William Mathews

Language is the depository of the accumulated body of experience, to which all former ages have contributed their part, and which is the inheritance of all yet to come.—J. S. Mill.

Often in words contemplated singly there are boundless stores of moral and historic truth, and no less of passion and imagination, laid up.—Trench.

A thoughtful English writer tells us that, when about nine years old, he learned with much surprise that the word “sincere” was derived from the practice of filling up flaws in furniture with wax, whence sine cera came to mean pure, not vamped up or adulterated. This explanation gave him great pleasure, and abode in his memory as having first shown him that there is a reason in words as well as things. There are few cultivated persons who have not felt, at some time in their lives, a thrill of surprise and delight like that of this writer. Throughout our whole lives, from the cradle to the grave, the stream of our history, inner and outer, runs wonderfully blended with the texture of the words we use. Dive into what subject we will, we never touch the bottom. The simplest prattle of a child is but the light surface of a deep sea containing many treasures. It would be hard, therefore, to find in the whole range of inquiry another study which at once is so fascinating, and so richly repays the labor, as that of the etymology or primitive significations of words.

It is an epoch in one’s intellectual history when he first learns that words are living and not dead things,—that in these children of the mind are incarnated the wit and wisdom, the poetic fancies and the deep intuitions, the passionate longings and the happy or sad experiences of many generations. The discovery is “like the dropping of scales from his eyes, like the acquiring of another sense, or the introduction into a new world;” he never ceases wondering at the moral marvels that everywhere reveal themselves to his gaze. To eyes thus opened, dictionaries, instead of seeming huge masses of word-lumber, become vast storehouses of historical memorials, than which none are more vital in spirit or more pregnant with meaning. It is not in oriental fairy-tales only that persons drop pearls every time they open their mouths; like MoliÈre’s Bourgeois Gentilhomme, who had been speaking prose all his life without knowing it, we are dropping gems from our lips in almost every hour of the day. Not a thought, or feeling, or wish can we utter without recalling, by an unconscious sign or symbol, some historic fact, some memory of “auld lang syne,” some bygone custom, some vanished superstition, some exploded prejudice, or some ethical divination that has lost its charm. Even the homeliest and most familiar words, the most hackneyed phrases, are connected by imperceptible ties with the hopes and fears, the reasonings and reflections, of bygone men and times.

Every generation of men inherits and uses all the scientific wealth of the past. “It is not merely the great and rich in the intellectual world who are thus blessed, but the humblest inquirer, while he puts his reasonings into words, benefits by the labors of the greatest. When he counts his little wealth, he finds he has in his hands coins which bear the image and superscription of ancient and modern intellectual dynasties, and that in virtue of this possession acquisitions are in his power, solid knowledge within his reach, which none could ever have attained to, if it were not that the gold of truth once dug out of the mine circulates more and more widely among mankind.” Emerson beautifully calls language “fossil poetry.” The etymologist, he adds, finds the deadest word to have been once a brilliant picture. “As the limestone of the continent consists of infinite masses of the shells of animalcules, so language is made up of images or tropes, which now, in their secondary use, have long since ceased to remind us of their poetic origin.”

Not only is this true, but many a single word, as Archbishop Trench remarks, is itself a concentrated poem, in which are treasured stores of poetical thought and imagery. Examine it closely, and it will be found to rest upon some palpable or subtle analogy of things material and spiritual, showing that, however trite the image now, the man who first coined the word was a poet. The older the word, the profounder and more beautiful the meanings it will often be found to inclose; for words of late growth speak to the head, not to the heart; thoughts and feelings are too subtle for new words, and are conveyed only by those about which cluster many associations. It is the use of words when new and fresh from the lips of their inventors, before their vivid and picturesque meanings have faded out or been obscured by their many secondary significations, that gives such pictorial beauty, pith, and raciness, to the early writers; “and hence to recall language, to restore its early meanings, to re-mint it in novel forms, is the secret of all effective writing and speaking,—of all verbal expression which is to leave, as was said of the eloquence of Pericles, stings in the minds and memories of the hearers.”

Language is not only “fossil poetry,” but it is also fossil philosophy, fossil ethics, and fossil history. As in the pre-Adamite rock are bound up and preserved the vegetable and animal forms of ages long gone by, so in words are locked up truths once known but now forgotten,—the thoughts and feelings, the habits, customs, opinions, virtues and vices of men long since in their graves. Language is, in short, “the depository of the accumulated body of experience, to which all former ages have contributed their part, and which is the inheritance of all yet to come.”[43] It is “like amber, circulating the electric spirit of truth, and preserving the relics of ancient wisdom.”[44] Compared with this memorial of the past, these records of ancient and modern intellectual dynasties, how poor are all other monuments of human power, perseverance, skill, or genius! Unlike the works of individual genius, or the cuneiform inscriptions which are found in oriental countries on the crumbling fragments of half-calcined stone, language gives us the history not only of individuals, but of nations; not only of nations, but of mankind. It is, indeed, “an admirable poem on the history of all ages; a living monument on which is written the genesis of human thought. Thus ‘the ground on which our civilization stands is a sacred one, for it is the deposit of thought. For language, as it is the mirror, so it is the product of reason, and, as it embodies thought, so it is the child of thought. In it are embodied the sparks of that celestial fire which from a once bright centre of civilization has streamed forth over the inhabited earth, and which now already, after less than three myriads of years, forms a galaxy round the globe, a chain of light from pole to pole.’”

How pregnant with instruction is often the history of a single word! Coleridge, who keenly appreciated the significance of words, says that there are cases where more knowledge of more value may be conveyed by the history of a word than by the history of a campaign. Sometimes the germ of a nation’s life,—the philosophy of some political, moral, or intellectual movement in a country,—will be found coiled up in a single word, just as the oak is found in an acorn. The word “ostracize” gives us a vivid picture of the Athenian democracy, and of the period when oyster-shells were used for ballots. It calls up the barbarity which held an election of candidates for banishment; the arbitrary power which enabled the vilest of the citizens, from mere envy of the reputation of the best man in the city, to make him an exile; and the utter lack and desecration of liberty, while its forms were fetiches for the popular worship. The fact that the Arabs were the arithmeticians, the astronomers, the chemists, and the merchants of the Middle Ages, is shown by the words we have borrowed from them,—“algebra,” “almanac,” “cypher,” “zero,” “zenith,” “alkali,” “alcohol,” “alchemy,” “alembic,” “magazine,” “tariff,” “cotton,” “elixir”; and so that the monastic system originated in the Greek, and not in the Latin church, is shown by the fact that the words expressing the chief elements of the system, as “monk,” “monastery,” “anchorite,” “cenobite,” “ascetic,” “hermit,” are Greek, not Latin. What an amount of history is wrapped up in the word “Pagan”! The term, we learn from Gibbon, is remotely derived from ????, in the Doric dialect, signifying a fountain; and the rural neighborhood which frequented the same derived the common appellation of Pagus and “Pagans.” Soon “Pagan” and “rural” became nearly synonymous, and the meaner peasants acquired that name which has been corrupted into “peasant” in the modern languages of Europe. All non-military people soon came to be branded as Pagans. The Christians were the soldiers of Christ; their adversaries, who refused the “sacrament,” or military oath of baptism, might deserve the metaphorical name of Pagans. Christianity gradually filled the cities of the empire; the old religion retired and languished, in the time of Prudentius, in obscure villages. From Pagus, as a root, comes pagius, first a villager, then a rural laborer, then a servant, lastly a “page.” Pagina, first the inclosed square of cultivated land near a village, graduated into the “page” of a book. Pagare, from denoting the “field service” that compensated the provider of food and raiment, was applied eventually to every form in which the changes of society required the benefited to “pay” for what they received. Again, when a Scotchman speaks of his “shacklebone,” he not only conveys an idea of his wrist, but discovers by this very term that slavery, or vassalage, continued so long in Scotland as to impress itself indelibly on the language of the country.

Often where history is utterly dumb concerning the past, language speaks. The discovery of the foot-print on the sand did not more certainly prove to Robinson Crusoe that the island of which he had fancied himself the sole inhabitant contained a brother man, than the similarity of the inflections in the speech of different peoples proves their brotherhood. Were all the histories of England swept from existence, the study of its language,—developing the fact that the basis of the language is Saxon, that the names of the prominent objects of nature are Celtic, the terms of war and government Norman-French, the ecclesiastical terms Latin,—would enable us to reconstruct a large part of the story of the past, as it even now enables us to verify many of the statements of the chroniclers. Humboldt, in his “Cosmos,” eulogizes the study of words as one of the richest sources of historical knowledge; and it is probable that what comparative philology, yet in its infancy, has already discovered, will compel a rewriting of the history of the world. Even now it has thrown light on many of the most perplexing problems of religion, history, and ethnography; and it seems destined to triumphs of which we can but dimly apprehend the consequences. On the stone tablets of the universe God’s own finger has written the changes which millions of years have wrought on the mountain and the plain; and in the fluid air, which he coins into spoken words, man has preserved forever the grand facts of his past history and the grand processes of his inmost soul. “Nations and languages against dynasties and treaties,” is the cry which is remodelling the map of Europe; and in our country, comparative philologists,—to their shame be it said,—have labored with Satanic zeal to prove the impossibility of a common origin of languages and races, in order to justify, by scientific arguments, the theory of slavery. It has been said that the interpretation of one word in the Vedas fifty years earlier would have saved many Hindoo widows from being burned alive; and now that the philologists of Germany and England have shown that the iron network of caste, which for centuries has hindered the development of India, is not a religious institution, and has no authority in their sacred writings, but is the invention of an arrogant and usurping priesthood,—or, at best, an erroneous tradition, due to the half-knowledge or to the imposture of the native pundits,—the British government will be able to inflict penalties for the observance of the rules of caste, and thus to relieve India from the greatest clog on its progress.

CHANGES IN THE MEANING OF WORDS.

Language, as it daguerreotypes human thought, shares, as we have seen, in all the vicissitudes of man. It mirrors all the changes in the character, tastes, customs, and opinions of a people, and shows with unerring faithfulness whether, and in what degree, they advance or recede in culture or morality. As new ideas germinate in the mind of a nation, it will demand new forms of expression; on the other hand, a petrified and mechanical national mind will as surely betray itself in a petrified and mechanical language. It is by no accident or caprice that

“Words, whilom flourishing,

Pass now no more, but banished from the court,

Dwell with disgrace among the vulgar sort;

And those which eld’s strict doom did disallow,

And damn for bullion, go for current now.”

