There are, in all languages, certain words which may be called equivocal. Such are either those which are spelled exactly alike and have different meanings, or are spelled differently and yet have the same pronunciation. In most of these cases the two terms have no necessary connection with each other, though it has probably puzzled many a reader that the same word should have such a variety of meanings so distinctly different from each other. This phenomenon may be accounted for in English by the condition of our language, especially its mixed nature. English draws words from a multiplicity of sources. It frequently happens that several distinctly different forms of foreign words fall into one and the same form when incorporated into English, each of them retaining its original signification. This may explain how the word ‘light’ may mean something that burns bright, and may also have the sense of ‘not heavy.’ In the first case, it is derived from the Anglo-Saxon verb ‘leohtan;’ but, as an adjective, it comes from the Saxon ‘liht,’ whence also is derived the verb ‘to light’ (or ‘to alight’), i.e. to come down gently. The verb ‘to lighten,’ in an electrical sense, is connected with the first meaning; but ‘to lighten,’ meaning to make less heavy, is from the second.

But it sometimes happens that the same root will produce two different meanings; and of this the word ‘court’ will furnish an example. In the Middle Ages, the yard or court attached to every castle (so called from the French ‘cour’) was used for two purposes: 1st, as a place for games or amusements; and, 2nd, where criminals were tried and sentenced. This is why a king’s palace is still called ‘a Court.’ We say ‘the Court of St. James,’ or ‘the Court of the Tuileries,’ &c.; and this is also why buildings where law proceedings are carried on have the same name; as in ‘the Court of Queen’s Bench,’ ‘the Court of Exchequer,’ &c.

The adjective ‘fine,’ in the sense of handsome or beautiful, is from the Saxon ‘fein,’ where it had the same meaning; but, in the expression ‘in fine,’ it is from the French ‘enfin,’ and the Latin ‘finis,’ an end or boundary. Again, the noun ‘fine,’ meaning a sum of money paid as a compensation for a misdemeanour, is from the same source, ‘finis;’ for here it means the limit or end to which the law confines the magistrate in determining that sum—‘Not more than forty shillings,’ &c.

Another of this class is the noun ‘sack.’ In its ordinary acceptation it means a large bag, and is derived from the Anglo-Saxon ‘sacc’ and the Latin ‘saccus.’ Hence comes the verb. To ‘sack’ a city is to carry off the plunder in a ‘bag.’ But another meaning of this word is found in ‘sack,’ a sort of wine. Here it is a corruption of the French ‘sec’ (originally the Latin ‘siccus’), dry. ‘Un vin sec’ is what we should call ‘a dry wine.’

These double meanings have probably in all nations given rise to various perversions and corruptions of the language. One of these—viz. punning—has been particularly prominent in modern times, and has, in some degree, infected the great majority of writers. Though the nations of antiquity seem to have been comparatively free from this literary vice, there are not wanting examples of it in the ancient classics. There is a collection of so-called jokes, or silly sayings of pedants, attributed to Hierocles, though it is now believed to have been the work of another hand. Most of these would be now considered intolerably stupid; and the only one among them that has the least approach to wit is the story of the father who writes to his son urging him to study hard, as he would have to live by his books. To this the son replies, that he had been already living by his books for some time, as he had been obliged to sell them. In Latin a softened expression for ‘a thief’ was ‘homo trium literarum,’ a man of three letters (f. u. r.); and Disraeli the elder mentions in his ‘Curiosities of Literature’ two puns attributed to Cicero.

But the true source of modern punning must be looked for in Italy, where it took rise after the revival of learning in the fifteenth century, and whence this practice afterwards spread into all the languages of Europe. In English, the vice of playing on words infected all the writers of the Elizabethan period. Puns are sown broadcast in Shakspere’s plays—even Milton is by no means free from them; and it is hardly necessary to state that they form a prominent feature in the drama and light literature of the present day.

Addison defines a pun, in the sixty-first number of the ‘Spectator,’ as ‘a conceit arising from the use of two words that agree in the sound, but differ in the sense.’ Now the punster deals in these equivocal words; and his whole art consists in using them in one sense where we should naturally expect another. There are in English several classes of equivocal words:—

I. Where the same form has several meanings, as 1. ‘Fair’ (beautiful, or light-coloured). 2. ‘Fair’ (just, or equitable). 3. ‘Fair’ (a market-place).

II. Where two words of different meaning are pronounced alike, though spelled differently; as ‘son’ and ‘sun,’ ‘some’ and ‘sum,’ ‘sole’ and ‘soul,’ ‘peer’ and ‘pier,’ &c.

III. A third class is of those which are spelled differently, and pronounced nearly, though not quite, alike; such as ‘baron’ and ‘barren,’ ‘season’ and ‘seizing,’ &c.; though these more frequently produce Malaprops than puns.

IV. There are also many cases in which a phrase or idiom, consisting of two or three words, may be used equivocally, and these may be fairly considered as puns.

