The Romance of Words

LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.

A long and somewhat varied experience in language teaching has convinced me that there are still, in spite of the march of science, many people who are capable of getting intellectual pleasure from word-history. I hope that to such people this little book, the amusement of occasional leisure, will not be unwelcome. It differs, I believe, from any other popular book on language in that it deals essentially with the origins of words, and makes no attempt to enforce a moral. My aim has been to select especially the unexpected in etymology, "things not generally known," such as the fact that Tammany was an Indian chief, that assegai occurs in Chaucer, that jilt is identical with Juliet, that brazil wood is not named from Brazil, that to curry favour means to comb down a horse of a particular colour, and so forth. The treatment is made as simple as possible, a bowing acquaintance with Latin and French being all that is assumed, though words from many other languages are necessarily included. In the case of each word I have traced the history just so far back as it is likely to be of interest to the reader who is not a philological specialist.

I have endeavoured to state each proposition in its simplest terms, without enumerating all the reservations and indirect factors which belong to the history of almost every word.

The chapter headings only indicate in a general way the division of the subject matter, the arrangement of which has been determined rather by the natural association which exists between words. The quotations are, with few exceptions, drawn from my own reading. They come from very varied sources, but archaic words are exemplified, when possible, from authors easily accessible, generally Shakespeare or Milton, or, for revived archaisms, Scott. In illustrating obsolete meanings I have made much use of the earliest dictionaries[1] available.

It seemed undesirable to load a small work of this kind with references. The writer on word-lore must of necessity build on what has already been done, happy if he can add a few bricks to the edifice. But philologists will recognise that this book is not, in the etymological sense, a mere compilation,[2] and that a considerable portion of the information it contains is here printed for the first time in a form accessible to the general reader.[3] Chapter VII., on Semantics, is, so far as I know, the first attempt at a simple treatment of a science which is now admitted to an equality with phonetics, and which to most people is much more interesting.

Throughout I have used the New English Dictionary, in the etymological part of which I have for some years had a humble share, for purposes of verification. Without the materials furnished by the historical method of that great national work, which is now complete from A to R, this book would not have been attempted. For words in S to Z, I have referred chiefly to Professor Skeat's Etymological Dictionary (4th ed., Oxford, 1910).

It is not many years since what passed for etymology in this country was merely a congeries of wild guesses and manufactured anecdotes. The persistence with which these crop up in the daily paper and the class-room must be my excuse for "slaying the slain" in Chapter XIII. Some readers may regret the disappearance of these fables, but a little study will convince them that in the life of words, as in that of men, truth is stranger than fiction.

Ernest Weekley.

Nottingham, January 1912.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

On its first publication this little book was very kindly treated by both reviewers and readers. The only criticism of any importance was directed against its conciseness. There seemed to be a consensus of expert opinion that, the book being intended for the non-specialist, the compression was a little too severe, and likely sometimes to lead to misunderstanding. I have tried to remedy this defect in the present edition, both by giving fuller explanations and by supplying further quotations in illustration of the less common words and uses. No absolutely new matter is introduced, but a number of fresh words have been added as examples of points already noticed. The general arrangement of the book remains unchanged, except that a few paragraphs have been shifted to what seemed more natural positions.

Friendly correspondents in all parts of the world, to many of whom I must apologise for my failure to answer their letters, have sent me information of interest and value. In some cases I have been able to make use of such information for this edition. Many readers have called my attention to local and American survivals of words and meanings described as obsolete. This is a subject on which a great deal could be written, but it lies outside the plan of this book, which does not aspire to do more than furnish some instruction or entertainment to those who are interested in the curiosities of etymology.

Ernest Weekley.

PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION

It is just five years since this little book was first submitted to the toleration of word-lovers, a class much more numerous than the author had suspected. The second edition, revised and slightly enlarged, appeared in 1913. Since then the text has once more been subjected to a searching revision, and it is hoped that the book now contains no statement which is not in accord with common sense and the present state of philological knowledge. Only those who have experience of such work know how easy it is to stray unconsciously from the exact truth in publishing the results of etymological research. Moreover, new light is constantly being thrown on old problems, and theories long triumphant have occasionally to yield to fresh evidence. To take an example from this volume, the traditional derivation of trousers from French trousse is now shown by the New English Dictionary to be chronologically improbable. That great and cautious work unhesitatingly describes hatchment as a corruption of achievement, but Professor Derocquigny, of Lille, has shown (Modern Language Review, January 1913) that this etymology is "preposterous," hachement being a good old French word which in 16th century English was ignorantly confused with achievement. Apart from these two etymologies,[4] the only essential alterations have been made in the chapter on Surnames (p. 170), further research in medieval records having convinced the author that most of what has been written about "corrupted" surnames is nonsense, and that no nickname is too fantastic to be genuine.[5] Two slight contemplated alterations have not been carried out. The adjective applied (p. 156) to a contemporary ruler seemed to need reconsideration, but the author was baffled by the embarras du choix. A word mentioned on p. 48 might gracefully have been omitted, but it is likely that the illustrious man alluded to would, if the page should ever accidentally meet his eye, only chuckle at the thought of time's revenges.

In the interval since the last edition of the Romance of Words the greatest Romance of Deeds in our story has been written in the blood of our noblest and best. Only a sense of proportion withholds the author from dedicating this new edition to the glorious memory of his many old pupils dead on the field of honour. Nothing in the modest success of the book has given him so much pleasure as the fact, to which his correspondence bears witness, that his little contribution to word-lore has helped to amuse the convalescence of more than one stricken fighting-man.

Ernest Weekley.

Nottingham, March 1917.

PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION

In preparing a new edition of this little book, ten years after its first appearance, I have corrected a few slight inaccuracies which had been overlooked in earlier revisions, and modified or expanded some statements which were not quite consonant with the present state of etymological knowledge. In word-lore, as in other sciences, it is seldom safe to lay down the law without a little conscientious "hedging." The only two considerable alterations have to do with the word snickersnee, the history of which is now clearly traced, and the name Bendigo. It is rather strange that no reader or reviewer has ever put me right on the subject of this Nottingham worthy, for the facts are plainly stated in the Dictionary of National Biography.

Ernest Weekley.

Nottingham, January 1922.

The following dictionaries are quoted without further reference:—

The bulk of our literary language is Latin, and consists of words either borrowed directly or taken from "learned" French forms. The every-day vocabulary of the less educated is of Old English, commonly called Anglo-Saxon, origin; and from the same source comes what we may call the machinery of the language, i.e., its inflexions, numerals, pronouns, prepositions, and conjunctions. Along with Anglo-Saxon, we find a considerable number of words from the related Norse languages, this element being naturally strongest in the dialects of the north and east of England. The third great element of our working vocabulary is furnished by Old French, i.e., the language naturally developed from the spoken Latin of the Roman soldiers and colonists, generally called Vulgar Latin. To its composite character English owes its unequalled richness in expression. For most ideas we have three separate terms, or groups of terms, which, often starting from the same metaphor, serve to express different shades of meaning. Thus a deed done with malice prepense (an Old French compound from Lat. pensare, to weigh), is deliberate or pondered, both Latin words which mean literally "weighed"; but the four words convey four distinct shades of meaning. The Gk. sympathy is Lat. compassion, rendered in English by fellow-feeling.

Sometimes a native word has been completely supplanted by a loan word, e.g., Anglo-Sax. here, army (cf. Ger. Heer), gave way to Old Fr. (h)ost (p. 158). This in its turn was replaced by army, Fr. armée, which, like its Spanish doublet armada, is really a feminine past participle with some word for host, band, etc., understood. Here has survived in Hereford, harbour (p. 164), harbinger (p. 90), etc., and in the verb harry (cf. Ger. verheeren, to harry).

Or a native word may persist in some special sense, e.g., weed, a general term for garment in Shakespeare—

survives in "widow's weeds." Chare, a turn of work—

has given us charwoman, and persists as American chore—

Sake, cognate with Ger. Sache, thing, cause, and originally meaning a contention at law, has been replaced by cause, except in phrases beginning with the preposition for. See also bead (p. 74). Unkempt, uncombed, and uncouth, unknown, are fossil remains of obsolete verb forms.

In addition to these main constituents of our language, we have borrowed words, sometimes in considerable numbers, sometimes singly and accidentally, from almost every tongue known to mankind, and every year sees new words added to our vocabulary. The following chapters deal especially with words borrowed from Old French and from the other Romance languages, their origins and journeyings, and the various accidents that have befallen them in English. It is in such words as these that the romance of language is best exemplified, because we can usually trace their history from Latin to modern English, while the earlier history of Anglo-Saxon words is a matter for the philologist.