Often with the lapse of time the meaning of a word changes imperceptibly, until after some centuries it becomes the very opposite of what it once was. To disinter these old meanings out of the alluvium and drift of ages affords as much pleasure to the linguist as to disinter a fossil does to the geologist.

An exact knowledge of the changes of signification which words have undergone is not merely a source of pleasure; it is absolutely indispensable to the full understanding of old authors. Thus, for example, Milton and Thomson use “horrent” and “horrid” for bristling, e.g.,

“With dangling ice all horrid.”

Milton speaks of a “savage” (meaning woody, silva) hill, and of “amiable” (meaning lovely) fruit. Again, in the well known lines of the “Allegro,” where, Milton says, amongst the cheerful sights of rural morn,

“And every shepherd tells his tale

Under the hawthorn in the vale,”—

the words “tells his tale” do not mean that he is romancing or making love to the milkmaid, but that he is counting his sheep as they pass the hawthorn,—a natural and familiar occupation of shepherds on a summer’s morning. The primary meaning of “tale” is to count or number, as in the German zahlen. It is thus used in the Book of Exodus, which states that the Israelites were compelled to deliver their “tale of bricks.” In the English “tale” and in the French conte the secondary meaning has supplanted the first, though we still speak of “keeping tally,” of “untold gold,” and say, “Here is the sum twice-told.”

Again, Milton’s use of the word “jolly” in the following lines from his “Sonnet to the Nightingale,” strikingly illustrates the disadvantages under which poetry in a living, and consequently ever-changing, language, labors:

“Thou with fresh hope the lover’s heart doth fill,

While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.”

Though we may know the meaning which the word bore a little more than two and a half centuries ago, yet it is impossible entirely to banish from the mind the vulgar associations which have gathered round it since.

It has been said that one of the arts of a great poet or prose-writer, who wishes to add emphasis to his style,—to bring out all the latent forces of his native tongue,—will often consist in reconnecting a word with its original derivation, in not suffering it to forget itself and its father’s house, though it would. This Milton does sometimes with signal effect; but in the great majority of cases his meaning becomes obscure to the unlearned reader. In a great number of cases we must interpret his words rather by their classical meanings than by their English use. Thus in “Paradise Lost,” when Satan speaks of his having been pursued by “Heaven’s afflicting thunder,” the poet uses the word “afflicting” in its original primary sense of striking down bodily. Properly the word denotes a state of mind or feeling only, and is not used to-day in a concrete sense. So when Milton, at the opening of the same poem, speaks of

“The secret top

Of Oreb or of Sinai,”

the meaning of the word “secret” is not that of the English adjective, but is remote, apart, lonely, as in Virgil’s secretosque pios. The absurdity of supposing the word to be the same as our ordinary adjective led Bentley, among many ridiculous “improvements” of Milton’s language, to change it to “sacred.” Again, the word “recollect” is used in its etymological sense in these lines from “Paradise Lost”:

“But he, his wonted pride

Soon recollecting, with high words,” etc.

So Milton uses the word “astonished” in its etymological sense of “thunderstruck,” attonitus, as when he makes Satan say that his associates

“Lie thus astonished on the oblivious pool.”

Holland, in his translation of Livy, speaks of a knave who threw some heavy stones upon a certain king, “whereof the one smote the king upon his head, the other astonished his shoulder.”

Shakespeare, also, not unfrequently uses words in their classical sense. Thus when Cleopatra speaks of

“Such gifts as we greet modern friends withal,”

“modern” is used in the sense of “modal” (from modus, a fashion or manner); a modern friend, compared with a true friend, being what the fashion of a thing is, compared with the substance. So,—as De Quincey, to whom we owe this explanation, has shown,—when in the famous picture of life, “All the World’s a Stage,” the justice is described as

“Full of wise saws and modern instances,”

the meaning is not “full of wise sayings and modern illustrations,” but full of proverbial maxims of conduct and of trivial arguments; i.e., of petty distinctions that never touch the point at issue. “Instances” is from instantia, which the monkish and scholastic writers always used in the sense of an argument. When in “Julius CÆsar” we read,—

“And come down

With fearful bravery, thinking by this face

To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage,”

we must not attach to “bravery” its modern sense; and the same remark applies to the word “extravagant” in the following passage from “Hamlet”:

“Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air,

The extravagant and erring spirit hies

To his confine,” etc.

“Courage” is “good heart.” “Anecdote,”—from the Greek ?? (not), ?? (out), and d?ta (given),—meant once a fact not given out or published; now it means a short, amusing story. Procopius, a Greek historian in the reign of Justinian, is said to have coined the word. Not daring, for fear of torture and death, to speak of some living persons as they deserved, he wrote a work which he called “Anecdotes,” or a “Secret History.” The instant an anecdote is published, it belies its title; it is no longer an anecdote. “Allowance” formerly was used to denote praise or approval; as when Shakespeare says in “Troilus and Cressida,”

“A stirring dwarf we do allowance give

Before a sleeping giant.”

“To prevent,” which now means to hinder or obstruct, signified, in its Latin etymology, to anticipate, to get the start of, and is thus used in the Old Testament. “Girl” once designated a young person of either sex. “Widow” was applied to men as well as women. “Sagacious” once meant quick-smelling, as in the line

“The hound sagacious of the tainted prey.”

“Rascal,” according to Verstegan, primarily meant an “il-favoured, lean, and worthelesse deer.” Thus Shakespeare:

“Horns! the noblest deer hath them as huge as the rascal.”

Afterward it denoted the common people, the plebs as distinguished from the populus. A “naturalist” was once a person who rejected revealed truth, and believed only in natural religion. He is now an investigator of nature and her laws, and often a believer in Christianity. “Blackguards” were formerly the scullions, turnspits, and other meaner retainers in a great household, who, when a change was made from one residence to another, accompanied and took care of the pots, pans, and other kitchen utensils, by which they were smutted. Webster, in his play of “The White Devil,” speaks of “a lousy knave, that within these twenty years rode with the ‘black guard’ in the Duke’s carriage, amongst spits and dripping-pans.” “Artillery,” which to-day means the heavy ordnance of modern warfare, was two or three centuries ago applied to any engines for throwing missiles, even to the bow and arrow. “Punctual,” which now denotes exactness in keeping engagements, formerly applied to space as well as to time. Sir Thomas Browne speaks of “a ‘punctual’ truth”; and we read in other writers of “a ‘punctual’ relation,” or “description,” meaning a particular or circumstantial relation or description.

“Bombast,” now swelling talk, inflated diction without substance, was originally cotton padding. It is derived from the Low Latin, bombax, cotton. “Chemist” once meant the same as alchemist. “Polite” originally meant polished. Cudworth speaks of “polite bodies, as looking-glasses.” “Tidy,” which now means neat, well arranged, is derived from the old English word “tide,” meaning time, as in eventide. “Tidy” (German, zeitig) is timely, seasonable. As things in right time are apt to be in the right place, the transition in the meaning of the word is a natural one. “Caitiff” formerly meant captive, being derived from captivus through the Norman-French. The change of signification points to the tendency of slavery utterly to debase the character,—to transform the man into a cowardly miscreant. In like manner “miscreant,” once simply a misbeliever, and applied to the most virtuous as well as to the vilest, points to the deep-felt conviction that a wrong belief leads to wrong living. Thus Gibbon: “The emperor’s generosity to the ‘miscreant’ [Soliman] was interpreted as treason to the Christian cause.” “Thought,” in early English, was anxious care; e.g., “Take no ‘thought’ for your life” (Matt, vi, 25). “Thing” primarily meant discourse, then solemn discussion, council, court of justice, cause, matter or subject of discourse. The “husting” was originally the house-thing, or domestic court.

“Coquets” were once male as well as female. “Usury,” which now means taking illegal or excessive interest, denoted, at first, the taking of any interest, however small. A “tobacconist” was formerly a smoker, not a seller, of tobacco. “Corpse,” now a body from which the breath of life has departed, once denoted the body of the living also; as in Surrey,

“A valiant corpse, where force and beauty met.”

We have already spoken of the striking change which the word “incomprehensible” has undergone within the last three centuries.

“Wit,” now used in a more limited sense, at first signified the mental powers collectively; e.g., “Will puts in practice what the wit deviseth.” Later it came to denote quickness of apprehension, beauty or elegance in composition, and Pope defined it as

“Nature to advantage dressed,

What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expressed.”

Another meaning was a man of talents or genius. The word “parts,” a hundred years ago, was used to denote genius or talents. Horace Walpole, in one of his letters, says of Goldsmith that “he was an idiot, with once or twice a fit of ‘parts.’” The word “loyalty” has undergone a marked change within a few centuries. Originally it meant in English, as in French, fair dealing, fidelity to engagements; now it means, in England, fidelity to the throne, and, in the United States, to the Union or the Constitution. “Relevant,” which formerly meant relieving or assisting, is now used in the sense of “relative” or “relating” to, with which, from a similarity of sound, though without the least etymological connection, it appears to have been confounded. The word “exorbitant” once meant deviating from a track or orbit; it is now used exclusively in the sense of excessive.

The word “coincide” was primarily a mathematical term. If one mathematical point be superposed upon another, or one straight line upon another between the same two points, the two points in the first case and the two lines in the latter are said to coincide. The word was soon applied figuratively to identity of opinion, but, according to Prof. Marsh, was not fully popularized, at least in America, till 1826. On the Fourth of July in that year, the semi-centennial jubilee of the Declaration of Independence, Thomas Jefferson, the author of that manifesto, and John Adams, its principal champion on the floor of Congress, both also Ex-Presidents, died; and this fact was noticed all over the world, and especially in the United States, as a remarkable “coincidence.” The death of Ex-President Monroe, also, on the Fourth of July five years after, gave increased currency to the word. Our late civil war has led to some striking mutations in the meaning of words. “Contraband,” from its general signification of any article whose importation or exportation is prohibited by law, became limited to a fugitive slave within the United States’ military lines. “Secede” and “secession,” “confederate” and “confederacy,” have also acquired new special meanings.

DEGRADATION OF WORDS.