Of the first class the following are specimens:—

3. Dean Ramsay tells a story of a Scotch minister who, having to preach at some distance from home, was caught in a shower of rain. On arriving at his kirk, he got a friend to rub down his clothes, anxiously asking if he thought he was dry enough. The latter replied, ‘Never fear; you’ll be dry enough when you get into the pulpit!’

Under the second division may be placed such puns as the following:—

3. A story being told in the presence of Theodore Hook of an author who invited his publisher to dinner, and treated him to a great variety of wines—‘Then,’ said the wit, ‘I suppose he poured his wine-cellar into his book-seller.’

To the third class belong such cases as:—

1. That of the lady who said that her doctor had put her on a new regiment, and allowed her to drink nothing but water. ‘Ah!’ replied some one present, ‘that must have been the coldstream.’

2. Under this head also come the sayings of Mrs. Malaprop in the ‘Rivals,’ who talks of the ‘contagious’ (for contiguous) countries; and who recommends a nice derangement (arrangement) of epitaphs (epithets), &c.

3. It is a positive vulgarism to confound ‘genus’ (a class, or sort) with ‘genius’ (a high intellectual power). This is exactly what Goldsmith meant, when he put into Tony Lumpkin’s mouth:—

In the fourth class may be placed punning by the use of an equivocal phrase.

1. It was this form of the pun that Sydney Smith used when, hearing of a boy who always read the word ‘patriarchs’ as ‘partridges,’ declared it was too bad to make game of them in that way.

2. In this class we may also place Douglas Jerrold’s well-known reply to a friend who told him he was afraid he was going to have a brain fever. ‘Never fear, my friend,’ said the wit, ‘there is no foundation for the fact.’

3. The story related of Sydney Smith, who recommended the bishops laying their heads together to make a wooden pavement, may be placed in the same category, and here the wit is quite as pungent as in the other cases.

The instances of a play on words we meet with in Milton are not so much puns, properly so called, as what the Italians called conceits (concetti). This poet was deeply imbued with the spirit of Italian literature; and this form of it often appears in his verses. The following passages are examples:—

3. The same form appears occasionally in other poets. Cowper in his ‘Conversation’ has

One form of the pun which is just now not so frequently used is the following:—

1. ‘There’s something in that,’ as the cat said when she peeped into the milk-jug.

2. ‘I’m transported to see you,’ as the convict said to the kangaroo.

3. ‘You are very pressing,’ as the nut said to the nutcracker, &c.

Punning has been generally considered a low form of wit; and some have taken so unfavourable a view of it as even to declare that ‘he who will make a pun will pick a pocket.’ But all this is hardly just; for it may be easily shown that the highest minds have not hesitated to adopt it, and that in some writers it is a prominent feature of their style. It is true that critics have frequently condemned punning as a flaw in Shakspere’s style and manner; but it should be remembered that it was one form of that Italian tone which coloured all the English literature of the Elizabethan age, and from which no writer of those times was wholly free. We surely cannot utterly condemn any form of expression adopted by so great a master; and though it may be admitted that an immoderate use of puns should not usurp the place of the higher and more important qualities of style, there seems no good reason why they should be wholly excluded.

The late poet Thomas Hood was so remarkable for the way in which he used puns, that they formed an essential characteristic of his style. Though looked upon by the purist as a contemptible figure in literature, the pun proved in his hands a source of genuine humour, and sometimes of deepest pathos. It is a received axiom, that a keen perception of the ridiculous is a conclusive proof of real genius; and this opinion certainly holds good in his case. In him it was perfectly compatible with the deepest sympathy and intensity of feeling. In every form of wit the effect consists chiefly in the novelty of the application presented by the figure. This always produces surprise—a naturally pleasing sensation, especially when caused by a ludicrous or grotesque image. But, in some instances, a pun suggests a far higher tone of thought than the mere ludicrous: it may be connected with or produce very sober reflections, or even occasionally lead the mind to a deeply philosophical speculation:—

In the popular conundrum which has been attributed to Burke, ‘What is (m)ajest(y), when deprived of its externals, but a jest?’ this effect may be observed, as well as in many of Hood’s puns.

In the literary history of all nations, we find languages affected by various peculiarities. Of these several, more or less connected with punning, have, at different periods, prevailed in English, viz. Alliteration, Rhyme, Euphuism, &c. Alliteration was the principle on which the Anglo-Saxon poets founded their versification. This has been called ‘head-rhyme,’ as distinguished from end-rhyme, which is a more modern practice. The lines were arranged in couplets grouped, not according to the sense, but to the alliteration, which required that two accented syllables in the first, and one in the second line, should begin with the same letter when a consonant; and a different, if possible, when a vowel. These three initial letters were called ‘rhyming letters,’ the one in the second line being the chief letter, according to which the two in the first line of the couplet must be regulated. These two, though they come first, are therefore called ‘sub-letters.’ In a couplet, there should not be more than three accented syllables beginning with this letter; and the chief letter must begin the first accented syllable or word of the second line.