Words borrowed directly from Latin or Greek lack this intermediate experience, though the study of their original meanings is full of surprises. This, however, is merely a question of opening a Latin or Greek dictionary, if we have not time for the moment's reflexion which would serve the same purpose. Thus, to take a dozen examples at random, to abominate[6] is to turn shuddering from the evil omen, a generous man is a man of "race" (genus), an innuendo can be conveyed "by nodding," to insult is to "jump on," a legend is something "to be read," a manual is a "hand-book," an obligation is essentially "binding," to relent is to "go slow," rivals are people living by the same "stream"[7] (rivus), a salary is an allowance for "salt" (sal), a supercilious man is fond of lifting his "eyebrows" (supercilium), and a trivial matter is so commonplace that it can be picked up at the meeting of "three ways" (trivium). Dexterity implies skill with the "right" hand (dexter), while sinister preserves the superstition of the ill-omened "left."

It may be remarked here that the number of Latin words used in their unaltered form in every-day English is larger than is generally realised. Besides such phrases as bona-fide, post-mortem, viva-voce, or such abbreviations as A.M., ante meridiem, D.V., Deo volente, and L. s. d., for libræ, solidi, denarii, we have, without including scientific terms, many Latin nouns, e.g., animal, genius, index, odium, omen, premium, radius, scintilla, stimulus, tribunal, and adjectives, e.g., complex, lucifer, miser, pauper, maximum, senior, and the ungrammatical bonus. The Lat. veto, I forbid, has been worked hard of late. The stage has given us exit, he goes out, and the Universities exeat, let him go out, while law language contains a number of Latin verb forms, e.g., affidavit (late Latin), he has testified, caveat, let him beware, cognovit, he has recognised—

due to the initial words of certain documents. Similarly item, also, is the first word in each paragraph of an inventory. With this we may compare the purview of a statute, from the Old Fr. pourveu (pourvu), provided, with which it used to begin. A tenet is what one "holds." Fiat means "let it be done." When Mr Weller lamented—

it is safe to say that he was not consciously using the Latin adverb alibi, elsewhere, nor is the printer who puts in a viz. always aware that this is an old abbreviation for videlicet, i.e., videre licet, it is permissible to see. A nostrum is "our" unfailing remedy, and tandem, at length, instead of side by side, is a university joke.

Sometimes we have inflected forms of Latin words. A rebus[8] is a word or phrase represented "by things." Requiem, accusative of requies, rest, is the first word of the introit used in the mass for the dead—

while dirge is the Latin imperative dirige, from the antiphon in the same service—

The spelling dirige was once common—

Query was formerly written quære, seek, and plaudit is for plaudite, clap your hands, the appeal of the Roman actors to the audience at the conclusion of the play—

Debenture is for debentur, there are owing. Dominie is the Latin vocative domine, formerly used by schoolboys in addressing their master, while pandy, a stroke on the hand with a cane, is from pande palmam, hold out your hand. Parse is the Lat. pars, occurring in the question Quæ pars orationis? What part of speech? Omnibus, for all, is a dative plural. Limbo is the ablative of Lat. limbus, an edge, hem, in the phrase "in limbo patrum," where limbus is used for the abode of the Old Testament saints on the verge of Hades. It is already jocular in Shakespeare—

Folio, quarto, etc., are ablatives, from the phrases in folio, in quarto, etc., still used in French. Premises, earlier premisses, is a slightly disguised Lat. præmissas, the aforesaid, lit. sent before, used in deeds to avoid repeating the full description of a property. It is thus the same word as logical premisses, or assumptions. Quorum is from a legal formula giving a list of persons "of whom" a certain number must be present. A teetotum is so called because it has, or once had, on one of its sides, a T standing for totum, all. It was also called simply a totum. The other three sides also bore letters to indicate what share, if any, of the stake they represented. Cotgrave has totum (toton), "a kind of game with a whirle-bone." In spite of the interesting anecdote about the temperance orator with an impediment in his speech, it was probably teetotum that suggested teetotaller.

We have also a few words straight from Greek, e.g., analysis, aroma, atlas, the world-sustaining demi-god whose picture used to decorate map-books, colon, comma, dogma, epitome, miasma, nausea, Gk. ναυσία, lit. sea-sickness, nectar, whence the fruit called a nectarine—

pathos, python, pyx, synopsis, etc.; but most of our Greek words have passed through French via Latin, or are newly manufactured scientific terms, often most unscientifically constructed.

Gamut contains the Gk. gamma and the Latin conjunction ut. Guy d'Arezzo, who flourished in the 11th century, is said to have introduced the method of indicating the notes by the letters a to g. For the note below a he used the Gk. gamma. To him is attributed also the series of monosyllables by which the notes are also indicated. They are supposed to be taken from a Latin hymn to St John—

Do is sometimes substituted for ut in French, and always in modern English.

In considering the Old French element in English, one has to bear in mind a few elementary philological facts. Nearly all French nouns and adjectives are derived from the accusative. I give, for simplicity, the nominative, adding the stem in the case of imparisyllabic words. The foundation of French is Vulgar Latin, which differs considerably from that we study at school. I only give Vulgar Latin forms where it cannot be avoided. For instance, in dealing with culverin (p. 38), I connect Fr. couleuvre, adder, with Lat. cólŭber, a snake. Every Romance philologist knows that it must represent Vulgar Lat. *colóbra; but this form, which, being conjectural, is marked with an asterisk, had better be forgotten by the general reader.

Our modern English words often preserve a French form which no longer exists, or they are taken from dialects, especially those of Normandy and Picardy, which differ greatly from that of Paris. The word caudle illustrates both these points. It is the same word as modern Fr. chaudeau, "a caudle; or, warme broth" (Cotgrave), but it preserves the Old French[9] -el for -eau, and the Picard c- for ch-. An uncomfortable bridle which used to be employed to silence scolds was called the branks. It is a Scottish word, originally applied to a bridle improvised from a halter with a wooden "cheek" each side to prevent it from slipping—

These cheeks correspond to the two parallel levers called the "branches" of a bridle, and brank is the Norman branque, branch. All the meanings of patch answer to those of Fr. pièce. It comes from the Old French dialect form peche, as match comes from mèche, and cratch, a manger, from crèche, of German origin, and ultimately the same word as crib. Cratch is now replaced, except in dialect, by manger, Fr. mangeoire, from manger, to eat, but it was the regular word in Mid. English—

Pew is from Old Fr. puy, a stage, eminence, Lat. podium, which survives in Puy de Dôme, the mountain in Auvergne on which Pascal made his experiments with the barometer. Dupuy is a common family name in France, but the Depews of the West Indies have kept the older pronunciation.

Many Old French words which live on in England are obsolete in France. Chime is Old Fr. chimbe from Greco-Lat. cymbalum. Minsheu (1617) derived dismal from Lat. dies mali, evil days. This, says Trench, "is exactly one of those plausible etymologies which one learns after a while to reject with contempt." But Minsheu is substantially right, if we substitute Old Fr. dis mal, which is found as early as 1256. Old Fr. di, a day, also survives in the names of the days of the week, lundi, etc. In remainder and remnant we have the infinitive and present participle of an obsolete Old French verb derived from Lat. remanēre. Manor and power are also Old French infinitives, the first now only used as a noun (manoir), the second represented by pouvoir. Misnomer is the Anglo-French infinitive, "to misname."

In some cases we have preserved meanings now obsolete in French. Trump, in cards, is Fr. triomphe, "the card game called ruffe, or trump; also, the ruffe, or trump at it" (Cotgrave), but the modern French word for trump is atout, to all. Rappee is for obsolete Fr. (tabac) râpé, pulverised, rasped. Fr. talon, heel, from Vulgar Lat. *talo, talon-, for talus, was applied by falconers to the heel claw of the hawk. This meaning, obsolete in French, has persisted in English. The mizen mast is the rearmost of three, but the Fr. mât de misaine is the fore-mast, and both come from Ital. mezzana middle, "also the poop or mizensail[10] in a ship" (Torriano).

As in the case of Latin, we have some inflected French forms in English. Lampoon is from the archaic Fr. lampon, "a drunken song" (Miège, French Dict., 1688). This is coined from the imperative lampons, let us drink, regularly used as a refrain in seditious and satirical songs. For the formation we may compare American vamose, to skedaddle, from Span. vamos, let us go. The military revelly is the French imperative réveillez, wake up, but in the French army it is called the diane. The gist of a matter is the point in which its importance really "lies." Ci-gît, for Old Fr. ci-gist, Lat. jacet, here lies, is seen on old tombstones. Tennis, says Minsheu, is so called from Fr. tenez, hold, "which word the Frenchmen, the onely tennis-players, use to speake when they strike the ball." This etymology, for a long time regarded as a wild guess, has been shewn by recent research to be most probably correct. The game is of French origin, and it was played by French knights in Italy a century before we find it alluded to by Gower (c. 1400). Erasmus tells us that the server called out accipe, to which his opponent replied mitte, and as French, and not Latin, was certainly the language of the earliest tennis-players, we may infer that the spectators named the game from the foreign word with which each service began. In French the game is called paume, palm of the hand; cf. fives, also a slang name for the hand. The archaic assoil—

is the present subjunctive of the Old Fr. asoldre (absoudre), to absolve, used in the stereotyped phrase Dieus asoile, may God absolve.