Another striking characteristic of words is their tendency to contract in form and degenerate in meaning. Sometimes they are ennobled and purified in signification; but more frequently they deteriorate, and from an honorable fall into a dishonorable meaning. I will first note a few examples of the former:—“Humility,” with the Greeks and Romans, meant meanness of spirit; “Paradise,” in oriental tongues, meant only a royal park; “regeneration” was spoken by the Greeks only of the earth in the springtime, and of the recollection of forgotten knowledge; “sacrament” and “mystery” are words “fetched from the very dregs of paganism” to set forth the great truths of our redemption. On the other hand, “thief” (Anglo-Saxon, theow) formerly signified only one of the servile classes; and “villain” or “villein,” meant peasant,—the serf who, under the feudal system, was adscriptus glebÆ. The scorn of the landholders, the half-barbarous aristocracy, for these persons, led them to ascribe to them the most hateful qualities, some of which their degrading situation doubtless tended to foster. Thus the word “villein” became gradually associated with ideas of crime and guilt, till at length it became a synonym for knaves of every class in society. A “menial” was one of the many; “insolent” meant unusual; “silly,” blessed,—the infant Jesus being termed by an old English poet “that harmless ‘silly’ babe”; “officious” signified ready to do kindly offices. “Demure” was used once in a good sense, without the insinuation which is now almost latent in it, that the external shows of modesty and sobriety rest on no corresponding realities. “Facetious,” which now has the sense of buffoonish, originally meant urbane. “Idiot,” from the Greek, originally signified only a private man, as distinguished from an office-holder. “Homely” formerly meant secret and familiar; and “brat,” now a vulgar and contemptuous word, had anciently a very different signification, as in the following lines from an old hymn by Gascoigne:

“O Israel, O household of the Lord,

O Abraham’s brats, O brood of blessed seed,

O chosen sheep that loved the Lord indeed.”

“Imp” once meant graft; Bacon speaks of “those most virtuous and goodly young imps, the Duke of Sussex and his brother.” A “boor” was once only a farmer; a “scamp” a camp deserter. “Speculation” first meant the sense of sight; as in Shakespeare:

“Thou hast no speculation in those eyes.”

Next it was metaphorically transferred to mental vision, and finally denoted, without a metaphor, the reflections and theories of philosophers. From the domain of philosophy it has finally travelled downward to the offices of stock-jobbers, share-brokers, and all men who get their living by their wits, instead of by the sweat of their brows. So “craft” at first meant ability, skill, or dexterity. The origin of the term, according to Wedgewood, is seen in the notion of seizing, expressed by the Italian, graffiare, Welsh, craff, a hook, brace, holdfast. The term is then applied to seizing with the mind, as in the Latin term “apprehend,” “comprehend,” from prehendere, to seize in a material way. “Cunning” once conveyed no idea of sinister or crooked wisdom. “The three Persons of the Trinity,” says a reverent writer of the fifteenth century, “are of equal cunning.” Bacon, a century later, uses the word in its present sense of fox-like wisdom; and Locke calls it “the ape of wisdom.” “Vagabond” is a word whose etymology conveys no reproach. It denoted at first only a wanderer. But as men who have no homes are apt to become loose, unsteady, and reckless in their habits, the term has degenerated into its present signification.

“Paramour” meant originally only lover; a “minion” was a favorite; and “knave,” the lowest and most contemptuous term we can use when insulting another, signified originally, as knabe still does in German, a boy. Subsequently, it meant servant; thus Paul, in Wicliffe’s version of the New Testament, reverently terms himself “a ‘knave’ of Jesus Christ.” A similar parallel to this is the word “varlet,” which is the same as “valet.” “Retaliate,” from the Latin re (back) and talis (such), naturally means to pay back in kind, or such as we have received. But as, according to Sir Thomas More, men write their injuries in marble, the kindnesses done them in sand, the word “retaliate” is applied only to offences or indignities, and never to favors. The word “resent,” to feel in return, has undergone a similar deterioration. A Frenchman would say, “Il ‘ressentit’ une vive douleur,” for “He felt acute pain”; whereas we use the word only to express the sentiment of anger.

So “animosity,” which etymologically means only spiritedness, is now applied to only one kind of vigor and activity, that displayed in enmity and hate. “Defalcation,” from the Latin, falx, a sickle or scythe, is properly a cutting off or down, a pruning or retrenchment. Thus Addison: “the tea-table is set forth with its usual bill of fare, and without any defalcation.” To-day we read of a “defalcation in the revenue,” or “in a treasurer’s accounts,” by which is meant a decrease in the amount of the revenue, or in the moneys accounted for, irrespective of the cause,—a falling off. This erroneous use of the word is probably due to a confusion of it with the expression “fall away,” and with the noun “defaulter.” Between the first word and either of the last two, however, there is not the slightest etymological relationship. “Chaffer,” to talk much and idly, primarily meant to buy, to make a bargain, to higgle or dispute about a bargain. “Gossip” (God-akin) once meant a sponsor in baptism. “Simple” and “simplicity” have sadly degenerated in meaning. A “simple” fellow, once a man sine plica (without fold, free from duplicity), is now one who lacks shrewdness, and is easily cheated or duped.

There are some words which, though not used in an absolutely unfavorable sense, yet require a qualifying adjective to be understood favorably. Thus, if a man is said to be noted for his “curiosity,” a prying, impertinent, not a legitimate, curiosity is supposed to be meant. So “critic” and “criticise” are commonly associated with a carping, fault-finding spirit. “Lust” has undergone a signal deterioration. In Chaucer it is used both as a noun and a verb, and signifies wish, desire, pleasure, enjoyment, without any evil connotation. “Parson” (persona ecclesiÆ) had originally no undertone of contempt. In the eighteenth century it had become a nickname of scorn; and it was at a party of a dozen parsons that the Earl of Sandwich won his wager, that no one among them had brought his prayer-book or forgotten his corkscrew. “Fellow” was originally a term of respect,—at least, there was in it no subaudition of contempt; now it is suggestive of worthlessness, if not of positively bad morals. Shakespeare did not mean to disparage Yorick, the jester, when he said that “he was a ‘fellow’ of infinite jest”; Pope, on the other hand, tells us, a century or more later, that

“Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow.”

“By a ‘fast’ man, I presume you mean a ‘loose’ one,” said Sir Robert Inglis to one who was describing a rake. Of all the words which have degenerated from their original meaning, the most remarkable is the term “dunce,” of the history of which Archbishop Trench has given a striking account in his work on “The Study of Words.” In the Middle Ages certain theologians, educated in the cathedral and cloister schools founded by Charlemagne and his successors, were called Schoolmen. Though they were men of great acuteness and subtlety of intellect, their works, at the revival of learning, ceased to be popular, and it was considered a mark of intellectual progress and advance to have thrown off their yoke. Some persons, however, still clung to these Schoolmen, especially to Duns Scotus, the great teacher of the Franciscan order; and many times an adherent of the old learning would seek to strengthen his position by an appeal to its great doctor, familiarly called Duns; while his opponents would contemptuously rejoin, “Oh, you are a ‘Duns-man,’” or, more briefly, “You are a ‘Duns.’” As the new learning was enlisting more and more of the scholarship of the age on its side, the title became more and more a term of scorn; and thus, from that long extinct conflict between the old and the new learning, the mediÆval and the modern theology, we inherit the words “dunce” and “duncery.” The lot of poor Duns, as the Archbishop observes, was certainly a hard one. That the name of “the Subtle Doctor,” as he was called, one of the keenest and most subtle-witted of men,—according to Hooker, “the wittiest of the school divines,”—should become a synonym for stupidity and obstinate dulness, was a fate of which even his bitterest enemies could never have dreamed.

COMMON WORDS WITH CURIOUS DERIVATIONS.

“Bit” is that which has been bit off, and exactly corresponds to the word “morsel,” used in the same sense, and derived from the Latin, mordere, to bite. “Bankrupt” means literally broken bench. It was the custom in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries for the Lombard merchants to expose their wares for sale in the market-place on benches. When one of their number failed, all the other merchants set upon him, drove him from the market, and “broke” his “bench” to pieces. Banco rotto, the Italian for bench-broken, becomes banqueroute in French, and in English “bankrupt.” To the Lombard merchants, who flocked to England in the thirteenth century, we owe also the words “bank,” “debtor,” “creditor,” “usance” (the old word for interest), “journal,” “diary,” “ledger,” “ditto,” and “£. s. d.,” which derives its origin from Lire, Soldi, and Denari. “Alligator” is from the Spanish el lagarto, the lizard, being the largest of the lizard species. “Stipulation” is from stipulum, a straw, which the Romans broke when they made a mutual engagement. “Dexterity” is simply righthandedness. “Mountebank” means a quack-medicine vendor,—from the Italian montare, to mount, and banco, a bench; literally, one who mounts a bench to boast of his infallible skill in curing diseases. “Quandary” is a corruption of the French, qu’en dirai (je)? “what shall I say of it?”—and expresses that feeling of uncertainty which would naturally prompt such a question. “Faint” is from the French, se feindre, to pretend; so that originally fainting was a pretended weakness or inability. We have an example of the thing originally indicated by the word, in the French theatres, where professional fainters are employed, whose business it is to be overcome and to sink to the floor under the powerful acting of the tragedians.

“Topsy-turvy” is said to be a contraction or corruption of “top-side t’other way.” “Helter-skelter” is either from hilariter et celeriter, “gaily and quickly,” or, more probably, from helter, to hang, and skelter, order, i.e., “hang order.” “Hip! hip! hurrah!” is said to have been originally a war-cry adopted by the stormers of a German town, wherein a great many Jews had taken refuge. The place being sacked, the Jews were all put to the sword, amid the shouts of “Hierosolyma est perdita!” From the first letters of these words (h. e. p.) an exclamation was contrived. When the wine sparkles in the cup, and patriotic or other soul-thrilling sentiments are greeted with a “Hip! hip! hurrah!” it is well enough to remember the origin of a cry which reminds us of the cruelty of Christians toward God’s chosen people. “Sexton” is a corruption of “sacristan,” which is from sacra, the sacred things of a church. The sacristan’s office was to take care of the vessels of the service and the vestments of the clergy. Since the Reformation, his duties in this respect have been greatly lessened, and he has dug the graves,—so that the term now commonly means grave-digger, though it still retains somewhat of its old meaning.