Finally: in very short verse, especially when the rhyming letters are double, such as sc, st, sw, &c., there need be but one sub-letter. This is the general doctrine of alliteration, invariably adopted in Saxon poetry.

The following specimen of alliteration, extracted from Rask’s Anglo-Saxon Grammar, may serve to illustrate this explanation:—

But though no longer considered as an essential element in English verse, alliteration was often employed by all our poets from Chaucer to Spenser, though not according to the strict rules above laid down. Spenser used it, in some cases, with much effect, as shown in the following lines from the ‘FaËry Queen’:—

There is more alliteration in our modern poets than most readers suspect; and though an immoderate use of this figure makes it degenerate into a mere fantastic puerility, many examples may be quoted where it adds a wonderful force to the expression. For example, in the following lines from Macbeth:—

The grandeur of the effect is here powerfully assisted by the repetition of the letter s.

But the fondness of certain rhymesters for this figure was cleverly caricatured by the brothers Horace and James Smith, in their well-known ‘Rejected Addresses’:—

Rhyme may be almost considered a modern invention; it is seldom met with in Greek or Latin, and was unknown to the Saxon poets. This repetition of the same sound at the ends of verses was introduced into England by the Anglo-Norman ballad-writers at, or soon after, the Conquest. Since that time it has been regarded as one of the greatest embellishments of poetical expression, and it is now used in almost every form of poetry except blank verse. There is no doubt that it deserves this reputation, though here, as in other decorations, much of the effect depends on the judgment and taste with which it is applied. Many a beautiful thought has been probably sacrificed to the rigid requirements of rhyme; at the same time many so-called rhymes are so unlike each other in sound as scarcely to deserve the name.

The effect of rhyme is materially heightened when there is a real or fancied connection in meaning between the rhyming words; such as ‘wine’ and ‘divine,’ ‘life’ and ‘strife,’ ‘fish’ and ‘dish,’ ‘lone’ and ‘moan,’ &c. It is also curious to observe how often familiar proverbs are formed upon this principle. We have ‘Birds of a feather flock together;’ ‘’Twixt cup and lip there’s many a slip;’ ‘Fast bind, fast find;’ ‘No pains, no gains;’ &c. And this is not confined to English proverbs. In the same way the Italians have, ‘Chi va piano, va sano, e va lontano;’ and the Germans, ‘Morgenstund hat Gold im Mund;’ ‘Ueber Nacht ist wohl gedacht;’ ‘Wer neidet, der leidet,’ &c. The object in these cases was, probably, to produce a pleasing effect, and, at the same time, to assist the learner’s memory.

Another proof of the popularity of rhyme may be found in many double terms which are evidently formed on that principle. These, though not often met with in the higher styles of composition, are legitimate words in every-day and familiar conversation, and have every right to be so considered. Such are ‘helter-skelter,’ ‘namby-pamby,’ ‘hoity-toity,’ ‘roly-poly,’ ‘harum-scarum,’ ‘willy-nilly,’ ‘nolens-volens,’ ‘hugger-mugger,’ and a host of others.

A particularly ludicrous effect is frequently presented by double rhymes, which properly belong to the comic or burlesque in verse. Here there is often as much wit and humour in the rhyme as in the sentiment; and here, also, the rhyme frequently approaches to the nature of a pun.

Butler was distinguished for his double rhymes, and in his ‘Hudibras’ he displays a positive genius for comic rhyme, some specimens of which follow:—

Another form of comic verse is where the rhyme is made by dividing the word, being formed by a similar sound in the middle syllables; as for example:—

John Lyly, a dramatist and poet of the Elizabethan period, is said to have originated a singular affectation of language known as ‘Euphuism.’ He was the author of a romance entitled ‘Euphues;’ in which the ‘pure and reformed English,’ as he called it, first appeared. It became the fashion with the beauties of the court to ‘parley Euphuism,’ which was soon considered a necessary accomplishment for every one who had any pretensions to fashion or good taste. Euphuism was made up of almost every sort of folly of language combined, a mincing prettiness, alliteration, punning, pedantry, elaborate nonsense, and far-fetched expression; in fine, of almost every conceivable form of puerility. This was a mere passing absurdity, and the only remains of it still left in the language are said to be certain new modes of pronunciation then first introduced.

Language has been, like most other things, subject to many and various abuses. Anagrams, chronograms, acrostics, &c., have, each and all, ‘fretted their hour upon the stage, and now are heard no more.’ But the pun seems likely to maintain its place, both in conversation and in written composition. Let us not be misunderstood. It is not the practice, but the abuse of it, that is to be condemned. We are strongly of opinion that there can be no greater pest to society than the inveterate and professional punster—a man who sets traps for you, who lies in wait for every phrase you utter, to twist and turn it into a meaning of his own, and who is continually stopping the natural flow of discourse, and bringing it to some ‘lame and impotent conclusion.’ But, as we have endeavoured to show, the pun, when ‘telling’ and well-applied, is as legitimate a form of wit as any other, and quite as conducive to good feeling and good fellowship.