the deliberate rhetorical strategies of reformers like John Frith created a growing sense of group cohesion among reformers from the 1530s onwards. This was a group of believers with common values but no sense of shared history, and its members were likely unaware of the extent of their community beyond those they knew personally. Frith wrote ‘to instil communal values and behaviours in his co-religionists’ by ‘explicitly referring to the size [of that community]; by focusing on an individual and then moving the focus outward to the individu- al’s context within a community; or by detailing the spread of a manuscript beyond its intended audience, thereby creating a reputation of uncontainabil- ity.’ 65 As a result of strategies like these, reformers increasingly felt ‘a sense of membership within a textual community’, and their opponents – notably Sir Thomas More – came to perceive them ‘as an organised network of evangelicals working together to produce and disseminate texts’. 66 Ahnert posits the forma- tion of a coherent evangelical group in the first half of the sixteenth century, in the form of a textual community; a group which created a sense of unity through the production and consumption of printed works. It does not seem unlikely that the use of a specific vocabulary could – in the same way Ross describes – be a means of reinforcing this sense of identity.
Borrowing slowed down during the turbulent first decade of Soviet power, since previously borrowed words were still being assimilated into the language and other words were borrowed internally, usually from the political discourse into everyday use. A 1923 survey showed that Red Army men, who were mainly peasants, were unfamiliar with many foreign words like IQITJ`W ‘system’, KSUTQ`WTK` ‘ultimatum’, NJjKSRNHG ‘regularly’, QHQPQWTQVW ‘initiative’, and `J`GNWH^K` ‘memorandum’. To familiarize the population with foreign words, it was suggested that they should be used along with Russian counterparts. It was believed that the language of the press should be closer to the colloquial language, as shown by newspaper excerpts from Pravda, 29 May 1924: qTW `G^QOQFWPQR, gTG Qb`JHJHQJ TWFTQFQ… ‘This modification, this change of tactics…’ and Izvestiya s 295, 1924: tTQ`KS (MGcKa^JHQJ) F cGNUcJ... ‘Stimulus (inducement) to struggle…’ Between the late 1920s and the early 1930s the situation improved, and rural people were using loanwords that “formerly would have sounded very unusual in the mouth of a peasant”. Loan words were no longer limited to the urban areas, but were spread by agitation, propaganda, and the Red Army (Comrie 1996:193,197).
Gromada remained in close contact with his mentor, Halecki, until the latter’s death, and he published Halecki’s final work posthumously (more on it, below). So, perhaps, the publication of this somewhat quixotic, 80-page book dedicated to Halecki can be explained as stemming from a certain nostalgia on the part of its editor. Overall, Halecki is little regarded and little read by current historians of modern Poland, Ukraine, and Eastern and Central Europe. When historians of Halecki’s generation are cited, a situation usually occurs that is similar to the treatment of Pope Formosus (d. 896) by his successor, Pope Stephen VI, who exhumed Formosus’s body from its crypt and proceeded to place the corpse on trial for heresy and other crimes. Present-day North American historians are largely unconcerned with the niceties of canon law, but some postmodern inquisitors were happy to indict historians that came before them for many new forms of heresy: nationalism, racism, sexism, white privilege, and so on. In the United States, Halecki was labelled, quite early on, as an apologist for Polish nationalism. William H. McNeill, the late doyen of world history, wrote Europe’s Steppe Frontier, 1500-1800 in the 1960s, utilizing only a single work on the history of Poland (and none on the history of Ukraine)—namely Halecki’s History of Poland, which McNeill claims to have consulted merely as a handy example of excessive nationalism. While Europe’s Steppe Frontier may well be the worst book ever written in English on the earlymodern history of Ukraine—a work whose signal accomplishment was to ignore the significant role of both the Cossacks and the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth—the charge against Halecki is one that appears to have been widely accepted, without dissent, in English-speaking academia. After all, what can one expect from a Polish- American émigré historian who was a Catholic and an anti-Communist? Thus, we might imagine that Halecki and a book dedicated to him forty years after his death could be safely passed over without further comment.
Old English is the name given to the initial recorded stage of the Englishlanguage, up to approximately 1150AD. It refers to the language as it was used in the long period of time from the coming of Germanic invaders and settlers to Britain—in the period following the collapse of Roman Britain in the early fifth century—up to the Norman Conquest of 1066, and beyond into the first century of Norman rule in England. It is therefore first and foremost the language of the people normally referred to by historians as the Anglo-Saxons. Within the field of English, then, Old English studies afford unique opportunities, since no literature in English is as culturally remote as that of the Anglo-Saxons, and the differences expose clearly some of the otherwise invisible assumptions on which modernity, as we perceive it, is based. To cite just one example, the very act of reading a book, for instance this one, differs basically from the near the beginning medieval experience, and in a variety of ways. Yet, when reading was a private activity, readers commonly pointed to the words and spoke them aloud; but more often reading was a communal activity in which many “readers” never actually saw the page.
