Modern English contains some six or seven hundred pairs or sets of homonyms, i.e., of words identical in sound and spelling but differing in meaning and origin. The New English Dictionary recognises provisionally nine separate nouns rack. The subject is a difficult one to deal with, because one word sometimes develops such apparently different meanings that the original identity becomes obscured, and even, as we have seen in the case of flour and mettle (p. 144), a difference of spelling may result. When Denys of Burgundy said to the physician—

he was unaware that both leeches represent Anglo-Sax. lÆce, healer. On the other hand, a resemblance of form may bring about a contamination of meaning. The verb to gloss, or gloze, means simply to explain or translate, from Greco-Lat. glossa, tongue; but, under the influence of the unrelated gloss, superficial lustre, it has acquired the sense of specious interpretation.

That part of a helmet called the beaver—

has, of course, no connection with the animal whose fur has been used for some centuries for expensive hats. It comes from Old Fr. baviÈre, a child's bib, now replaced by bavette, from baver, to slobber.

It may be noted en passant that many of the revived medieval words which sound so picturesque in Scott are of very prosaic origin. Thus the basnet—

or close-fitting steel cap worn under the ornamental helmet, is Fr. bassinet, a little basin. It was also called a kettle hat, or pot. Another obsolete name given to a steel cap was a privy pallet, from Fr. palette, a barber's bowl, a "helmet of Mambrino." To a brilliant living monarch we owe the phrase "mailed fist," a translation of Ger. gepanzerte Faust. Panzer, a cuirass, is etymologically a pauncher, or defence for the paunch. We may compare an article of female apparel, which took its name from a more polite name for this part of the anatomy, and which Shakespeare uses even in the sense of Panzer. Imogen, taking the papers from her bosom, says—

Sometimes homonyms seem to be due to the lowest type of folk-etymology, the instinct for making an unfamiliar word "look like something" (see p. 128, n.). To this instinct we owe the nautical companion (p. 165). Trepan, for trapan, to entrap, cannot have been confused with the surgical trepan (p. 109), although it has been assimilated to it. The compound in which the victims of "Chinese slavery" languished is the Malay kampong, an enclosure.

The scent called bergamot takes its name from Bergamo, in Italy, whence also Shakespeare's bergomask dance—

but the bergamot pear is derived from Turkish beg armudi, prince's pear. With beg, prince, cf. bey and begum. The burden of a song is from Fr. bourdon, "a drone, or dorre-bee; also, the humming, or buzzing, of bees; also, the drone of a bag-pipe" (Cotgrave). It is of doubtful origin, but is not related to burden, a load, which is connected with the verb to bear.

To cashier, i.e., break, a soldier, is from Du. casseeren, which is borrowed from Fr. casser, to break, Lat. quassare, frequentative of quatere, to shatter. In the 16th and 17th centuries we also find cass and cash, which come immediately from French, and are thus doublets of quash. Cotgrave has casser, "to casse, cassere, discharge." The past participle of the obsolete verb to cass is still in military use—

The other cashier is of Italian origin. He takes charge of the cash, which formerly meant "counting-house," and earlier still "safe," from Ital. cassa, "a merchant's cashe, or counter" (Florio). This comes from Lat. capsa, a coffer, so that cash is a doublet of case, Fr. caisse. The goldsmith's term chase is for enchase, Fr. enchÂsser, "to enchace, or set, in gold, etc." (Cotgrave), from chÂsse, coffer, shrine, also from Lat. capsa. From the same word comes (window) sash.

Gammon, from Mid. Eng. gamen, now reduced to game, survives as a slang word and also in the compound backgammon. In a gammon of bacon we have the Picard form of Fr. jambon, a ham, an augmentative of jambe, leg. Cotgrave has jambon, "a gammon." Gambit is related, from Ital. gambetto, "a tripping up of one's heels" (Torriano). A game leg is in dialect a gammy leg. This is Old Fr. gambi, "bent, crooked, bowed" (Cotgrave), which is still used in some French dialects in the sense of lame. It comes from the same Celtic root as jambe.