“Toad-eater” is a metaphor supposed to be taken from a mountebank’s boy eating toads, in order to show his master’s skill in expelling poison. It is more probable, however, that the phrase is a version of the French, avaler des couleuvres, which means putting up with all sorts of indignities without showing resentment. The propriety of the term rests on the fact that dependent persons are often forced to do the most nauseous things to please their patrons. The same trick of pretending to eat reptiles, such as toads, is held by some etymologists to be the origin of the terms “buffoon,” “buffoonery,” from the Latin, bufo, a toad. Wedgwood derives it from the French, bouffon, a jester, from the Italian, buffa, a puff, a blast or a blurt with the mouth made at one in scorn. A puff with the mouth indicates contempt; it is emblematically making light of an object. In “David Copperfield” we read: “‘And who minds Dick? Dick’s nobody! Whoo!’ He blew a slight, contemptuous breath, as if he blew himself away.”

“Cant” (Gaelic, cainnt, speech) is properly the language spoken by thieves and beggars among themselves, when they do not wish to be understood by bystanders. Subsequently it came to mean the peculiar terms used by any other profession or community. Some etymologists derive the word from the Latin, cantare, to sing, and suppose it to signify the whining cry of professional beggars, though it may have obtained its beggar sense from some instinctive notion of the quasi-religious one. It has been noted that the whole class of words comprising “enchant,” “incantation,” etc., were primarily referable to religious ceremonies of some kind; and as once an important part of a beggar’s daily labor was invoking, or seeming to invoke, blessings on those who gave him alms, this, with the natural tendency to utter any oft-repeated phrases in a sing-song, rhythmical tone, gave to the word “cant” its present signification. In Scotland the word has a peculiar meaning. About the middle of the seventeenth century, Andrew and Alexander Cant, of Edinburgh, maintained that all refusers of the covenant ought to be excommunicated, and that all excommunicated might lawfully be killed; and in their grace after meat they “praid for those phanaticques and seditious ministers” who had been arrested and imprisoned, that the Lord would pity and deliver them. From these two Cants, Andrew and Alexander, it is said, all seditious praying and preaching in Scotland is called “Canting.”

The tendency to regard money as the source of true happiness is strikingly illustrated in the word “wealth,” which is connected with “weal,” just as in Latin beatus meant both blessed and rich, and ????? the same in Greek. “Property” and “propriety” come from the same French word, propriÉtÉ; so that the Frenchman in New York was not far out of the way, when in the panic of 1857 he said he “should lose all his propriety.” The term “blue-stocking,” applied to literary ladies, has a curious origin. Originally, in England in 1760, it was conferred on a society of literary persons of both sexes. The society derived its name from the blue worsted stockings always worn by Benjamin Stillingfleet, a distinguished writer, who was one of the most active promoters of this association. This term was subsequently conferred on literary ladies, from the fact that the accomplished and fascinating Mrs. Jerningham wore blue stockings at the social and literary entertainments given by Lady Montague. “Woman” is the wif or web-man, who stays at home to spin, as distinguished from the weap-man, who goes abroad to use the weapon of war. The term “man” is, of course, generic, including both male and female. “Lady” primarily signifies bread keeper. It is derived from the Anglo-Saxon, hlÆfdige, i.e., she who looks after the loaf; or else is a corruption of hlÂfweardige, from hlÂf, bread, loaf, and weardian, to keep, look after. “Waist” is the same as waste; that part of the figure which wastes,—that is, diminishes.

“Canard” has a very curious origin. M. QuÊtelet, a French writer, in the “Annuaire de l’AcadÉmie FranÇaise,” attributes the first application of this term to Norbert CornelÏssen, who, to give a sly hit at the ridiculous pieces of intelligence in the public journals, stated that an interesting experiment had just been made calculated to prove the voracity of ducks. Twenty were placed together; and one of them having been killed and cut up into the smallest possible pieces, feathers and all, was thrown to the other nineteen, and most gluttonously gobbled up. Another was then taken from the nineteen, and, being chopped small like its predecessor, was served up to the eighteen, and at once devoured like the other; and so on to the last, who thus was placed in the position of having eaten his nineteen companions. This story, most pleasantly narrated, ran the round of all the journals of Europe. It then became almost forgotten for about a score of years, when it went back from America with amplifications; but the word remained in its novel signification.

“Abominable” was once supposed to have been derived from the Latin words ab, from, and homo, a man, meaning repugnant to humanity. It really comes from abominor, which again is from ab and omen; and it conveys the idea of what is in a religious sense profane and detestable,—in short, of evil omen. Milton always applies it to devilish, profane, or idolatrous objects. “Poltroon” is pollice truncus, i.e., with the thumb cut off,—pollex, Latin, meaning thumb, and truncus, maimed or mutilated. When the Roman empire was about falling in pieces, the valor of the citizens had so degenerated, that, to escape fighting, many cut off their right thumbs, thus disabling themselves from using the pike. “Farce” is derived from farcire, a Latin word meaning to stuff, as with flour, herbs, and other ingredients in cooking. A farce is a comedy with little plot, stuffed with ludicrous incidents and expressions. “Racy” is from “race,” meaning family, breed, and signifies having the characteristic flavor of origin, savoring of the source.

“Trivial” may be from trivium, in the sense of tres viÆ, a place where three roads meet, and thus indicate that which is commonplace, or of daily occurrence. But it is more probably from trivium, in the sense in which the word was used in the Middle Ages, when it meant the course of three arts, grammar, logic, and rhetoric, which formed the common curriculum of the universities, as distinguished from the quadrivium, which embraced four more, namely, music, arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy. Trivial things in this sense may mean things that occur ordinarily, as distinguished from higher or more abstruse things. The word “quiz” has a remarkable origin, unless the etymologists who give its derivation are themselves quizzing their readers. It is said that many years ago, when one Daly was patentee of the Irish theatres, he spent the evening of a Saturday in company with many of the wits and men of fashion of the day. Gambling was introduced, when the manager staked a large sum that he would have spoken, all through the principal streets of Dublin, by a certain hour next day, Sunday, a word having no meaning, and being derived from no known language. Wagers were laid, and stakes deposited. Daly repaired to the theatre, and dispatched all the servants and supernumeraries with the word “Quiz,” which they chalked on every door and every shop window in town. Shops being all shut next day, everybody going to and coming from the different places of worship saw the word, and everybody repeated it, so that “Quiz” was heard all through Dublin; the circumstance of so strange a word being on every door and window caused much surprise, and ever since, should a strange story be attempted to be passed current, it draws forth the expression “You are ‘quizzing’ me.” Some person who has a just aversion to practical jokes, wittily defines a “quizzer” as “one who believes me to be a fool because I will not believe him to be a liar.”

“Huguenot” is a word whose origin is still a vexata quÆstio of etymology. Of the many derivations given, some of which are ridiculously fanciful, Eignots, which Voltaire and others give from the German, Eidgenossen, confederates, is the one generally received. A plausible derivation is from Huguenot, a small piece of money, which, in the time of Hugo Capet, was worth less than a denier. At the time of Amboisi’s conspiracy, some of the petitioners fled through fear; whereupon some of the countrymen said they were poor fellows, not worth a Huguenot,—whence the nickname in question. “Pensive” is a picturesque word, from pensare, the frequentative of pendere, to weigh. The French have pensÉe, a thought, the result of mental weighing. A pensive figure is that in which a person appears to be holding an invisible balance of reflection. “Bumper” is a corruption of le bon pÈre, meaning “the Holy Father,” or Pope, who was once the great toast of every feast. As this was commonly the first toast, it was considered that the glasses would be desecrated by being again used.

“Nice” is derived by some etymologists from the Anglo-Saxon, hnesc, soft, effeminate; but there is good reason for believing that it is from the Latin, nescius, ignorant, “Wise, and nothing nice,” says Chaucer; that is, no wise ignorant. If so, it is a curious instance of the extraordinary changes of meaning which words undergo, that “nice” should come to signify accurate or fastidious, which implies knowledge and taste rather than ignorance. The explanation is, that the diffidence of ignorance resembles the fastidious slowness of discernment. “Gibberish” is from a famous sage, Giber, an Arab, who sought for the philosopher’s stone, and used, perhaps, senseless incantations. “Alert” is a picturesque word from the Italian, all’ erte,—on the mound or rampart. The “alert” man is one who is wide-awake and watchful, like the warder on the watch-tower, or the sentinel upon the rampart. “By-laws” are not, etymologically, laws of inferior importance, but the laws of “byes” or towns, as distinguished from the general laws of a kingdom. “By” is Danish for town or village; as “Whitby,” White Town, “Derby,” Deer Town, etc.

A writer in “Notes and Queries” suggests that the word “snobs” may be of classical origin, derived from sine obola, without a penny. It is not probable, however, that it was meant as a sneer at poverty only. A more ingenious suggestion is that, as the higher classes were called “nobs,”—i.e., nobilitas, the nobility,—the “s-nobs” were those sine nobilitate, without any blue blood in their veins, or pure aristocratic breeding. “Humbug” is an expressive word, about the origin of which etymologists are disagreed. An ingenious explanation, not given in the dictionaries, is, that it is derived from “Hume of the Bog,” a Scotch laird, so called from his estate, who lived during the reign of William and Anne. He was celebrated in Edinburgh circles for his marvellous stories, which, in the exhausting draughts they made on his hearer’s credulity, out-Munchausened Munchausen. Hence, any tough story was called “a regular Hume of the Bog,” or, by contraction, “Humbug.” Another etymology of “humbug” is a piece of Hamburg news; i.e., a Stock Exchange canard. Webster derives the word from “hum,” to impose on, deceive, and “bug” a frightful object, a bugbear. Wedgwood thinks it may come from the union of “hum” and “buzz,” signifying sound without sense. He cites a catch, set by Dr. Arne in “Notes and Queries”:

“‘Buzz,’ quoth the blue fly,

‘Hum,’ quoth the bee,

‘Buzz’ and ‘hum’ they cry.

And so do we.”

“Imbecile” is from the Latin, in and bacillum, a walking stick; one who through infirmity leans for support upon a stick. “Petrels” are little Peters, because, like the apostles, they can walk on the water. “Hocus pocus” is a corruption of Hoc est corpus, “this is the body,” words once used in necromancy or jugglery. “Chagrin” is primarily a hard, granulated leather, which chafes the limbs; hence, secondarily, irritation or vexation. “Canon” is from a Greek word meaning “cane”; first a hollow rule or a cane used as a measure, then a law or rule. The word is identical with “cannon,” so called from its hollow, tube-like form. Hence it has been wittily said that the world in the Middle Ages was governed first by canons, and then by cannons,—first, by Saint Peter, and then by saltpetre.