A linguistic invasion such as that of English by Old French is almost unparalleled. We have instances of the expulsion of one tongue by another, e.g., of the Celtic dialects of Gaul by Latin and of those of Britain by Anglo-Saxon. But a real blending of two languages can only occur when a large section of the population is bilingual for centuries. This, as we know, was the case in England. The Norman dialect, already familiar through inevitable intercourse, was transplanted to England in 1066. It developed further on its own lines into Anglo-Norman, and then, mixed with other French dialects, for not all the invaders were Normans, and political events brought various French provinces into relation with England, it produced Anglo-French, a somewhat barbarous tongue which was the official language till 1362, and with which our legal jargon is saturated. We find in Anglo-French many words which are unrecorded in continental Old French, among them one which we like to think of as essentially English, viz., dueté, duty, an abstract formed from the past participle of Fr. devoir. This verb has also given us endeavour, due to the phrase se mettre en devoir—

No dictionary can keep up with the growth of a language. The New English Dictionary had done the letter C before the cinematograph arrived, but got it in under K. Words of this kind are manufactured in such numbers that the lexicographer is inclined to wait and see whether they will catch on. In such cases it is hard to prophesy. The population of this country may be divided into those people who have been operated for appendicitis and those who are going to be. Yet this word was considered too rare and obscure for insertion in the first volume of the New English Dictionary (1888), the greatest word-book that has ever been projected. Sabotage looks, unfortunately, as if it had come to stay. It is a derivative of saboter, to scamp work, from sabot, a wooden shoe, used contemptuously of an inferior article. The great French dictionaries do not know it in its latest sense of malicious damage done by strikers, and the New English Dictionary, which finished Sa- in the year 1912, just missed it. Hooligan is not recorded by the New English Dictionary. The original Hooligans were a spirited Irish family of that name whose proceedings enlivened the drab monotony of life in Southwark towards the end of the 19th century. The word is younger than the Australian larrikin, of doubtful origin (see p. 190), but older than Fr. apache. The adoption of the Red Indian name Apache for a modern Parisian bravo is a curious parallel to the 18th-century use of Mohock (Mohawk) for an aristocratic London ruffler.

Heckle is first recorded in its political sense for 1880. The New English Dictionary quotes it from Punch in connection with the Fourth Party. In Scottish, however, it is old in this sense, so that it is an example of a dialect word that has risen late in life. Its southern form hatchell is common in Mid. English in its proper sense of "teasing" hemp or flax, and the metaphor is exactly the same. Tease, earlier toose, means to pluck or pull to pieces, hence the name teasel for the thistle used by wool-carders. The older form is seen in the derivative tousle, the family name Tozer, and the dog's name Towser. Feckless, a common Scottish word, was hardly literary English before Carlyle. It is now quite familiar—

There is a certain appropriateness in the fact that almost the first writer to use it was James I. It is for effectless. I never heard of a week-end till I paid a visit to Lancashire in 1883. It has long since invaded the whole island. An old geezer has a modern sound, but it is the medieval guiser, guisard, mummer, which has persisted in dialect and re-entered the language.

The fortunes of a word are sometimes determined by accident. Glamour (see p. 145) was popularised by Scott, who found it in old ballad literature. Grail, the holy dish at the Last Supper, would be much less familiar but for Tennyson. Mascot, from a Provençal word meaning sorcerer, dates from Audran's operetta La Mascotte (1880). Jingo first appears in conjurors' jargon of the 17th century. It has been conjectured to represent Basque jinko, God, picked up by sailors. If this is the case, it is probably the only pure Basque word in English. The Ingoldsby derivation from St Gengulphus—

is of course a joke. In 1878, when war with Russia seemed imminent, a music-hall singer, the Great Macdermott, delighted large audiences with—

Hence the name jingo applied to that ultra-patriotic section of the population which, in war-time, attends to the shouting.[12] Fr. chauvin, a jingo, is the name of a real Napoleonic veteran introduced into Scribe's play Le Soldat Laboureur. Barracking is known to us only through the visits of English cricket teams to Australia. It is said to come from a native Australian word meaning derision. The American caucus was first applied (1878) by Lord Beaconsfield to the Birmingham Six Hundred. In 18th-century American it means meeting or discussion. It is probably connected with a North American Indian (Algonkin) word meaning counsellor, an etymology supported by that of pow-wow, a palaver or confab, which is the Algonkin for a medicine-man. With these words may be mentioned Tammany, now used of a famous political body, but, in the 18th century, of a society named after the "tutelar saint" of Pennsylvania. The original Tammany was an Indian chief with whom William Penn negotiated for grants of land about the end of the 17th century. Littoral first became familiar in connection with Italy's ill-starred Abyssinian adventure, and hinterland marked the appearance of Germany as a colonial power—

Sometimes the blunder of a great writer has enriched the language. Scott's bartisan—

is a mistake for bratticing, timber-work, a word of obscure origin of which several corruptions are found in early Scottish. It is rather a favourite with writers of "sword and feather" novels. Other sham antiques are slug-horn, Chatterton's absurd perversion of the Gaelic slogan, war-cry, copied by Browning—

and Scott's extraordinary misuse of warison, security, a doublet of garrison, as though it meant "war sound"—

Scott also gave currency to niddering, a coward—

which has been copied by Lytton and Kingsley, and elaborated into nidderling by Mr Crockett. It is a misprint in an early edition of William of Malmesbury for niding or nithing, cognate with Ger. Neid, envy. This word, says Camden, is mightier than Abracadabra,[14] since—

Derring-do is used several times by Spenser, who explains it as "manhood and chevalrie." It is due to his misunderstanding of a passage in Lidgate, in which it is an imitation of Chaucer, complicated by a misprint. Scott took it from Spenser—

and from him it passed to Bulwer Lytton and later writers.

Such words as these, the illegitimate offspring of genius, are to be distinguished from the "ghost-words" which dimly haunt the dictionaries without ever having lived (see p. 201). Speaking generally, we may say that no word is ever created de novo. The names invented for commercial purposes are not exceptions to this law. Bovril is compounded of Lat. bos, ox, and vril,[15] the mysterious power which plays so important a part in Lytton's Coming Race, while Tono-Bungay suggests tonic. The only exception to this is gas, the arbitrary coinage of the Belgian chemist Van Helmont in the 17th century. But even this is hardly a new creation, because we have Van Helmont's own statement that the word chaos was vaguely present to his mind. Chortle has, however, secured a limited currency, and is admitted by the New English Dictionary—

and, though an accurate account of the boojum is lacking, most people know it to be a dangerous variety of snark.

In assigning to a word a foreign origin, it is necessary to show how contact between the two languages has taken place, or the particular reasons which have brought about the borrowing. A Chinese word cannot suddenly make its appearance in Anglo-Saxon, though it may quite well do so in modern English. No nautical terms have reached us from the coast of Bohemia (Winter's Tale, iii. 3), nor is the vocabulary of the wine trade enriched by Icelandic words. Although we have words from all the languages of Europe, our direct borrowings from some of them have been small. The majority of High German words in English have passed through Old French, and we have taken little from modern German. On the other hand, commerce has introduced a great many words from the old Low German dialects of the North Sea and the Baltic.

The Dutch[16] element in English supplies a useful object lesson on the way in which the borrowing of words naturally takes place. As a great naval power, the Dutch have contributed to our nautical vocabulary a number of words, many of which are easily recognised as near relations; such are boom (beam), skipper (shipper), orlop (over leap), the name given to a deck which "over-runs" the ship's hold. Yacht, properly a "hunting" ship, is cognate with Ger. Jagd, hunting, but has no English kin. Hexham has jaght, "zee-roovers schip, pinace, or pirats ship." The modern Dutch spelling is jacht. We should expect to find art terms from the country of Hobbema, Rubens, Vandyke, etc. See easel (p. 39), etch (p. 133), lay-figure (p. 166), sketch (p. 22). Landscape, earlier landskip, has the suffix which in English would be -ship. In the 16th century Camden speaks of "a landskip, as they call it." The Low Countries were for two centuries the cock-pit of Europe, and many military terms were brought back to England by Dugald Dalgetty and the armies which "swore terribly in Flanders." Such are cashier (p. 157), forlorn hope (p. 129), tattoo (p. 162). Other interesting military words are leaguer (lair), recently re-introduced from South Africa as laager, and furlough. The latter word, formerly pronounced to rime with cough, is from Du. verlof (for leave); cf. archaic Ger. Verlaub, now replaced by Urlaub. Knapsack,[17] a food sack, comes from colloquial Du. knap, food, or what the Notts colliers call snap. We also find it called a snapsack. Both knap and snap contain the idea of "crunching"—

Roster (roaster) is the Dutch for gridiron, the allusion being to the parallel lines of the list or plan; for a somewhat similar metaphor cf. cancel (p. 88). The pleasant fiction that—

confirms the derivation of toy from Du. tuig, implement, thing, stuff, etc., a word, like its German cognate Zeug, with an infinity of meanings. We now limit toy to the special sense represented by Du. speel-tuig, play-thing.