As Schneider (2002) notes, there are several ways of dealing with spelling variants. We might adapt a software program, such as the ENGCG, so that it can cope with the idiosyncrasies of earlier English texts (cf. Kytö and Voutilainen 1995). Alternatively, we might develop a program, such as ZENSPELL, that normalizes spellings (cf. Schneider 2002). Which route one takes will depend on one’s linguistic interests and ultimate goal. As our ultimate aim is the development of a semantic/part-of-speech tagger for EmodE texts, we originally opted for the route of ‘normalisation’. However, it quickly became obvious that this route alone would prove insufficient.
However, through discussion with the Lead, I found that although we were looking at the same text analysis, we were looking at the analysis through rather different lenses. As an ESL practitioner, I mainly saw problems in the language, and spent a great deal of time and effort analysing them in detail, though I did note down certain criteria like ‘task fulfilment’ and ‘interest value’, as per norm in the marking scheme of most Malaysian test and examination rubrics. However, the focus on the language remained clear. On the other hand, the Lead seemed to see other details that I had only acknowledged in passing. An example of this was in the way the student had written the story from two different viewpoints, namely Joe’s and the boy’s, and how she made them distinct from one another. In my analysis I acknowledged that the student had done this, but the analysis did not go beyond a creative ability to tell a story, which earned the student extra marks in the ‘interest value’ column of analysis. Cremin, Goouch, Blakemore, Goff, and Macdonald (2006, p. 279) advocate the pairing of drama and writing as they had identified three ‘threads’ that appeared to connect drama and effective writing, which were “tension, emotional engagement and incubation and a strong sense of stance and purpose gained in part through role adoption”. This was where another critical episode in my learning occurred. The Lead went on to comment on the student’s ability to write from different viewpoints, as had been discussed by Cremin et al., citing that the student had displayed a high level of understanding of the use of role. Further, this use of role created with it an exploration of a complex range of emotions from both points of view – fear, danger, gratitude, sympathy, empathy, feeling stupid, and missing someone. This was the range of emotions that we had tried to simulate in the activities in the Silence Seeker unit, and seeing them written down gave credence to the non-linguistic uptake of drama, where the student exhibited behaviour that was synonymous with achieving drama objectives that were not necessarily to do with language uptake or acquisition. For the purposes of this study and the overall thesis, I shall refer to this form of uptake as ‘dramatic uptake’ to differentiate between feedback that confirms language uptake as defined Ellis (1994) and Lyster and Ranta (1997).
learning perspectives, a variety of approaches to learning that underline the prominence of social, political and cultural processes in mediating learners’ cognitive and metacognitive processes (Hajar, 2019, p. 44). Gu (2018, p. 148) points out that the “social turn” in education offers a new dimension to the study of LLSs by promoting sociocultural approaches as complementary, by which “the strategic and autonomous learner not only actively self-regulates his/her own learning process, but is also keenly aware of the situatedness and the social nature of the learning task”. “Context” or “real- world situations” are also treated as “fundamental, not ancillary, to learning” in sociocultural research (Zuengler & Miller, 2006, p. 37) and they include a variety of different societal learning discourses, social agents and cultural or material artefacts (Palfreyman, 2014). Richards (2015) indicates that “good language learners” are more likely to make use of the out-of-class language learning artefacts available to them, and that this use can be linked to their learning outcomes, confidence and
Teaching taboo in the classroom is a rather new approach in education  because, though our world has been constantly changing, our schools have not. Curricular reforms in this respect were advocated in the 1980s and 1990s, and language courses were suggested as vectors due to their communicative approach and because controversial topics encourage students to speak [2, 3]. Given the current European context, constant exposure to both taboo language and taboo topics can no longer be ignored. Teaching taboos such as abortion, addictions, AIDS, animal rights, anxiety and depression, bad breath, begging, Big Brother, boxing, bribery and corruption, bullfighting, changing sex, cheating, children who kill, compensation culture, cosmetic surgery, death, death penalty, designer babies, gay families, gays and jobs, guns, human cloning, immigration and racism, the Ku Klux Klan, legalising drugs, marriage, national stereotypes,