“Booby” primarily denotes a person who gapes and stares about, wondering at everything. From the syllable “ba,” representing the opening of the mouth, are formed the French words baier, bÉer, to gape, and thence in the patois of the Hainault, baia, the mouth, and figuratively one who stands staring with open mouth, boubiÉ. Webster thinks the word is derived from the French, boubie, a waterfowl. “Pet,” a darling, is from the French, petit, which comes from the Latin, petitus, sought after. “My pet” means literally “my sought after or desired one.” “Petty” is also from the French, petit, little. “Assassin” is derived from the Persian, hashish, an intoxicating opiate. “The Assassins” were a tribe of fanatics, who lived in the mountains of Lebanon, and executed with terror and subtlety every order entrusted to them by their chief, the “Old Man of the Mountain.” They made a jest of torture when seized, and were the terror alike of Turk and Christian. They resembled the Thugs of India. “Blunderbuss” (properly thunder-buss) is from the German bÜchse, applied to a rifle, a box; hence “arquebuss” and “Brown Bess.” “Bosh” is derived, according to some etymologists, from a Turkish word meaning “empty,”—according to others, from the German, bosse, a joke or trifle. Mr. Blackley, in his “Word-Gossip,” says it is the pure gypsy word for “fiddle,” which suggests the semi-sanctioned “fiddle-de-dee!” “Person” primarily meant an actor. The Roman theatres, which could hold thirty to forty thousand spectators, were so large that the actors wore masks containing a contrivance to render the voice louder. Such a mask was called persona (per sonare, to sound through), because the voice sounded through it. By a common figure of speech, the word meaning “mask” (persona) was afterward applied to its wearer; so persona came to signify “actor.” But as all men are actors, playing each his part on the stage of life, the word “person” came afterward to signify a man or woman. “Parson” the “chief person” of a parish, is another form of the same word. “Curmudgeon” is probably from “corn-merchant,” one who tries to enrich himself by hoarding grain and withholding it from others; or it may be from the French, coeur, the heart, and mÉchant, wicked. “Haberdasher” is from the German, Habt ihr das hier? i.e., Have you this here? “Hoax” is from the Anglo-Saxon, husc, mockery or contempt; or, perhaps it is from “hocuspocus,” which was at one time used to ridicule the Roman Catholic doctrine of transubstantiation.

“Right” is from the Latin rectus, ruled, proceeding in a straight line; “wrong” is the perfect participle of “wring,” that which has been “wrung” or wrested from the right; just as in French tort is from torqueo, that which is twisted. “Humble-pie” is properly “umble-pie.” The umbles were the entrails or coarser parts of the deer, the perquisite of the keeper or huntsman. “Pantaloon” is from the Italian, piante leone (panta-leone, pantaloon), “the Planter of the Lion”; i.e., the Standard-Bearer of Venice. The Lion of St. Mark was the standard of Venice. “Pantaloon” was a masked character in the Italian comedy, the butt of the play, who wore breeches and stockings that were all of one piece. The Spanish language has paÑalon, a slovenly fellow whose shirt hangs out of his breeches. “Cheat” is from the Latin, cadere, to fall. The word “escheats” first denoted lands that “fell” to the crown by forfeiture. The “escheatours,” who certified these to the Exchequer, practised so much fraud, that, by a natural transition, the “escheatour” passed into “cheater,” and “escheat” into “cheat.”

“Salary” is from the Latin, sal, salt, which in the reign of the Emperor Augustus comprised the provisions, as well as the pay, of the Roman military officers. From “salary” came, probably, the expression, “He is not worth his ‘salt,’” that is, his pay or wages. “Kidnap” is from the German kind, or Provincial English, kid, meaning “child,” and nap or nab, “to steal,”—to steal children. “Hawk,” in Anglo-Saxon, hafoc, points to the havoc which that bird makes among the smaller ones; as “raven” expresses the greedy or “ravenous” disposition of the bird so named. “Owl” is said to be the past participle of “to yell” (as in Latin ulula, the screech-owl, is from ululare), and differs from “howl” only in its spelling. “Solecism” is from Soli, a town of Cilicia, the people of which corrupted the pure Greek. “Squirrel” is from two Greek words, s??a, a shade, and ????, a tail. “Sycophant” is primarily a “fig-shower”; one who informed the public officers of Attica that the law against the exportation of figs had been violated. Hence the word came to mean a common informer, a mean parasite. “Parasite,” from the Greek pa??, beside, and s?t??, food, means literally one who eats at the table of another,—a privilege which is apt to be paid for by obsequiousness and flattery.

“Sarcasm,” from the Greek, s???, flesh, and ????, I tear, is literally a tearing of the flesh. “Tribulation” is from the Latin tribulum, a kind of sledge or heavy roller, which did the work of the English flail, by hard grinding and wearing, instead of by repeated light strokes. Troubles, afflictions and sorrows being the divinely appointed means for separating the chaff from the wheat of men’s natures,—the light and trivial from the solid and valuable,—the early Christians, by a rustic but familiar metaphor, called these sorrows and trials “tribulations,” threshings of the inner spiritual man, by which only could he be fitted for the heavenly garner. As Wither beautifully sings:

“Tabby,” a familiar name of cats, is the French tabis, which comes from the Persian retabi, a rich watered silk, and denotes the wavy bars upon their coats. “Schooner” has a curious derivation. In 1713 Captain Andrew Robinson launched the first vessel of this kind, with gaffs instead of the lateen yards until then in use, and the luff of the sail bent to hoops on the mast. As she slipped down the ways a bystander exclaimed, “Oh, how she ‘scoons’!”—whereupon the builder, catching at the word, replied, “A ‘scooner’ let her be!” Originally the word was spelled without the h. “Supercilious,” from supercilium, the eyebrow, is literally knitting the eyebrows in pride. “Slave” chronicles the contest between the Teutonic and Sclavonic or Slavonic races. When a German captured a Russian or Bohemian, he would call him a “sclave” or “slave,” whereby the word became associated with the idea of servitude. In Oriental France, in the eighth century, princes and bishops were rich in these captives.

“Servant” is from servus, which the Justinian code derives from serrare, to preserve,—because the victor preserved his captives alive, instead of killing them.

“Scrupulous” is from the Latin, scrupulus, a small, sharp stone, such as might get into a Roman traveller’s open shoe, and distress him, whence the further meaning of doubts, or a source of doubt and hesitation. Afterward the word came to express a measure of weight, the twenty-fourth part of an ounce; and hence to be scrupulous is to pay minute, nice, and exact attention to matters often in themselves of small weight. “Plagiarism” is literally “man-stealing.” As books are one’s mental offspring, the word came naturally to mean, first, the stealing of a book or manuscript which the thief published as his own; secondly, quoting from another man’s writings without acknowledgment. “Parlor,” from parler, to speak, is, therefore, the “talking room,” as “boudoir,” from bouder, to pout, is literally the “pouting-room.” “Egregious” is from the Latin ex, from, and grege, flock or herd. An “egregious” lie is one distinguished from the common herd of lies, such as one meets with in every patent-medicine advertisement and political newspaper. “Negotiate” is from negotior, compounded of ne ego otior, I am not idle.

The origin of the word “caucus” has long been a vexed question with etymologists. Till recently it was supposed by many to be a corruption of “caulkers,” being derived from an association of these men in Boston, who met to organize resistance to England just before the revolutionary war. Dr. J. Hammond Trumbull, of Hartford, Connecticut, has suggested a new and ingenious derivation of the term, which is more satisfactory, and probably correct. Strachey, in his “Historie of Travaile into Virginia,” 1610-12 (printed by the Hakluyt Society, 1849), says that the Chechahamanias, a free people, acknowledging the supremacy of Powhatan, were governed, not by a weroance, commander, sent by Powhatan, but by their priests, with the assistance of their elders; and this board was called cawcawwas. Captain John Smith writes cockerouse for cawcawwas, in the sense of “captain”; but the English generally understood it in the sense of “counsellor,” and adopted it from the Indians, as Beverley states that it designates “one that has the honor to be of the king’s or queen’s council,” a provincial councillor, just as northern politicians now use the word sachem, and formerly used mugwomp. The verb from which cawcawwas, or cockerouse comes, means primarily “to talk to,”—hence to “harangue,” “advise,” “encourage,” and is found in all Algonquin dialects, as Abnaki kakesoo, to incite, and Chippeway gaganso (n nasal), to exhort, urge, counsel. Cawcawwas, representing the adjective form of this verb, is “one who advises, promotes,”—a caucuser. “Manumit” is from manus, hand, and mittere, to dismiss,—to dismiss a slave with a slap of the hand, on setting him free. “Hypocrite” comes from a Greek word signifying one who feigns or plays a part on the stage. “Kennel,” a dog house, is from the Italian, canile, and this from the Latin, canis, a dog. “Kennel,” in the sense of gutter, with its kindred words, “can,” “cane,” and “channel,” is derived from canna, a cane, which is like a tube.

“Apple-pie order” is a popular phrase of which few persons know the meaning. Does it signify in order, or in disorder? A writer in the “North British Review” favors the latter interpretation. He thinks it has nothing to do with “apple” or “pie,” in the common sense of those words. He believes that it is a typographical term, and that it was originally “Chapel pie.” A printing house was, and is to this day, called a chapel,—perhaps from the Chapel at Westminster Abbey, in which Caxton’s earliest works are said to have been printed; and “pie” is type after it is “distributed” or broken up, and before it has been re-sorted. “‘Pie’ in this sense came from the confused and perplexing rules of the ‘Pie,’ that is, the order for finding the lessons, in Catholic times, which those who have read, or care to read, the Preface to the ‘Book of Common Prayer,’ will find there expressed and denounced. Here is the passage: ‘Moreover the number and hardness of the rules called the Pie, and the manifold changings of the service, was the cause that to turn the book only was so hard and intricate a matter, that many times there was more business to find out what should be read than to read it when it was found out.’ To leave your type in ‘pie’ is to leave it unsorted and in confusion, and ‘apple-pie order,’ which we take to be ‘chapel-pie order,’ is to leave anything in a thorough mess. Those who like to take the other side, and assert that ‘apple-pie order’ means in perfect order, may still find their derivation in ‘chapel-pie’; for the ordering and sorting of the ‘pie’ or type is enforced in every ‘chapel’ or printing-house by severe fines, and so ‘chapel-pie order’ would be such order of the type as the best friends of the chapel would wish to see.” “The bitter end,” a phrase often heard during the late civil war, has a remarkable etymology. A ship’s cable has always two ends. One end is fastened to the anchor and the other to the “bits,” or “bitts,” a frame of two strong pieces of timber fixed perpendicularly in the fore part of the ship, for the express purpose of holding the cables. Hence the “bitter,” or “bitter end,” is the end fastened to the bitts; and when the cable is out to the “bitter end,” it is all out; the extremity has come.