Our vocabulary dealing with war and fortification is chiefly French, but most of the French terms come from Italian. Addison wrote an article in No. 165 of the Spectator ridiculing the Frenchified character of the military language of his time, and, in the 16th century, Henri Estienne, patriot, printer, and philologist, lamented that future historians would believe, from the vocabulary employed, that France had learnt the art of war from Italy. As a matter of fact she did. The earliest writers on the new tactics necessitated by villainous saltpetre were Italians trained in condottiere warfare. They were followed by the great French theorists and engineers of the 16th and 17th centuries, who naturally adopted a large number of Italian terms which thus passed later into English.

A considerable number of Spanish and Portuguese words have reached us in a very roundabout way (see pp. 23-7). This is not surprising when we consider how in the 15th and 16th centuries the world was dotted with settlements due to the Portuguese and Spanish adventurers who had a hundred years' start of our own.

There are very few Celtic words either in English or French. In each country the result of conquest was, from the point of view of language, complete. A few words from the Celtic languages have percolated into English in comparatively recent times, but many terms which we associate with the picturesque Highlanders are not Gaelic at all.[18] Tartan comes through French from the Tartars (see p. 47); kilt is a Scandinavian verb, "to tuck up," and dirk,[19] of unknown origin, first appears about 1600. For trews see p. 117.

A very interesting part of our vocabulary, the canting, or rogues', language, dates mostly from the 17th and 18th centuries, and includes contributions from most of the European languages, together with a large Romany element. The early dictionary makers paid great attention to this aspect of the language. Elisha Coles, who published a fairly complete English dictionary in 1676, says in his preface, "'Tis no disparagement to understand the canting terms: it may chance to save your throat from being cut, or (at least), your pocket from being pick'd."

Words often go long journeys. Boss is in English a comparatively modern Americanism. But, like many American words, it belongs to the language of the Dutch settlers who founded New Amsterdam (New York). It is Du. baas, master, which has thus crossed the Atlantic twice on its way from Holland to England. A number of Dutch words became familiar to us about the year 1900 in consequence of the South African war. One of them, slim, 'cute, seems to have been definitely adopted. It is cognate with Ger. schlimm, bad, and Eng. slim, slender, and the latter word has for centuries been used in the Eastern counties in the very sense in which it has now been re-introduced.

Apricot is a much travelled word. It comes to us from Fr. abricot, while the Shakespearean apricock—

represents the Spanish or Portuguese form. Ger. Aprikose comes, via Dutch, from the French plural. The word was adopted into the Romance languages from Arab. al-barquq, where al is the definite article (cf. examples on p. 115), while barquq comes, through medieval Greek, from Vulgar Lat. præcoquum, for præcox, early-ripe. Thus the word first crossed the Adriatic, passed on to Asia Minor or the North coast of Africa, and then travelling along the Mediterranean re-entered Southern Europe.

Many other Arabic trade words have a similar history. Carat comes to us, through French, from Italian carato, "a waight or degree called a caract" (Florio). The Italian word is from Arabic, but the Arabic form is a corruption of Gk. κεράτιον, fruit of the locust tree, lit. little horn, also used of a small weight. The verb to garble, now used only of confusing or falsifying,[20] meant originally to sort or sift, especially spices—

It represents Span. garbellar, from garbello, a sieve. This comes from Arab. ghirbāl, a sieve, borrowed from Lat. cribellum, diminutive of cribrum. Quintal, an old word for hundred-weight, looks as if it had something to do with five. Fr. and Span. quintal are from Arab. qintar, hundred-weight, which is Lat. centenarium (whence directly Ger. Zentner, hundred-weight). The French word passed into Dutch, and gave, with a diminutive ending, kindekijn, now replaced by kinnetje, a firkin.[21] We have adopted it as kilderkin, but have doubled its capacity. With these examples of words that have passed through Arabic may be mentioned talisman, not a very old word in Europe, from Arab. tilsam, magic picture, ultimately from Gk. τελεῖν, to initiate into mysteries, lit. to accomplish, and effendi, a Turkish corruption of Gk. αὐθέντης, a master, whence Lat. authentic.

Hussar seems to be a late Latin word which passed into Greece and then entered Central Europe via the Balkans. It comes into 16th-century German from Hungar. huszar, freebooter. This is from a Serbian word which means also pirate. It represents medieval Gk. κουρσάριος, a transliteration of Vulgar Lat. cursarius, from currere, to run, which occurs also with the sense of pirate in medieval Latin. Hussar is thus a doublet of corsair. The immediate source of sketch is Du. schets, "draught of any picture" (Hexham), from Ital. schizzo, "an ingrosement or first rough draught of anything" (Florio), whence also Fr. esquisse and Ger. Skizze. The Italian word represents Greco-Lat. schedium, an extempore effort.

Assassin and slave are of historic interest. Assassin, though not very old in English, dates from the Crusades. Its oldest European form is Ital. assassino, and it was adopted into French in the 16th century. Henri Estienne, whose fiery patriotism entered even into philological questions, reproaches his countrymen for using foreign terms. They should only adopt, he says, Italian words which express Italian qualities hitherto unknown to the French, such as assassin, charlatan, poltron! Assassin is really a plural, from the hachaschin, eaters of the drug haschish, who executed the decrees of the Old Man of the Mountains. It was one of these who stabbed Edward Longshanks at Acre. The first slaves were captive Slavonians. We find the word in most of the European languages. The fact that none of the Western tribes of the race called themselves Slavs or Slavonians shows that the word could not have entered Europe via Germany, where the Slavs were called Wends. It must have come from the Byzantine empire via Italy.

Some Spanish words have also come to us by the indirect route. The cocoa which is grateful and comforting was formerly spelt cacao, as in French and German. It is a Mexican word. The cocoa of cocoa-nut is for coco, a Spanish baby-word for an ugly face or bogie-man. The black marks at one end of the nut give it, especially before the removal of the fibrous husk, some resemblance to a ferocious face. Stevens (1706) explains coco as "the word us'd to fright children; as we say the Bulbeggar."

Mustang seems to represent two words, mestengo y mostrenco, "a straier" (Percyvall). The first appears to be connected with mesta, "a monthly fair among herdsmen; also, the laws to be observed by all that keep or deal in cattle" (Stevens), and the second with mostrar, to show, the finder being expected to advertise a stray. The original mustangs were of course descended from the strayed horses of the Spanish conquistadors. Ranch, Span. rancho, a row (of huts), is a doublet of rank, from Fr. rang, Old Fr. reng, Old High Ger. hring, a ring. Thus what is now usually straight was once circular, the ground idea of arrangement surviving. Another doublet is Fr. harangue, due to the French inability to pronounce hr- (see p. 55), a speech delivered in the ring. Cf. also Ital. aringo, "a riding or carreering place, a liste for horses, or feates of armes: a declamation, an oration, a noise, a common loud speech" (Florio), in which the "ring" idea is also prominent.

Other "cow-boy" words of Spanish origin are the less familiar cinch, girth of a horse, Span. cincha, from Lat. cingula, also used metaphorically—

and the formidable riding-whip called a quirt, Span. cuerda, cord—

Stories of Californian life often mention Span. reata, a tethering rope, from the verb reatar, to bind together, Lat. re-aptare. Combined with the definite article (la reata) it has given lariat, a familiar word in literature of the Buffalo Bill character. Lasso, Span. lazo, Lat. laqueus, snare, is a doublet of Eng. lace.

When, in the Song of Hiawatha—

he was using an implement with a French name. Calumet is an Old Norman word for chalumeau, reed, pipe, a diminutive from Lat. calamus. It was naturally applied by early French voyagers to the "long reed for a pipe-stem." Eng. shawm is the same word without the diminutive ending. Another Old French word, once common in English, but now found only in dialect, is felon, a whitlow. It is used more than once by Mr Hardy—

This is still an every-day word in Canada and the United States. It is a metaphorical use of felon, a fell villain. A whitlow was called in Latin furunculus, "a little theefe; a sore in the bodie called a fellon" (Cooper), whence Fr. furoncle, or froncle, "the hot and hard bumpe, or swelling, tearmed, a fellon" (Cotgrave). Another Latin name for it was tagax, "a felon on a man's finger" (Cooper), lit. thievish. One of its Spanish names is padrastro, lit. step-father. I am told that an "agnail" was formerly called a "step-mother" in Yorkshire. This is a good example of the semantic method in etymology (see pp. 99-104).

Some of the above instances show how near to home we can often track a word which at first sight appears to belong to another continent. This is still more strikingly exemplified in the case of Portuguese words, which have an almost uncanny way of pretending to be African or Indian. Some readers will, I think, be surprised to hear that assegai occurs in Chaucer, though in a form not easily recognisable. It is a Berber word which passed through Spanish and Portuguese into French and English. We find Fr. archegaie in the 14th century, azagaie in Rabelais, and the modern form zagaie in Cotgrave, who describes it as "a fashion of slender, long, and long-headed pike, used by the Moorish horsemen." In Mid. English l'archegaie was corrupted by folk-etymology (see p. 115) into lancegay, launcegay, the form used by Chaucer—

The use of this weapon was prohibited by statute in 1406, hence the early disappearance of the word.