Host, an army, now used only poetically or metaphorically, is from Old Fr. ost, army, Lat. hostis, enemy. The host who receives us is Old Fr. oste (hÔte), Lat. hospes, hospit-, guest. These two hosts are, however, ultimately related. It is curious that, while modern Fr. hÔte (hospes) means both "host" and "guest," the other host (hostis) is, very far back, a doublet of guest, the ground meaning of both being "stranger." "It is remarkable in what opposite directions the Germans and Romans have developed the meaning of the old hereditary name for 'stranger.' To the Roman the stranger becomes an enemy; among the Germans he enjoys the greatest privileges, a striking confirmation of what Tacitus tells us in his Germania."[112] In a dog kennel we have the Norman form of Fr. chenil, related to chien; but kennel, a gutter—

is a doublet of channel and canal.

says Prince Hal to Bardolph. In the old editions this is spelt manour or mainour and means "in the act." It is an Anglo-French doublet of manoeuvre, late Lat. manu-opera, handiwork, and is thus related to its homonym manner, Fr. maniÈre, from manier, to handle. Another doublet of manoeuvre is manure, now a euphemism for dung, but formerly used of the act of tillage—

Inure is similarly formed from Old Fr. enoeuvrer, literally "to work in," hence to accustom to toil.

John Gilpin's "good friend the calender," i.e. the cloth-presser, has nothing to do with the calendar which indicates the calends of the month, nor with the calender, or Persian monk, of the Arabian Nights, whom Mr Pecksniff described as a "one-eyed almanack"—

The verb to calender, to press and gloss cloth, etc., is from Old Fr. calendrer (calandrer), "to sleeke, smooth, plane, or polish, linnen cloth, etc." (Cotgrave). This word is generally considered to be related to cylinder, a conjecture which is supported by obsolete Fr. calende, used of the "rollers" by means of which heavy stones are moved.

A craft, or association of masters, was once called a mistery (for mastery or maistrie), usually misspelt mystery by association with a word of quite different origin and meaning. This accidental resemblance is often played on—

For the pronunciation, cf. mister, for master, and mistress.[113] The French for "mistery" is mÉtier, earlier mestier, "a trade, occupation, misterie, handicraft" (Cotgrave), from Old Fr. maistier, Lat. magisterium. In its other senses Fr. mÉtier represents Lat. ministerium, service.

Pawn, a pledge, is from Old Fr. pan, with the same meaning. The origin of this word, cognates of which occur in the Germanic languages, is unknown. The pawn at chess is Fr. pion, a pawn, formerly also a foot-soldier, used contemptuously in modern French for a junior assistant master. This represents a Vulgar Lat. *pedo, pedon-, from pes, foot; cf. Span. peon, "a footeman, a pawne at chesse, a pioner, or laborer" (Percyvall). In German the pawn is called Bauer, peasant, a name also given to the knave in the game of euchre, whence American bower[114]—

When Jack Bunce says—

he is using a nautical term which has no connection with Fr. payer. To pay, i.e. to pitch (a ship), is from Old Fr. peier or poier, Lat. picare, from pix, pitch. Fr. limon, a lime, has given Eng. lemon,[116] but "lemon sole" is from Fr. limande, a flat-fish, dab. A quarry from which stone is obtained was formerly quarrer, Old Fr. quarriÈre (carriÈre), a derivative of Lat. quadrus; cf. quadratarius, "a squarer of marble" (Cooper). The quarry of the hunter has changed its form and meaning. In Mid. English we find quarrÉ and quirrÉ, from Old Fr. cuirÉe, now curÉe, "a (dog's) reward; the hounds' fees of, or part in, the game they have killed" (Cotgrave). The Old French form means "skinful" (cf. poignÉe, fistful), the hounds' reward being spread on the skin of the slain animal. It is thus related to cuirass, originally used of leathern armour. In Shakespeare quarry usually means a heap of dead game—

In modern English it is applied rather to the animal pursued. Related to the first quarry is quarrel, the square-headed bolt shot from a crossbow—

It comes from Old Fr. carrel, of which the modern form, carreau, is used of many four-sided objects, e.g., a square tile, the diamond at cards, a pane of glass. In the last sense both quarrel and quarry are still used by glaziers.

In a "school of porpoises" we have a Dutch word for crowd. The older spelling is scull—

A sorrel horse and the plant called sorrel are both French words of German origin. The adjective, used in venery of a buck of the third year, is a diminutive of Old Fr. sor, which survives in hareng saur, red herring, and is perhaps cognate with Eng. sear—

The plant name is related to sour. Its modern French form surelle occurs now only in dialect, having been superseded by oseille, which appears to be due to the mixture of two words meaning sour, sharp, viz., Vulgar Lat. *acetula and Greco-Lat. oxalis.