Few persons who utter the word “stranger,” suspect that it has its root in the single vowel e, the Latin preposition for “from,” which it no more resembles than a bird resembles an egg. The links in the chain are,—e, ex, extra, extraneus, Étranger, stranger. When a boy answers a lady, “Yes’m,” he does not dream that his “m” is a fragment of the five syllables, mea domina (“madonna,” “madame,” “madam,” “ma’am” “’m”). The French word mÊme is a striking illustration of what philologists call “phonetic change,” which sometimes “eats away the whole body of a word, and leaves nothing behind but decayed fragments.” Who would believe that mÊme contains the Latin semetipsissimus? The words “thrall” and “thraldom” have an interesting history. They come to us from a period when it was customary to “thrill” (or drill) the ear of a slave in token of servitude; and hence the significance of Sir Thomas Browne’s remark, “Bow not to the omnipotency of gold, nor ‘bore’ thy ear to its servitude.” The expression “‘signing’ one’s name” takes us back to an age when most persons made their mark or “sign.” We must not suppose that this practice was then, as now, a proof of the ignorance of the signer. Among the Saxons, not only illiterate persons made this sign, but, as an attestation of the good faith of the person signing, the mark of the cross was required to be attached to the name of those who could write. From its holy association, it was the symbol of an oath; and hence the expression “God save the mark!” which so long puzzled the commentators of Shakespeare, is now understood to be a form of ejaculation resembling an oath. It is said that Charlemagne, being unable to write, was compelled to dip the forefinger of his glove in ink, and smear it over the parchment when it was necessary that the imperial sign-manual should be fixed to an edict. “Window” is a corruption of “wind-door,”—door to let in the wind.

The word “handkerchief” is curiously fashioned. “Kerchief,” the first form of the word, is from the French couvre-chef, “a head-covering.” If to “kerchief”, we prefix “hand,” we have a “hand-head-covering,” or a covering for the head held in the hand, which is palpably absurd; but when we qualify this word by “neck” or “pocket,” we reach the climax beyond which confusion can no farther go. How a covering for the “head” is to be held in the “hand,” and yet carried in the “pocket,” it requires a more than ordinarily vivid imagination to conceive. “Constable” is derived from comes stabuli, or “Count of the stable,” who formerly had charge of the king’s horses. “Bib” is from bibere, to drink, the tucker being used to save the child’s clothes from whatever may be spilt when it is bibbing.

“Dollar” is the German thaler, which is an abbreviation of Joachemsthaler, the valley where it was coined.

“Host,” an army, or a multitude, is from hostis; “host,” an entertainer, is from hospes; “host,” a sacrifice, is from hostia. The word “rostrum” is from the Latin rostra, the beak of a ship. After the submission of the Latins, 334 B.C., the vessels of Antium having been burnt, their beaks were made to adorn the tribune in the Forum. From that time the rostra became the indispensable decoration of the Forum, and hence the name “rostrum” to denote a platform for orators. “Verdict” is from veredictum, truly said. “Palliate” is from pallium, a cloak. “Carat” is from the Arabic kaura, a bean, the standard weight for diamonds. “Salmon” is from saliendo, which points to the “leaps” it makes. A “cur,” from the Latin curtus, is a curtailed dog, whose tail has been cut off for straying in the woods; a “terrier” is from terrarius, an earth-dog; a “spaniel” is a Spanish dog; a “mongrel” is a dog of mingled breed; and the mastiff guards the maison, or house. A horse is called a “pony” when puny; a “hack” from “hackney;” and the lady’s horse was called a “palfrey,” because it was led par le frein, or by the rein.

A “palace” is so called from Collis Palatinus, one of the seven hills of Rome, which was itself called Palatinus, from Pales, a pastoral deity. On this hill stood the “Golden House” of Nero, which was called the Palatium, and became the type of the palaces of all the kings and emperors of Europe. The word “court” had its origin in the same locality and in the same distant age. It was on the hills of Latium that cohors or cors was first used in the sense of a “hurdle,” an “enclosure,” a “cattle yard.” The cohortes, or divisions of the Roman army, were thus named, so many soldiers forming a pen or a court. Cors, cortis, became in mediÆval Latin curtis, and was used to denote a farm, or a castle built by a Roman settler in the provinces, and finally a royal residence, or palace. That a word originally meaning “cow-pen,” or “cattle-yard,” should assume the meaning of “palace,” and give rise to such derivatives as “courteous,” “courtesy,” and “to court,” that is, to pay attentions, or to propose marriage, is a striking example of the strange transformations which words undergo in the course of ages. The “Court of the Star Chamber,” so odious in English history, derived its name from the ceiling of the room where it sat, which was dotted with stars. “Pontiff” has an almost equally humble origin. It is from the Pons Sublicius, which Ancus Marcus placed on wooden joists, and which was rebuilt by the censor Æmilius Lepidus in the reign of the second of the CÆsars,—the bridge which Horatius Cocles defended, and whose construction, preservation, and maintenance were confided to the college of priests,—that the word “pontiff” is derived. The word “exchequer” comes, according to Blackstone, from the “checked” cloth that covered the table behind which the money-changers sat. “Suffrage” is from suffragium, a broken piece or potsherd, used by the ancients in voting in their assemblies. “Easter” is from the Anglo-Saxon, Eastre (German, Ostara), a heathen goddess whose feast was celebrated in the spring. Remains of the old pagan worship have survived in Easter eggs, yule logs, and, on the Continent of Europe, Whitsun fires.

“Mystery,” something secret or unknown, comes from mu, the imitation of closing the lips; but “mystery,” in the Mystery Plays, such as continue to be performed at Ammergan, in Bavaria, is a corruption of ministerium; it meant a religious ministry, or service, had nothing to do with mystery, and should be spelled with an i, and not with a y. “Puny” is from the French puis-nÉ, “since born,” hence, by metaphor, sickly, inferior, diminutive. From the same source is derived “puisne” (that is, younger, or inferior) judge. The phrase “True Blue,” applied to the Presbyterians, is said by Dean Stanley to be owing to the distinct dress of the Scotch Presbyterian clergy, which at one time was a blue gown and a broad blue bonnet. The Episcopal clergy either wore no distinctive dress in public services, or wore a black gown. The Rev. Dr. Murray, however, in an address before the Assembly of the Free Church of Scotland, gave a different explanation of the phrase: “A Scotchman once told me that when we were persecuted as a denomination, the minister was wont to go to the mountains, and when there was to be a communion a blue flag was held up as a signal or notice, and also as an invitation to attend, and some regard this as the origin of the term; but on a visit to Pompeii, a few years ago, I spent some time in inspecting the splendid frescoes of variegated hues. I found all colors had faded except the blue, and that was as bright as when first put on, though nearly two thousand years previously. The ‘true blue’ never gives out,—never changes. So, when we say of a man ‘he is true blue,’ it is equivalent to saying he is firm in and true to his principles.” “France” owes its name to the Franks, who conquered her native Celts. The word Franc comes, according to a German philologist, either from the Teutonic franhÔ, “bold,” “frank,” or from franca, a sharp, double-edged battle-axe, which the Franks hurled with great dexterity in attacking their enemies. From Franc are derived our words “franchise” and “enfranchisement.”

One of the most interesting classes of common words with curious derivations is that of the names of things or acts which were once names of persons. Language teems in this way with honors to the great and good men who have been benefactors of their race; and it also avenges the wrongs of humanity by impaling the very names of the wrong-doers in a perpetual crucifixion. Many words of this class betray their origin at once. It is easy to recognize Tantalus in “to tantalize,” Epicurus in “epicure,” Mesmer in “mesmerism,” Gordius in the “gordian” knot which Alexander cut, Galvani in “galvanism,” Volta in the “voltaic” pile, Daguerre in “daguerreotype,” and McAdam and Burke in “to macadamize” and “to burke.” But when we read or hear of a work on “algebra,” or of a person who has uttered “gibberish,” we get no hint, at first, of Giber or Geber, the famous Arabian sage, who sought for the philosopher’s stone, and used, perhaps, senseless incantations. “Artesian,” applied to a well, does not inform us that such a well was first cut through the chalk basin of the province of Artois. We speak of a “dun” without suspecting that the word came from the name of a stern bailiff in the time of Henry VII, one Dun, who was eminently successful in collecting debts. We hear of a “maudlin” speech without thinking of Mary Magdalen; of a “lazaretto,” without being reminded of Lazarus; of “simony” without a suggestion of Simon Magus; and of “silhouettes,” without a suspicion that it was the unpopular French minister of finance, M. de Silhouette, whose persistent economy doomed his name to be affixed to the slight and cheap outline portraits thus named. “Martinet” does not recall the rigid disciplinarian in the army of Louis XIV, nor does a “tram-road” point very plainly to Outram, the inventor. In “saunterer” we do not readily detect La Sainte Terre, “the Holy Land,” the pilgrims to which took their own time to get there; nor would a “pander” ever remind us of the Trojan general Pandarus, or “tawdry” of the fair of St. Etheldreda, or St. Awdry, where gaudy finery was sold. “Music,” “museum,” and “mosaic,” do not inevitably suggest the Muses, nor does a “pasquinade” tell us about the statue of an ancient gladiator which was exhumed at Rome, in the peculiar physiognomy of which the wits of that city detected a resemblance to Pasquino, a snappish cobbler, who lived near by, and on the pedestal of which it became a practice to post lampoons. Few men think of Jaque, of Beauvais, as they put on “jackets”; of Blacket, who first manufactured the article, when they lie under “blankets”; or of Hermes Trismegistus, the Egyptian priest, when they “hermetically” seal a bottle or fruit can. Excepting the readers of Pascal, it is probable that not many Frenchmen detect in the word escobarder, “to equivocate,” the name of the great casuist of the Jesuits, Escobar, whose subtle devices for the evasion of the moral law have been immortalized in the “Provincial Letters.”