Another "Zulu" word which has travelled a long way is kraal. This is a contracted Dutch form from Port. curral, a sheepfold (cf. Span. corral, a pen, enclosure). Both assegai and kraal were taken to South East Africa by the Portuguese and then adopted by the Boers and Kafirs.[22] Sjambok occurs in 17th-century accounts of India in the form chawbuck. It is a Persian word, spelt chabouk by Moore, in Lalla Rookh. It was adopted by the Portuguese as chabuco, "in the Portuguese India, a whip or scourge"[23] (Vieyra, Port. Dict., 1794). Fetish, an African idol, first occurs in the records of the early navigators, collected and published by Hakluyt and Purchas. It is the Port. feitiço, Lat. factitius, artificial, applied by the Portuguese explorers to the graven images of the heathen. The corresponding Old Fr. faitis is rather a complimentary adjective, and everyone remembers the lady in Chaucer who spoke French fairly and fetousli. Palaver, also a travellers' word from the African coast, is Port. palavra, word, speech, Greco-Lat. parabola. It is thus a doublet of parole and parable, and is related to parley. Ayah, an Indian nurse, is Port. aia, nurse, of unknown origin. Caste is Port. casta, pure, and a doublet of chaste. Tank, an Anglo-Indian word of which the meaning has narrowed in this country, is Port. tanque, a pool or cistern, Lat. stagnum, whence Old Fr. estang (étang) and provincial Eng. stank, a dam, or a pond banked round. Cobra is the Portuguese for snake, cognate with Fr. couleuvre, Lat. coluber (see p. 7). We use it as an abbreviation for cobra de capello, hooded snake, the second part of which is identical with Fr. chapeau and cognate with cape, chapel (p. 152), chaplet, a garland, and chaperon, a "protecting" hood. From still further afield than India comes joss, a Chinese god, a corruption of Port. deos, Lat. deus. Even mandarin comes from Portuguese, and not Chinese, but it is an Eastern word, ultimately of Sanskrit origin.

The word gorilla is perhaps African, but more than two thousand years separate its first appearance from its present use. In the 5th or 6th century, B.C., a Carthaginian navigator named Hanno sailed beyond the Pillars of Hercules along the west coast of Africa. He probably followed very much the same route as Sir Richard Dalyngridge and Saxon Hugh when they voyaged with Witta the Viking. He wrote in Punic a record of his adventures, which was received with the incredulity usually accorded to travellers' tales. Among the wonders he encountered were some hairy savages called gorillas. His work was translated into Greek and later on into several European languages, so that the word became familiar to naturalists. In 1847 it was applied to the giant ape, which had recently been described by explorers.

The origin of the word silk is a curious problem. It is usually explained as from Greco-Lat. sericum, a name derived from an Eastern people called the Seres, presumably the Chinese. It appears in Anglo-Saxon as seolc. Now, at that early period, words of Latin origin came to us by the overland route and left traces of their passage. But all the Romance languages use for silk a name derived from Lat. sæta, bristle, and this name has penetrated even into German (Seide) and Dutch (zijde). The derivatives of sericum stand for another material, serge. Nor can it be assumed that the r of the Latin word would have become in English always l and never r. There are races which cannot sound the letter r, but we are not one of them. As the word silk is found also in Old Norse, Swedish, Danish, and Old Slavonian, the natural inference is that it must have reached us along the north of Europe, and, if derived from sericum, it must, in the course of its travels, have passed through a dialect which had no r.

In a sense, all nomenclature, apart from purely scientific language, is popular. But real meanings are often so rapidly obscured that words become mere labels, and cease to call up the image or the poetic idea with which they were first associated. To take a simple instance, how many people realise that the daisy is the "day's eye"?—

In studying that part of our vocabulary which especially illustrates the tendencies shown in popular name-giving, one is struck by the keen observation and imaginative power shown by our far-off ancestors, and the lack of these qualities in later ages.

Perhaps in no part of the language does this appear so clearly as in the names of plants and flowers. The most primitive way of naming a flower is from some observed resemblance, and it is curious to notice the parallelism of this process in various languages. Thus our crowfoot, crane's bill, larkspur, monkshood, snapdragon, are in German Hahnenfuss (cock's foot), Storchschnabel (stork's bill), Rittersporn (knight's spur), Eisenhut (iron hat), Löwenmaul (lion's mouth). I have purposely chosen instances in which the correspondence is not absolute, because examples like Löwenzahn (lion's tooth), dandelion (Fr. dent de lion) may be suspected of being mere translations. I give the names in most general use, but the provincial variants are numerous, though usually of the same type. The French names of the flowers mentioned are still more like the English. The more learned words which sometimes replace the above are, though now felt as mere symbols, of similar origin, e.g., geranium and pelargonium, used for the cultivated crane's bill, are derived from the Greek for crane and stork respectively. So also in chelidonium, whence our celandine or swallow-wort, we have the Greek for swallow.

In the English names of plants we observe various tendencies of the popular imagination. We have the crudeness of cowslip for earlier cowslop, cow-dung, and many old names of unquotable coarseness, the quaintness of Sweet William, lords and ladies, bachelors' buttons, dead men's fingers, and the exquisite poetry of forget-me-not, heart's ease, love in a mist, traveller's joy. There is also a special group named from medicinal properties, such as feverfew, a doublet of febrifuge, and tansy, Fr. tanaisie, from Greco-Lat. athanasia, immortality. We may compare the learned saxifrage, stone-breaker, of which the Spanish doublet is sassafras. The German name is Steinbrech.

There must have been a time when a simple instinct for poetry was possessed by all nations, as it still is by uncivilised races and children. Among European nations this instinct appears to be dead for ever. We can name neither a mountain nor a flower. Our Mount Costigan, Mount Perry, Mount William cut a sorry figure beside the peaks of the Bernese Oberland, the Monk, the Maiden, the Storm Pike, the Dark Eagle Pike.[24] Occasionally a race which is accidentally brought into closer contact with nature may have a happy inspiration, such as the Drakensberg (dragon's mountain) or Weenen[25] (weeping) of the old voortrekkers. But the Cliff of the Falling Flowers, the name of a precipice over which the Korean queens cast themselves to escape dishonour, represents an imaginative realm which is closed to us.[26] The botanist who describes a new flower hastens to join the company of Messrs Dahl, Fuchs, Lobel, Magnol and Wistar, while fresh varieties are used to immortalise a florist and his family.

The names of fruits, perhaps because they lend themselves less easily to imaginative treatment, are even duller than modern names of flowers. The only English names are the apple and the berry. New fruits either retained their foreign names (cherry, peach, pear, quince) or were violently converted into apples or berries, usually the former. This practice is common to the European languages, the apple being regarded as the typical fruit. Thus the orange is usually called in North Germany Apfelsine, apple of China, with which we may compare our "China orange." In South Germany it was called Pomeranze (now used especially of the Seville orange), from Ital. pomo, apple, arancia, orange. Fr. orange is folk-etymology (or, gold) for *arange, from Arab. narandj, whence Span. naranja. Melon is simply the Greek for "apple," and has also given us marmalade, which comes, through French, from Port. marmelada, quince jam, a derivative of Greco-Lat. melimelum, quince, lit. honey-apple. Pine-apple meant "fir-cone" as late as the 17th century, as Fr. pomme de pin still does.[27] The fruit was named from its shape, which closely resembles that of a fir-cone. Pomegranate means "apple with seeds." We also find the apricot, lemon (pomcitron), peach, and quince all described as apples.

At least one fruit, the greengage, is named from a person, Sir William Gage, a gentleman of Suffolk, who popularised its cultivation early in the 18th century. It happens that the French name of the fruit, reine-claude (pronounced glaude), is also personal, from the wife of Francis I.

Animal nomenclature shows some strange vagaries. The resemblance of the hippopotamus, lit. river-horse, to the horse, hardly extends beyond their common possession of four legs.[28] The lion would hardly recognise himself in the ant-lion or the sea-lion, still less in the chameleon, lit. earth-lion, the first element of which occurs also in camomile, earth-apple. The guinea-pig is not a pig, nor does it come from Guinea (see p. 51). Porcupine means "spiny pig." It has an extraordinary number of early variants, and Shakespeare wrote it porpentine. One Mid. English form was porkpoint. The French name has hesitated between spine and spike. The modern form is porc-épic, but Palsgrave has "porkepyn a beest, porc espin." Porpoise is from Old Fr. porpeis, for porc peis (Lat. porcus piscis), pig-fish. The modern French name is marsouin, from Ger. Meerschwein, sea-pig; cf. the name sea-hog, formerly used in English. Old Fr. peis survives also in grampus, Anglo-Fr. grampais for grand peis, big fish, but the usual Old French word is craspeis or graspeis, fat fish.

The caterpillar seems to have suggested in turn a cat and a dog. Our word is corrupted by folk-etymology from Old Fr. chatepeleuse, "a corne-devouring mite, or weevell" (Cotgrave). This probably means "woolly cat," just as a common species is popularly called woolly bear, but it was understood as being connected with the French verb peler, "to pill, pare, barke, unrinde, unskin" (Cotgrave). The modern French name for the caterpillar is chenille, a derivative of chien, dog. It has also been applied to a fabric of a woolly nature; cf. the botanical catkin, which is in French chaton, kitten.