The verb tattoo, to adorn the skin with patterns, is Polynesian. The military tattoo is Dutch. It was earlier tap-to, and was the signal for closing the "taps," or taverns. The first recorded occurrence of the word is in Colonel Hutchinson's orders to the garrison of Nottingham, the original of which hangs in the Nottingham City Library—

Cf. Ger. Zapfenstreich, lit. tap-stroke, the name of a play which was produced some years ago in London under the title "Lights Out." Ludwig explains Zapfenschlag or Zapfenstreich as "die Zeit da die Soldaten aus den Schencken heimgehen mÜssen, the taptow."

Tassel, in "tassel gentle"—

is for tercel or tiercel, the male hawk, "so tearmed, because he is, commonly, a third part less than the female" (Cotgrave, s.v. tiercelet). The true reason for the name is doubtful. The pendent ornament called a tassel is a diminutive of Mid. Eng. tasse, a heap, bunch, Fr. tas. Tent wine is Span. vino tinto, i.e., coloured—

The other tent is from the Old French past participle of tendre, to stretch.

The Shakesperian utterance—

is the Fr. outrance, in combat À outrance, i.e., to the extreme, which belongs to Lat. ultra. It is quite unconnected with the verb to utter, from out.

We have seen how, in the case of some homonyms, confusion arises, and a popular connection is established, between words which are quite unrelated. The same sort of association often springs up between words which, without being homonyms, have some accidental resemblance in form or meaning, or in both. Such association may bring about curious changes in sound and sense. Touchy, which now conveys the idea of sensitiveness to touch, is corrupted from tetchy—

The original meaning was something like "infected, tainted," from Old Fr. teche (tache), a spot. The word surround has completely changed its meaning through association with round. It comes from Old Fr. suronder, to overflow, Lat. super-undare, and its meaning and origin were quite clear to the 16th-century lexicographers. Thus Cooper has inundo, "to overflowe, to surround." A French bishop carries a crosse, and an archbishop a croix. These words are of separate origin. From crosse, which does not mean "cross," comes our derivative crosier, carried by both bishops and archbishops. It is etymologically identical, as its shape suggests, with the shepherd's crook, and the bat used in playing lacrosse.

The prophecy of the pessimistic ostler that, owing to motor-cars—

shows by what association the meaning of ostler, Old Fr. hostelier (hÔtelier), has changed. A belfry has nothing to do with bells. Old Fr. berfroi (beffroi) was a tower used in warfare. It comes from two German words represented by modern bergen, to hide, guard, and Friede, peace, so that it means "guard-peace." The triumph of the form belfry is due to association with bell, but the l is originally due to dissimilation, since we find belfroi also in Old French. The same dissimilation is seen in Fr. auberge, inn, Prov. alberga, which comes from Old High Ger. hari, an army, and bergen; cf. our harbour (p. 2) and harbinger (p. 90). Scabbard is from Old Fr. escauberc, earlier escalberc, by dissimilation for escarberc, from Old High Ger. scar, a blade (cf. ploughshare), and bergen. Cf. hauberk, guard-neck, from Ger. Hals,[118] neck.

The buttery is not so named from butter, but from bottles. It is for butlery, as chancery (see p. 88) is for chancelry. It is not, of course, now limited to bottles, any more than the pantry to bread or the larder to bacon, Fr. lard, Lat. laridum. The spence, aphetic for dispense, is now known only in dialect—

but has given us the name Spencer. The still-room maid is not extinct, but I doubt whether the distilling of strong waters is now carried on in the region over which she presides. A journeyman has nothing to do with journeys in the modern sense of the word, but works À la journÉe, by the day. Cf. Fr. journalier, "a journey man; one that workes by the day" (Cotgrave), and Ger. TagelÖhner, literally "day-wager." On the other hand, a day-woman (Love's Labour's Lost, i. 2) is an explanatory pleonasm (cf. greyhound, p. 135) for the old word day, servant, milkmaid, etc., whence the common surname Day and the derivative dairy.

A briar pipe is made, not from briar, but from the root of heather, Fr. bruyÈre, of Celtic origin. A catchpole did not catch polls, i.e. heads, nor did he catch people with a pole, although a very ingenious implement, exhibited in the Tower of London Armoury, is catalogued as a catchpole. The word corresponds to a French compound chasse-poule, catch-hen, in Picard cache-pole, the official's chief duty being to collect dues, or, in default, poultry. For pole, from Fr. poule, cf. polecat, also an enemy of fowls. The companion-ladder on ship-board is a product of folk-etymology. It leads to the kampanje, the Dutch for cabin. This may belong, like cabin, to a late Lat. capanna, hut, which has a very numerous progeny. Kajuit, another Dutch word for cabin, earlier kajute, has given us cuddy.