Vulcan is still at his forge in “volcanoes,” and has even descended so low as to “vulcanize” rubber; and though “Great Pan is dead,” he comes to life again in every “panic.” A “sandwich” calls to mind Lord Sandwich, the inveterate gamester, who begrudged the time necessary for a meal; and the “spencer” recalls Lord Spencer, who in hunting lost one skirt of his coat, and tore off the other,—which led some inventive genius to make half-coats, and call them “spencers.” Of the two noble lords it has been said that

Epic and dramatic poetry, and fiction generally, have added much to the force and suggestiveness of speech. What apt and expressive terms are “utopian”[45] (from the name given by Sir Thomas More to his imaginary island), and “quixotic”! With what other words could we supply the place of Dean Swift’s “liliputian” and “brobdingnagian,” Kenny’s “Jeremy Diddler,” or Dickens’s “pickwickian” and “Circumlocution Office”? What convenient terms are “thrasonical,” from Thraso, the braggart of the Roman comedy, and “rodomontade,” from Rodamonte, a hero of Boiardo, who, strange to say, does not brag and bluster, as the word based on his name seems to imply! It is said that Boiardo, when he had hit upon the name of his hero, had the village bells rung for joy. To Homer we are indebted for “stentorian,” that is, loud-voiced, from Stentor, the Greek herald, whose voice surpassed the united shout of fifty men; and for the word “to hector,” founded on the big talk of the Trojan hero.

The language of savages teems with expressions of deep interest both to the philologist and the student of human nature. Speech with them is a perpetual creation of utterances to image forth the total picture in their minds. The Indian “does not analyze his thoughts or separate his utterances; his thoughts rush forth in a troop. His speech is as a kindling cloud, not as radiant points of light.” The Lenni Lenape Indians express by one polysyllable what with us requires seven monosyllables and three disyllables, viz.: “Come with the canoe and take us across the river.” This polysyllable is nadholineen, and it is formed by taking parts of several words and cementing them into one. In the Iroquois language one word of twenty-one letters expresses this sentence of eighteen words: “I give some money to those who have arrived, in order to buy them more clothes with it.” The apparent wealth of synonyms and of grammatical forms in savage languages is due, not to the mental superiority of the races that speak them, but to their inferiority,—their deficiency in the power of abstraction. “The more barbarous a language,” says Herder, “the greater is the number of its conjugations.” We must not suppose that simplicity in language precedes complexity: simplicity is the triumph of science, not the spontaneous result of intelligence. The natives of the Society Isles have one word for the tail of a dog, another for the tail of a bird, and a third for the tail of a sheep, while for “tail” itself, “tail” in the abstract, they have no word whatever. The Mohicans have words for wood-cutting, cutting the head, etc., yet no verb meaning simply to cut. Even the Anglo-Saxon language, which had a sufficiency of words for all shades of green, red, blue, yellow, had to borrow from the Latin the abstract word “color,” and, while possessing abundant names for every sort of crime, derived from the same source the abstract words “crime” and “transgression.”

Some Indian tribes call a squirrel by a name signifying that he “can stick fast in a tree”; a mole, by a word signifying “carrying the right hand on the left shoulder”; and they have a name for a horse which means “having only one toe.” Among the savages of the Pacific, “to think” is “to speak in the stomach.”

WORDS OF ILLUSIVE ETYMOLOGY.

In the lapse of ages words undergo great changes of form, so that it becomes at last difficult or impossible to ascertain their origin. Terms, of which the composition was originally clear, are worn and rubbed by use like the pebbles which are fretted and rounded into shape and smoothness by the sea waves or by a rapid stream. Like the image and superscription of a coin, their meaning is often so worn away that one cannot make even a probable guess at their origin. One of the commonest causes of the corruptions of words, by which their sources and original meanings are disguised, is the instinctive dislike we feel to the use of a word that is wholly new to us, and the consequent tendency to fasten upon it a meaning which shall remove its seemingly arbitrary character. Foreign words, therefore, when adopted into a language, are especially liable to these changes, being corrupted both in pronunciation and orthography. By thus anglicizing them, we not only avoid the uncouth, barbarous sounds which are so offensive to the ear, but we help the memory by associating the words with others already known.

The mistakes which have been made in attempting to trace the origin of words thus disguised, have done not a little, at times, to bring philology into contempt. The philologist, unless he has much native good sense, and rules his inclinations with an iron rod, is apt to become a verbomaniac. There is a strange fascination in word-hunting, and his hobby-horse, it has been aptly said, is a strong goer that trifles never balk. “To him the British Channel is a surface drain, the Alps and Apennines mere posts and rails, the Mediterranean a simple brook, and the Himalayas only an outlying cover.” Cowper justly ridicules those word-hunters who, in their eagerness to make some startling discovery, never pause to consider whether there is any historic connection between two languages, one of which is supposed to have borrowed a word from another,—

A fundamental rule, to be kept constantly in sight by those who would not etymologize at random, is, that no amount of resemblance between words in different languages is sufficient to prove their relationship, nor is any amount of seeming unlikeness in sound or form sufficient to disprove their consanguinity. Many etymologies are true which appear improbable, and many appear probable which are not true. As Max MÜller says: “Sound etymology has nothing to do with sound. We know words to be of the same origin which have not a single letter in common, and which differ in meaning as much as black and white.” On the other hand, two words which have identically the same letters may have no etymological connection. An instance of the last case is the French souris, a smile, and souris, a mouse, from the Latin subridere and sorex respectively. Fuller amusingly says that “we are not to infer the Hebrew and the English to be cognate languages because one of the giants, son of Anak, was called A-hi-man;” yet some of his own etymologies, though witty and ingenious, are hardly more correct than this punning derivation. Thus “compliments,” he says, is derived from À completÈ mentiri, because compliments are in general completely mendacious; and he quotes approvingly Sir John Harrington’s derivation of the old English “elf” and “goblin,” from the names of two political factions of the Empire, the Guelphs and the Ghibellines.

Archbishop Trench speaks of an eminent philologist who deduced “girl” from garrula, girls being commonly talkative. “Frontispiece” is usually regarded as a piece or picture in front of a book; whereas it means literally “a front view,” being from the Low Latin, frontispicium, the forefront of a house. The true origin of many words is hidden by errors in the spelling. “Bran-new” is brand-new, i.e., “burnt new.” “Grocer” should be “grosser,” one who sells in the gross; “pigmy” is properly “pygmy,” as Worcester spells it, and means a thing the size of one’s fist (p???). “Policy,” state-craft, is rightly spelled; but “policies of insurance” ought to have the ll, the word being derived from polliceor, to promise or assure. “Island” looks as if it were compounded of “isle” and “land”; but it is the same word as the Anglo-Saxon ealand, water-land, compounded of ea, water, and “land.” So Jersey is literally “CÆsar’s island.” “Lieutenant” has been pronounced “leftenant,” from a notion that this officer holds the “left” of the line while the captain holds the right. The word comes from the French, lieu-tenant, one holding the place of another.

“Wiseacre” has no connection with “acre.” The word is a corruption, both in spelling and pronunciation, of the German weissarger, a “wise-sayer,” or sayer of wise maxims. “Gooseberry,” Dr. Johnson explains as “a fruit eaten as a sauce for goose.” It is, however, a corruption of the German, krausbeere,—from kraus or gorse, crisp; and the fruit gets its name from the upright hairs with which it is covered. “Shame-faced” does not mean having a face denoting shame. It is from the Anglo-Saxon, sceamfaest, protected by shame. “Surname” is from the French, surnom, meaning additional name, and should not, therefore, be spelled “sirname,” as if it meant the name of one’s sire. “Freemason” is not half Saxon, but is from the French, frÈremaÇon, brother mason. “Foolscap” is a corruption of the Italian, foglio capo, a full-sized sheet of paper. “Country-dance” is a corruption of the French contre-danse, in which the partners stand in opposite lines.

“Bishop,” which looks like an Anglo-Saxon word, is from the Greek. It means primarily an overseer, in Latin episcopus, which the Saxons broke down into “biscop,” and then softened into “bishop.” There was formerly an adjective “bishoply”; but as, after the Norman Conquest, the bishops, and those who discussed their rights and duties, used French and Latin rather than English, “episcopal” has taken its place. Among the foreign words most frequently corrupted are the names of plants, which gardeners, not understanding, change into words that sound like the true ones, and with which they are familiar. In their new costume they often lose all their original significance and beauty. To this source of corruption we owe such words as “dandelion,” from the French, dent de lion, lion’s tooth; “rosemary,” from ros marinus; “quarter-sessions rose,” the meaningless name of the beautiful rose des quatre saisons; “Jerusalem artichoke,” into which, with a ludicrous disregard for geography, we have metamorphosed the sunflower artichoke, articiocco girasole, which came to us from Pery, through Italy; and “sparrow-grass,” which we have substituted for “asparagus.”

Animals have fared no better than plants; the same dislike of outlandish words, which are meaningless to them, leads sailors to corrupt Bellerophon into “Billy Ruffian,” and hostlers to convert Othello and Desdemona into “Odd Fellow and Thursday morning,” and Lamprocles into “Lamb and Pickles.” The souris dormeuse, or sleeping mouse, has been transformed into a “dormouse”; the hog-fish, or porcpisce, as Spenser terms him, is disguised as a “porpoise”; and the French Écrevisse turns up a “crayfish” or “crawfish.” The transformations of the latter word, which has passed through three languages before attaining its present form, are among the most surprising feats of verbal legerdemain. Starting on its career as the old High German krebiz, it next appears in English as “crab,” and in German as krebs, or “crab,” from the grabbing or clutching action of the animal. Next it crosses the Rhine, and becomes the French Écrevisse; then crosses the Channel, and takes the form of krevys; and, last of all, with a double effort at anglicizing, it appears in modern English as “crawfish” or “crayfish.” The last two words noticed illustrate the tendency which is so strong, in the corruption of words, to invent new forms which shall be appropriate as well as significant, other examples of which we have in “wormwood” from wermuth, “lanthorn” from laterna, “beefeater” from buffetier, “rakehell” from racaille, “catchrogue” from the Norman-French cachreau, a bum-bailiff, and “shoot” for chute, a fall or rapid. So the French, beffroi, a stronghold or tower,—a movable tower of several stories used in besieging,—has been corrupted into “belfry,” though there is no such French word as “bell.”