Some animals bear nicknames. Dotterel means "dotard," and dodo is from the Port. doudo, mad. Ferret is from Fr. furet, a diminutive from Lat. fur, thief. Shark was used of a sharper or greedy parasite before it was applied to the fish. This, in the records of the Elizabethan voyagers, is more often called by its Spanish name tiburon, whence Cape Tiburon, in Haiti. The origin of shark is unknown, but it appears to be identical with shirk, for which we find earlier sherk. We find Ital. scrocco (whence Fr. escroc), Ger. Schurke, Du. schurk, rascal, all rendered "shark" in early dictionaries, but the relationship of these words is not clear. The palmer, i.e. pilgrim, worm is so called from his wandering habits. Ortolan, the name given by Tudor cooks to the garden bunting, means "gardener" (Lat. hortus, garden). It comes to us through French from Ital. ortolano, "a gardener, an orchard keeper. Also a kinde of daintie birde in Italie, some take it to be the linnet" (Florio). We may compare Fr. bouvreuil, bull-finch, a diminutive of bouvier, ox-herd. This is called in German Dompfaffe, a contemptuous name for a cathedral canon. Fr. moineau, sparrow, is a diminutive of moine, monk. The wagtail is called in French lavandière, laundress, from the up and down motion of its tail suggesting the washerwoman's beetle, and bergeronnette, little shepherdess, from its habit of following the sheep. Adjutant, the nickname of the solemn Indian stork, is clearly due to Mr Atkins, and the secretary bird is so named because some of his head feathers suggest a quill pen behind an ear.

The converse process of people being nicknamed from animals is also common and the metaphor is usually pretty obvious. An interesting case is shrew, a libel on a very inoffensive little animal, the shrew-mouse, Anglo-Sax. scrēawa. Cooper describes mus araneus as "a kinde of mise called a shrew, which if he go over a beastes backe he shall be lame in the chyne; if he byte it swelleth to the heart and the beast dyeth." This "information" is derived from Pliny, but the superstition is found in Greek. The epithet was, up to Shakespeare's time, applied indifferently to both sexes. From shrew is derived shrewd, earlier shrewed,[29] the meaning of which has become much milder than when Henry VIII. said to Cranmer—

The title Dauphin, lit. dolphin, commemorates the absorption into the French monarchy, in 1349, of the lordship of Dauphiné, the cognisance of which was three dolphins.

The application of animals' names to diseases is a familiar phenomenon, e.g., cancer (and canker), crab, and lupus, wolf. To this class belongs mulligrubs, for which we find in the 17th century also mouldy grubs. Its oldest meaning is stomach-ache, still given in Hotten's Slang Dictionary (1864). Mully is still used in dialect for mouldy, earthy, and grub was once the regular word for worm. The Latin name for the same discomfort was verminatio, from vermis, a worm. For the later transition of meaning we may compare megrims, from Fr. migraine, head-ache, Greco-Lat. hemicrania, lit. half-skull, because supposed to affect one side only of the head.

A good many names of plants and animals have a religious origin. Hollyhock is for holy hock, from Anglo-Sax. hoc, mallow: for the pronunciation cf. holiday. Halibut means holy butt, the latter word being an old name for flat fish; for this form of holy cf. halidom. Lady in names of flowers such as lady's bedstraw, lady's garter, lady's slipper, is for Our Lady. So also in lady-bird, called in French bête à bon Dieu and in German Marienkäfer, Mary's beetle. Here may be mentioned samphire, from Old Fr. herbe de Saint Pierre, "sampire, crestmarin" (Cotgrave). The filbert, earlier philibert, is named from St Philibert, the nut being ripe by St Philibert's day (22nd Aug.). We may compare Ger. Lambertsnuss, filbert, originally "Lombard nut," but popularly associated with St Lambert's day (17th Sept.).

The application of baptismal names to animals is a very general practice, though the reason for the selection of the particular name is not always clear. The most famous of such names is Renard the Fox. The Old French for fox is goupil, a derivative of Lat. vulpes, fox. The hero of the great beast epic of the Middle Ages is Renard le goupil, and the fact that renard now completely supplanted goupil shows how popular the Renard legends must have been. Renard is from Old High Ger. regin-hart, strong in counsel; cf. our names Reginald and Reynold, and Scot. Ronald, of Norse origin. From the same source come Chantecler, lit. sing-clear, the cock, and Partlet, the hen, while Bruin, the bear, lit. "brown," is from the Dutch version of the epic. In the Low German version, Reinke de Vos, the ape's name is Moneke, a diminutive corresponding to Ital. monicchio, "a pugge, a munkie, an ape" (Florio), the earlier history of which is much disputed. The cat was called Tibert or Theobald—

The fact that the donkey was at one time regularly called Cuddy made Cuthbert for a long period unpopular as a baptismal name. He is now often called Neddy. The hare was called Wat (Walter) in Tudor times. In the Roman de Renard he is Couard, whence coward, a derivative of Old Fr. coue (queue), tail, from Lat. cauda. The idea is that of the tail between the legs, so that the name is etymologically not very appropriate to the hare. Parrot, for earlier perrot, means "little Peter." The extension Poll parrot is thus a kind of hermaphrodite. Fr. pierrot is still used for the sparrow. The family name Perrot is sometimes a nickname, "the chatterer," but can also mean literally "little Peter," just as Emmot means "little Emma," and Marriot "little Mary." Petrel is of cognate origin, with an allusion to St Peter's walking upon the sea; cf. its German name, Sankt Peters Vogel. Sailors call the petrel Mother Carey's chicken, probably a nautical corruption of some old Spanish or Italian name. But, in spite of ingenious guesses, this lady's genealogy remains as obscure as that of Davy Jones or the Jolly Roger.

Robin has practically replaced red-breast. The martin is in French martinet, and the name may have been given in allusion to the southward flight of this swallow about Martinmas; but the king-fisher, not a migrant bird, is called martin-pêcheur, formerly also martinet pêcheur or oiseau de Saint-Martin, so that martin may be due to some other association. Sometimes the double name survives. We no longer say Philip sparrow, but Jack ass, Jack daw, Jenny wren, Tom tit (see p. 123), and the inclusive Dicky bird, are still familiar. With these we may compare Hob (i.e. Robert) goblin. Madge owl, or simply Madge, was once common. For Mag pie we find also various diminutives—

Cotgrave has pie, "a pye, pyannat, meggatapie." In Old French it was also called jaquette, "a proper name for a woman; also, a piannat, or megatapie" (Cotgrave).

The connection of this word, Fr. pie, Lat. pica, with the comestible pie is uncertain, but it seems likely that the magpie's habit of collecting miscellaneous trifles caused its name to be given to a dish of uncertain constituents. It is a curious coincidence that the obsolete chuet or chewet meant both a round pie and a jackdaw.[30] It is uncertain in which of the two senses Prince Hal applies the name to Falstaff (1 Henry IV., v. 1). It comes from Fr. chouette, screech-owl, which formerly meant also "a chough, daw, jack-daw" (Cotgrave).

A piebald horse is one balled like a magpie. Ball is a Celtic word for a white mark, especially on the forehead; hence the tavern sign of the Baldfaced Stag. Our adjective bald is thus a past participle.

Things are often named from animals. Crane, kite, donkey-engine, monkey-wrench, pig-iron, etc., are simple cases. The crane picture is so striking that we are not surprised to find it literally reproduced in many other languages. The toy called a kite is in French cerf volant, flying stag, a name also applied to the stag-beetle, and in Ger. Drachen, dragon. It is natural that terrifying names should have been given to early fire-arms. Many of these, e.g., basilisk, serpent, falconet, saker (from Fr. sacre, a kind of hawk), are obsolete—

More familiar is culverin, Fr. couleuvrine, a derivative of couleuvre, adder, Lat. coluber—

One name for a hand-gun was dragon, whence our dragoon, originally applied to a kind of mounted infantry or carbineers. Musket, like saker (v.s.), was the name of a hawk. Mistress Ford uses it playfully to her page—

But the hawk was so nicknamed from its small size. Fr. mousquet, now replaced in the hawk sense by émouchet, is from Ital. moschetto, a diminutive from Lat. musca, fly. Thus mosquito (Spanish) and musket are doublets.

Porcelain comes, through French, from Ital. porcellana, "a kinde of fine earth called porcelane, whereof they make fine china dishes, called porcellan dishes" (Florio). This is, however, a transferred meaning, porcellana being the name of a particularly glossy shell called the "Venus shell." It is a derivative of Lat. porcus, pig. Easel comes, with many other painters' terms, from Holland. It is Du. ezel, ass, which, like Ger. Esel, comes from Lat. asinus. For its metaphorical application we may compare Fr. chevalet, easel, lit. "little horse," and Eng. "clothes-horse."