A carousal is now regarded as a carouse, but the two are quite separate, or, rather, there are two distinct words carousal. One of them is from Fr. carrousel, a word of Italian origin, meaning a pageant or carnival with chariot races and tilting. This word, obsolete in this sense, is sometimes spelt el and accented on the last syllable—

Ger. Karussell means a roundabout at a fair. Our carousal, if it is the same word, has been affected in sound and meaning by carouse. This comes, probably through French, from Ger. garaus, quite out, in the phrase garaus trinken, i.e., to drink bumpers—

Rabelais says that he is not one of those—

The spelling garous, and even garaus, is found in 17th-century English.

It is perhaps unnecessary to say that a maul-stick, Dutch maal-stok, paint-stick, has nothing to do with the verb to maul, formerly to mall,[120] i.e., to hammer. Nor is the painter's lay-figure connected with our verb to lay. It is also, like so many art terms, of Dutch origin, the lay representing Du. lid, limb, cognate with Ger. Glied.[121] The German for lay-figure is Gliederpuppe, joint-doll. Sewel's Dutch Dict. (1766) has leeman, or ledeman, "a statue, with pliant limbs for the use of a painter." A footpad is not a rubber-soled highwayman, but a pad, or robber, who does his work on foot. He was also called a padder—

i.e., one who takes to the "road," from Du. pad, path. Pad, an ambling nag, a "roadster," is the same word.

Pen comes, through Old French, from Lat. penna, "a penne, quil, or fether" (Cooper), while pencil is from Old Fr. pincel (pinceau), a painter's brush, from Lat. penicillus, a little tail. The modern meaning of pencil, which still meant painter's brush in the 18th century, is due to association with pen. The older sense survives in optics and in the expression "pencilled eyebrows." The ferrule of a walking-stick is a distinct word from ferule, an aid to education. The latter is Lat. ferula, "an herbe like big fenell, and maye be called fenell giant. Also a rodde, sticke, or paulmer, wherewith children are striken and corrected in schooles; a cane, a reede, a walking staffe" (Cooper). Ferrule is a perversion of earlier virrel, virrol, Fr. virole, "an iron ring put about the end of a staffe, etc., to strengthen it, and keep it from riving" (Cotgrave).

The modern meaning of pester is due to a wrong association with pest. Its earlier meaning is to hamper or entangle—

It was formerly impester, from Old Fr. empestrer (empÊtrer), "to pester, intricate, intangle, trouble, incumber" (Cotgrave), originally to "hobble" a grazing horse with pasterns, or shackles (see pastern, p. 76).

Mosaic work is not connected with Moses, but with the muses and museum. It comes, through French, from Ital. mosaico, "a kinde of curious stone worke, of divers colours, checkie worke" (Florio), which is Vulgar Lat. musaicum opus. Sorrow and sorry are quite unrelated. Sorrow is from Anglo-Sax. sorg, sorh, cognate with Ger. Sorge, anxiety. Sorry, Mid. Eng. sori, is a derivative of sore, cognate with Ger. sehr, very, lit. "painfully"; cf. English "sore afraid," or the modern "awfully nice," which is in South Germany arg nett, "vexatiously nice."

It is probable that vagabond, Lat. vagabundus, has no etymological connection with vagrant, which appears to come from Old Fr. waucrant, present participle of waucrer, a common verb in the Picard dialect, perhaps related to Eng. walk. Cotgrave spells it vaucrer, "to range, roame, vagary, wander, idly (idle) it up and down." Cotgrave also attributes to it the special meaning of a ship sailing "whither wind and tide will carry it," the precise sense in which it is used in the 13th-century romance of Aucassin et Nicolette.

Other examples of mistaken association are scullion and scullery (p. 43), and sentry and sentinel (p. 102). Many years ago Punch had a picture by Du Maurier called the "Vikings of Whitby," followed by a companion picture, the "Viqueens." The word is not vi-king but vik-ing, the first syllable probably representing an Old Norse form of Anglo-Sax. wic, encampment.

[112] Kluge, Etymologisches WÖrterbuch.