Often the corrupted form gives birth to a wholly false explanation. Thus in the proverbial dormir comme une taupe, which has been twisted into the phrase “to sleep like a top,” there is no trace of the mole; and the corruption of acheter, to buy, into “achat,”—which in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries was in London the word for trading, and was first pronounced and then written “acat,”—led to the story that Whittington, the famous Lord Mayor, obtained his wealth by selling and re-selling “a cat.” There is no hint in “somerset” of its derivation from the Italian, soprasalto, an overleap, through the French, sobresault, and the early English, to “somersault”; nor would the shrewdest guesser ever discover in faire un faux pas, to commit a blunder, the provincial saying, “to make a fox’s paw.” The word “ceiling,” from the old French seel, “a seal,” was formerly written “seeling,” and meant a wainscoating, a covering with boards for the purpose of sealing up chinks and cracks. The spelling was changed from an opinion that the word is derived from ciel, which means “heaven” and “a canopy.”

Among the most frequent corruptions are the names of places and persons. Thus Penne, Coombe, and Ick, the former name of Falmouth, has been transformed into “Penny-come-quick”; and the corruption of Chateau Vert into “Shotover” has led to the legend that Little John “shot over” the hill of that name near Oxford, England. Leighton-beau-desert has been converted into “Leighton-Buzzard”; Bridge-Walter, in Somersetshire, into “Bridgewater.” The Chartreuse has become the “Charter-House.” Sheremoniers Lane, so called because the artisans dwelt there whose business it was to sheer or cut bullion into shape for the die, became first “Sheremongers Lane,” and then, from its nearness to St. Paul’s Cathedral, and an analogy with Amen Corner and Paternoster Row, passed into “Sermon Lane.” The origin of the well known legend of Bishop Hatto, who forestalled the corn from the poor, and was devoured in his fortress on the Rhine by rats, is owing, it is said, to a corruption of the name of the maut-thurm, or custom-house, into the mÄuse-thurm, or “Mouse-tower.” The Cologne myth of the eleven thousand virgins is supposed by an English philologist to have sprung from the name of St. Undecemilla, a virgin martyr. “The insertion of a single letter in the calendar has changed this name into the form ‘Undecem millia Virg. Mart.’ The bones of the eleven thousand, which are reverently shown to the pious pilgrim, have been pronounced by Professor Owen to comprise the remains of almost all the quadrupeds indigenous to the district.” The name “Gypsies” is a misnomer springing out of an error in ethnology. When they first appeared in Europe, nearly five centuries ago, their dark complexion and their unknown language led men to suppose that they were Egyptians, which word was corrupted into “Gypsies.” Boulogne Mouth was corrupted by the British sailors into “Bull and Mouth”; and Surajah Dowlah, the name of the Bengal prince who figured in the famous Black Hole atrocity, the British soldiers persisted in anglicizing into “Sir Roger Dowlas”! “Bedlam” is a corruption of Bethlehem, and gets its meaning from a London priory, St. Mary’s of Bethlehem, which was converted into a lunatic asylum.

“To curry favor” is said to be a corrupt translation of the French proverbial phrase Étriller Fauveau, “to curry the chestnut horse.” It was usual to make a proper name of the color of a horse, as Bayard, Dun, Ball, Favel, etc. Hence the proverbs, “To have Ball in the stable,” “Dun in the mire,” “To curry Favel,” in which last some unknown Bentley substituted “favor” for Favel when the meaning of the latter had ceased to be understood. Another striking illustration of the freaks of popular usage by which the etymology of words is obscured, is the word “causeway.” Mr. W. W. Skeat, in a late number of “Notes and Queries,” states that the old spelling of the word was “calcies.” The Latin was calceata via, a road made with lime; hence the Spanish, calzada, a paved way, and the modern French, chaussÉe. “The English Word,” Mr. Skeats says, “used to be more often spelled ‘causey,’ as, for instance, by Cotgrave; and popular etymology, always on the alert to infuse some sort of meaning into a strange word, turned ‘causey’ into ‘causeway,’ with the trifling drawback that, while we all know what ‘way’ means, no one can extract any sense out of ‘cause.’”

Words from the dead languages have naturally undergone the most signal corruptions, many of them completely disguising the derivation. Sometimes the word is condensed, as in “alms,” from the Greek ??e??s??? in early English, “almesse,” now cut down to four letters; “summons,” a legal term, abbreviated (like the fi. fa. of the lawyers) from submoneas; “palsy,” an abridgment of “paralysis,” literally a relaxation; “quinsy,” in French esquinancie, which, strange to say, is the same word as “synagogue,” coming, like this last, from s?? together, and ???, to draw. “Megrim” is a corruption of “hemicrany,” a pain affecting half of the head. “Treacle,” now applied only to molasses or sirup, was originally viper’s flesh made into a medicine for the viper’s bite. It is called in French thÉriaque, from a corresponding Greek word; in early English, “triacle.” “Zero” is a contraction of the Italian zephiro, a zephyr, a breath of air, a nothing. Another name for it is “cipher,” from the Arabic, cifr, empty.

CONTRADICTORY MEANINGS.

Among the curious phenomena of language one of the most singular is the use of the same word in two distinct senses, directly opposed to each other. Ideas are associated in the mind not only by resemblance but by contrast; and thus the same root, slightly modified, may express the most opposite meanings. A striking example of this, is the word “fast,” which is full of contradictory meanings. A clock is called “fast,” when it goes too quickly; but a man is told to stand “fast,” when he is desired to stand still. Men “fast” when they have nothing to eat; and they eat “fast” after a long abstinence. “Fast” men, as we have already seen, are apt to be very “loose” in their habits. When “fast” is used in the sense of “abstinence,” the idea may be, as in the Latin, abstineo, holding back from food; or the word may come from the Gothic, fastan, “to keep” or “observe,”—that is, the ordinance of the church. The verb “to overlook” is used in two contradictory senses; as, he overlooked the men at work, he overlooked the error.

The word “nervous” may mean either possessing or wanting nerve. A “nervous” writer is one who has force and energy; a “nervous” man is one who is weak, sensitive to trifles, easily excited. The word “post,” from the Latin positum, placed, is used in the most various senses. We speak of a “post”-office, of “post”-haste, of “post”-horses, and of “post”-ing a ledger. The contradiction in these meanings is more apparent than real. The idea of “placing” is common to them all. Before the invention of railways, letters were transmitted from place to place (or post to post) by relays of horses stationed at intervals so that no delay might occur. The “post”-office used this means of communication, and the horses were said to travel “post”-haste. To “post” a ledger is to place or register its several items.

The word “to let” generally means to permit; but in the Bible, in Shakespeare, and in legal phraseology, it often has the very opposite meaning. Thus Hamlet says, “I’ll make a ghost of him that lets me,” that is, interferes with or obstructs me; and in law books “without let or hindrance” is a phrase of frequent occurrence. It should be remarked, however, that “to let,” in the first sense, is from the Saxon, laetan; in the second, from letjan. The word “to cleave” may mean either to adhere to closely, as when Cowper says, “Sophistry cleaves close and protects sin’s rotten trunk”; or it may mean to split or to rend asunder, as in the sentence, “He cleaved the stick at one blow.” According to MÄtzner, the word in the first sense is from the Anglo-Saxon, cleofan, clufan; in the last sense, it is from clifan, clifian. The word “dear” has the two meanings of “prized” because you have it, and “expensive” because you want it. The word “lee” has very different acceptations in “lee”-side and “lee”-shore.

The word “mistaken” has quite opposite meanings. “You are mistaken” may mean “You mistake,” or “You are misunderstood,” or “taken for somebody else.” In the line

“Mistaken souls that dream of heaven,”

in a popular hymn, the word is used, of course, in the former sense. The adjective “mortal” means both “deadly” and “liable to death.” Of the large number of adjectives ending in “able” or “ible,” some have a subjective and others an objective sense. A “terrible” sight is one that is able to inspire terror; but a “readable” book is one which you can read. It is said that the word “wit” is used in Pope’s “Essay on Criticism” with at least seven different meanings.

The prefixes “un” and “in” are equivocal. Commonly they have a negative force, as in “unnecessary,” “incomplete.” But sometimes, both in verbs and adjectives, they have a positive or intensive meaning, as in the words “intense,” “infatuated,” “invaluable.” To “invigorate” one’s physical system by exercise, is not to lessen, but to increase one’s energy. The verb “unloose” should, by analogy, signify “to tie,” just as “untie” means “to loose.” “Inhabitable” should signify “not habitable,” according to the most frequent use of “in.” To “unravel” means the same as “to ravel”; to “unrip” the same as “to rip.” Johnson sanctions the use of the negative prefix in these two words, but Richardson and Webster condemn it as superfluous. Walton, in his “Angler,” tells an amusing anecdote touching the two words. “We heard,” he says, “a high contention amongst the beggars, whether it was easiest to ‘rip’ a cloak or ‘unrip’ a cloak. One beggar affirmed it was all one; but that was denied, by asking her, if doing and undoing were all one. Then another said, ’twas easiest to unrip a cloak, for that was to let it alone; but she was answered by asking how she could unrip it, if she let it alone.”

This opposition in the meanings of a word is a phenomenon not altogether peculiar to the English language. In Greek, ????e?? has the seemingly contradictory meanings of “to move hastily,” and “to sit”; ??e?a means both “use” and “need”; and ??? means both “to wish” and “to take.” In Latin, sacer means “set apart” or “tabooed,” and unicus implies singularity,—unitas, association. Many other examples might be cited to show that “as rays of light may be reflected and refracted in all possible ways from the primary direction, so the meaning of a word may be deflected from its original bearing in a variety of manners; and consequently we cannot well reach the primitive force of the term unless we know the precise gradations through which it has gone.”

Several writers on our language have noticed a singular tendency to limit or narrow the signification of certain words, whose etymology would suggest a far wider application. Why should we not “retaliate” (that is, pay back in kind, res, talis) kindnesses as well as injuries? Why should we “resent” (feel again) insults, and not affectionate words and deeds? Why should our hate, animosity, hostility, and other bad passions, be “inveterate” (that is, gain strength by age), but our better feelings, love, kindness, charity, never? Byron showed a true appreciation of the better uses to which the word might be put, when he subscribed a letter to a friend, “Yours inveterately, Byron.”

In some of our nouns there is a nice distinction of meaning between the singular and the plural. A “minute” is a fraction of time; “minutes” are notes of a speech, conversation, etc. The “manner” in which a man enters a drawing-room may be unexceptionable, while his “manners” are very bad. When the “Confederates” threatened to pull down the American “colors” at New Orleans, they did it under “color” of right. A person was once asked whether a certain lawyer had got rich by his practice. “No,” was the sarcastic reply, “but by his practices.”