Objects often bear the names of individuals. Such are albert chain, brougham, victoria, wellington boot. Some elderly people can remember ladies wearing a red blouse called a garibaldi.[32] Sometimes an inventor is immortalised, e.g., mackintosh and shrapnel, both due to 19th-century inventors. The more recent maxim is named from one who, according to the late Lord Salisbury, has saved many of his fellow-men from dying of old age. Other benefactors are commemorated in derringer, first recorded in Bret Harte, and bowie, which occurs in Dickens' American Notes. Sandwich and spencer are coupled in an old rime—

An Earl Spencer (1782-1845) made a short overcoat fashionable for some time. An Earl of Sandwich (1718-1792) invented a form of light refreshment which enabled him to take a meal without leaving the gaming table. It does not appear that Billy Cock is to be classed with the above, or with Chesterfield, Chippendale & Co. The New English Dictionary quotes (from 1721) a description of the Oxford "blood" in his "bully-cocked hat," worn aggressively on one side. Pinchbeck was a London watchmaker (fl. c. 1700), and doily is from Doyley, a linen-draper of the same period. Etienne de Silhouette was French finance minister in 1759, but the application of his name to a black profile portrait is variously explained. Negus was first brewed in Queen Anne's reign by Colonel Francis Negus.

The first orrery was constructed by the Earl of Orrery (c. 1700). Galvani and Volta were Italian scientists of the 18th century. Mesmer was a German physician of the same period. Nicotine is named from Jean Nicot, French ambassador at Lisbon, who sent some tobacco plants to Catherine de Médicis in 1560. He also compiled the first Old French dictionary. The gallows-shaped contrivance called a derrick perpetuates the name of a famous hangman who officiated in London about 1600. It is a Dutch name, identical with Dietrich, Theodoric, and Dirk (Hatteraick). Conversely the Fr. potence, gallows, meant originally a bracket or support, Lat. potentia, power. The origin of darbies, handcuffs, is unknown, but the line—

suggests connection with some eminent gaoler or thief-taker.

Occasionally a verb is formed from a proper name. On the model of tantalise, from the punishment of Tantalus, we have bowdlerise, from Bowdler, who published an expurgated "family Shakespeare" in 1818; cf. macadamise. Burke and boycott commemorate a scoundrel and a victim. The latter word, from the treatment of Captain Boycott of Co. Mayo in 1880, seems to have supplied a want, for Fr. boycotter and Ger. boycottieren have become every-day words. Burke was hanged at Edinburgh in 1829 for murdering people by suffocation in order to dispose of their bodies to medical schools. We now use the verb only of "stifling" discussion, but in the Ingoldsby Legends it still has the original sense—

Jarvey, the slang name for a hackney coachman, especially in Ireland, was in the 18th century Jervis or Jarvis, but history is silent as to this modern Jehu. A pasquinade was originally an anonymous lampoon affixed to a statue of a gladiator which still stands in Rome. The statue is said to have been nicknamed from a scandal-loving cobbler named Pasquino. Florio has pasquino, "a statue in Rome on whom all libels, railings, detractions, and satirical invectives are fathered." Pamphlet is an extended use of Old Fr. Pamphilet, the name of a Latin poem by one Pamphilus which was popular in the Middle Ages. The suffix -et was often used in this way, e.g., the translation of Æsop's fables by Marie de France was called Ysopet, and Cato's moral maxims had the title Catonet, or Parvus Cato. Modern Fr. pamphlet, borrowed back from English, has always the sense of polemical writing. In Eng. libel, lit. "little book," we see a similar restriction of meaning. A three-quarter portrait of fixed dimensions is called a kitcat—

The name comes from the portraits of members of the Kitcat Club, painted by Kneller. Kit Kat, Christopher Kat, was a pastrycook at whose shop the club used to dine.

Implements and domestic objects sometimes bear christian names. We may mention spinning-jenny, and the innumerable meanings of jack. Davit, earlier daviot, is a diminutive of David. Fr. davier, formerly daviet, is used of several mechanical contrivances, including a pick-lock. A kind of davit is called in German Jütte, a diminutive of Judith. The implement by which the burglar earns his daily bread is now called a jemmy, but in the 17th century we also find bess and betty. The French name is rossignol, nightingale. The German burglar calls it Dietrich, Peterchen, or Klaus, and the contracted forms of the first name, dyrk and dirk, have passed into Swedish and Danish with the same meaning. In Italian a pick-lock is called grimaldello, a diminutive of the name Grimaldo.

A kitchen wench was once called a malkin—

This is a diminutive of Matilda or Mary, possibly of both. Grimalkin, applied to a fiend in the shape of a cat, is perhaps for gray malkin—

The name malkin was transferred from the maid to the mop. Cotgrave has escouillon (écouvillon), "a wispe, or dish-clowt; a maukin, or drag, to cleanse, or sweepe an oven." Écouvillon is a derivative of Lat. scopa, broom. Now another French word, which means both "kitchen servant" and "dish-clout," is souillon, from souiller, to soil. What share each of these words has in Eng. scullion is hard to say. The only thing certain is that scullion is not originally related to scullery, Old Fr. escuelerie, a collective from Old Fr. escuelle (écuelle), dish, Lat. scutella.

A doll was formerly called a baby or puppet. It is the abbreviation of Dorothy, for we find it called a doroty in Scottish. We may compare Fr. marionnette, a double diminutive of Mary, explained by Cotgrave as "little Marian or Mal; also, a puppet." Little Mary, in another sense, has been recently, but perhaps definitely, adopted into our language. Another old name for doll is mammet. Capulet uses it contemptuously to his daughter—

Its earlier form is maumet, meaning "idol," and it is a contraction of Mahomet.

The derivation of jug is not capable of proof, but a 17th-century etymologist regards it as identical with the female name Jug,[34] for Joan or Jane. This is supported by the fact that jack was used in a similar sense—

We may also compare toby jug and demi-john. The latter word is in French dame-jeanne, but both forms are possibly due to folk-etymology. A coat of mail was called in English a jack and in French jaque, "a jack, or coat of maile" (Cotgrave); hence the diminutive jacket. The German miners gave to an ore which they considered useless the name kobalt, from kobold, a goblin, gnome. This has given Eng. cobalt. Much later is the similarly formed nickel, a diminutive of Nicholas. It comes to us from Sweden, but appears earliest in the German compound Kupfernickel, copper nickel. Apparently nickel here means something like goblin; cf. Old Nick and, probably, the dickens—

Pantaloons come, via France, from Venice. A great many Venetians bore the name of Pantaleone, one of their favourite saints. Hence the application of the name to the characteristic Venetian hose. The "lean and slippered pantaloon" was originally one of the stock characters of the old Italian comedy. Torriano has pantalone, "a pantalone, a covetous and yet amorous old dotard, properly applyed in comedies unto a Venetian." Knickerbockers take their name from Diedrich Knickerbocker, the pseudonym under which Washington Irving wrote his History of Old New York, in which the early Dutch inhabitants are depicted in baggy knee-breeches.

Certain christian names are curiously associated with stupidity. In modern English we speak of a silly Johnny, while the Germans say ein dummer Peter, or Michel, and French uses Colas (Nicolas), Nicodème and Claude, the reason for the selection of the name not always being known. English has, or had, in the sense of "fool," the words ninny, nickum, noddy, zany. Ninny is for Innocent, "Innocent, Ninny, a proper name for a man" (Cotgrave). With this we may compare French benêt (i.e. Benedict), "a simple, plaine, doltish fellow; a noddy peake, a ninny hammer, a peagoose, a coxe, a silly companion" (Cotgrave). Nickum and noddy are probably for Nicodemus or Nicholas, both of which are used in French for a fool—

Noddy-peak, ninny-hammer, nickumpoop, now nincompoop, seem to be arbitrary elaborations. Zany, formerly a conjuror's assistant, is zanni (see p. 143), an Italian diminutive of Giovanni, John. With the degeneration of Innocent and Benedict we may compare Fr. crétin, idiot, an Alpine patois form of chrétien, Christian, and Eng. silly, which once meant blessed, a sense preserved by its German cognate selig. Dunce is a libel on the disciples of the great medieval schoolman John Duns Scotus, born at Duns in Berwickshire.

Dandy is Scottish for Andrew, e.g., Dandie Dinmont (Guy Mannering). Dago, now usually applied to Italians, was used by the Elizabethans, in its original form Diego, of the Spaniards. The derivation of guy and bobby (peeler) is well known. Jockey is a diminutive of the north country Jock, for Jack. The history of jackanapes is obscure. The earliest record of the name is in a satirical song on the unpopular William de la Pole, Duke of Suffolk, who was beheaded at sea in 1450. He is called Jack Napes, the allusion being apparently to his badge, an ape's clog and chain. But there also seems to be association with Naples; cf. fustian-anapes for Naples fustian. A poem of the 15th century mentions among our imports from Italy—

Jilt was once a stronger epithet than at present. It is for earlier jillet, which is a diminutive of Jill, the companion of Jack. Jill, again, is short for Gillian, i.e. Juliana, so that jilt is a doublet of Shakespeare's sweetest heroine. Termagant, like shrew (p. 34), was formerly used of both sexes, e.g., by Sir John Falstaff—

In its oldest sense of a Saracen god it regularly occurs with Mahound (Mahomet)—

Ariosto has Trivigante. Being introduced into the medieval drama, the name became synonymous with a stage fury—

The origin of the word is unknown, but its sense development is strangely different from that of Mahomet (p. 43).

A very large number of wares are named from the places from which they come. This is especially common in the case of woven fabrics, and the origin is often obvious, e.g., arras, cashmere (by folk-etymology, kerseymere), damask, holland. The following are perhaps not all so evident—frieze from Friesland[36]; fustian, Old Fr. fustaine (futaine), from Fustat, a suburb of Cairo; muslin, Fr. mousseline, from Mosul in Kurdistan; shalloon from Châlons-sur-Marne; lawn from Laon; jean, formerly jane, from Genoa (French Gênes[37]); cambric from Kamerijk, the Dutch name of Cambrai (cf. the obsolete dornick, from the Dutch name of Tournay); tartan from the Tartars (properly Tatars), used vaguely for Orientals; sarcenet from the Saracens; sendal, ultimately from India (cf. Greco-Lat. sindon, Indian cloth); tabby, Old Fr. atabis, from the name of a suburb of Bagdad, formerly used of a kind of silk, but now of a cat marked something like the material in question.

Brittany used to be famous for hempen fabrics, and the villages of Locrenan and Daoulas gave their names to lockram (see quotation from Coriolanus, p. 42) and dowlas—

Duffel is a place near Antwerp—

and Worstead is in Norfolk. Of other commodities majolica comes from Majorca, called in Spanish Mallorca, and in medieval Latin Majolica; bronze from Brundusium (Brindisi), delf from Delft, the magnet from Magnesia, the shallot, Fr. échalote, in Old French also escalogne, whence archaic Eng. scallion, from Ascalon; the sardine from Sardinia. A milliner, formerly milaner, dealt in goods from Milan. Cravat dates from the Thirty Years' War, in which the Croats, earlier Cravats, played a part. Ermine is in medieval Latin mus Armenius, Armenian mouse, but the name perhaps comes, through Fr. hermine, from Old High Ger. harmo, weasel. Buncombe, more usually bunkum, is the name of a county in North Carolina. To make a speech "for Buncombe" means, in American politics, to show your constituents that you are doing your best for your £400 a year or its American equivalent. Cf. Billingsgate and Limehouse.

The adjective spruce was formerly pruce and meant Prussia. Todd quotes from Holinshed—

Of similar origin are spruce-leather, spruce-beer, and the spruce-fir, of which Evelyn says—

Among coins the bezant comes from Byzantium, the florin from Florence, and Shylock's ducat, chiefly a Venetian coin, from the ducato d'Apuglia, the Duchy of Apulia, where it was first coined in the 12th century. The dollar is the Low Ger. daler, for Ger. Taler, originally called a Joachimstaler, from the silver-mine of Joachimstal, "Joachim's dale," in Bohemia. Cotgrave registers a curious Old French perversion jocondale, "a daller, a piece of money worth about 3s. sterl." Some fruits may also be mentioned, e.g., the damson from Damascus, through Old Fr. damaisine, "a damascene or damsen plum" (Cotgrave); the currant from Corinth, and the peach, Fr. pêche, from Vulgar Lat. pessica, for Persica.

A polony was originally a Bolonian sausage, from Bologna. Parchment, Fr. parchemin, is the adjective pergamenus, from Pergamus, in Asia Minor. Spaniel is the Old Fr. espagneul (épagneul), lit. Spanish. We have the adjective Moorish in morris, or morrice, pike—

In morris dance, Fr. danse mauresque, the same adjective is used with something of the vagueness to be noticed in connection with India and Turkey (p. 52). Shakespeare uses the Spanish form—

Other "local" dances are the polka, which means Polish woman, mazurka, woman of Mazuria, and the obsolete polonaise, lit. Polish, cracovienne, from Cracow, and varsovienne, from Warsaw. The tarantella, like the tarantula spider, takes its name from Taranto, in Italy. The tune of the dance is said to have been originally employed as a cure for the lethargy caused by the bite of the spider. Florio has tarantola, "a serpent called an eft or an evet. Some take it to be a flye whose sting is perillous and deadly, and nothing but divers sounds of musicke can cure the patient."

The town of Troyes has given its name to troy weight. The armourers of Bilbao, in Spain, made swords of such perfect temper that they could be bent point to hilt. Hence Falstaff describes himself in the buck-basket as—

The Andrea Ferrara, or Scottish broadsword, carried by Fergus M'Ivor, bears, according to some authorities, the name of an armourer of Ferrara, in Italy. According to others, Andrea dei Ferrari was a sword-maker at Belluno. I have heard it affirmed by a Scottish drill-sergeant that the real name of this genius was Andrew Ferrars,[38] and that he belonged to the same nationality as other great men.

An argosy, formerly also ragusye, was named from the Adriatic port of Ragusa, and a lateen sail is a Latin, i.e. Mediterranean, sail; gamboge is the Fr. Cambodge, Cambodia, and indigo is from Span. indico, Indian. Of wines, malmsey, chiefly remembered in connection with George of Clarence, and malvoisie are doublets, from Monemvasia in the Morea. Port is named from Oporto, i.e. o porto, the harbour (cf. le Havre), and sherry (see p. 116) from Xeres, Lat. Cæsaris (urbs); cf. Saragossa, from Cæsarea Augusta.

But it is possible to be mistaken in connecting countries with products. Brazil wood is not named from the country, but vice-versâ. It was known as a dye-wood as early as the 12th century, and the name is found in many of the European languages. The Portuguese navigators found large quantities of it in South America and named the country accordingly. They christened an island Madeira, timber, Lat. materia, for a similar reason. The canary comes from the Canary Islands, but its name is good Latin. The largest of these islands, Canaria, was so called by the Romans from the dogs found there. The guinea-fowl and guinea gold came first from the west coast of Africa, but the guinea-pig is a native of Brazil. The name probably came from the Guinea-men, or slave-ships, which regularly followed a triangular course. They sailed outward to the west coast of Africa with English goods. These they exchanged for slaves, whom they transported to the West Indies, the horrible "middle passage," and finally they sailed homeward with New World produce, including, no doubt, guinea-pigs brought home by sailors. The turkey is also called guinea-fowl in the 17th century, probably to be explained in the same way. The German name for guinea-pig, Meerschweinchen, seems to mean little pig from over the sea.

Guinea was a vague geographical expression in the 17th century, but not so vague as India or Turkey. Indian ink comes from China (Fr. encre de Chine), and Indian corn from America. The names given to the turkey are extraordinary. We are not surprised that, as an American bird, it should be naturally connected with India; cf. West Indies, Red Indian, etc. Turk was in the 16th and 17th centuries a vague term for non-Christians—

and we find also Turkey wheat for maize. The following names for the turkey, given in a Nomenclator in eight languages, published in Germany in 1602, do not exhaust the list:—

No doubt the turkey was confused with other birds, for we find Fr. geline d'Inde before the discovery of America. D'Inde has become dinde, whence a new masculine dindon has been formed.

The early etymologists were fond of identifying foreign wares with place-names. They connected diaper with Ypres, gingham with Guingamp (in Brittany), drugget with Drogheda, and the sedan chair with Sedan. Such guesses are almost always wrong. The origin of diaper is doubtful, that of drugget quite unknown, and gingham is Malay. As far as we know at present, the sedan came from Italy in the 16th century, and it is there, among derivatives of Lat. sedere, to sit, that its origin must be sought, unless indeed the original Sedan was some mute, inglorious Hansom.[41]

The history of a word has to be studied from the double point of view of sound and sense, or, to use more technical terms, phonetics and semantics. In the logical order of things it seems natural to deal first with the less interesting aspect, phonetics, the physical processes by which sounds are gradually transformed. Speaking generally, it may be said that phonetic changes are governed by the law of least resistance, a sound which presents difficulty being gradually and unconsciously modified by a whole community or race. With the general principles of phonetics I do not propose to deal, but a few simple examples will serve to illustrate the one great law on which this science is based.

The population of this country is educationally divided by the letter h into three classes, which we may describe as the confident, the anxious, and the indifferent. The same division existed in imperial Rome, where educated people sounded the aspirate, which completely disappeared from the every-day language of the lower classes, the so-called Vulgar Latin, from which the Romance languages are descended, so far as their working vocabulary is concerned. The anxious class was also represented. A Latin epigrammatist[42] remarks that since Arrius, prophetic name, has visited the Ionic islands, they will probably be henceforth known as the Hionic islands. To the disappearance of the h from Vulgar Latin is due the fact that the Romance languages have no aspirate. French still writes the initial h in some words by etymological reaction, e.g., homme for Old Fr. ome, and also at one time really had an aspirate in the case of words of Germanic origin, e.g., la honte, shame. But this h is no longer sounded, although it still, by tradition, prevents elision and liaison, mistakes in which are regarded much in the same way as a misplaced aspirate in English. The "educated" h of modern English is largely an artificial restoration; cf. the modern hotel-keeper with the older word ostler (see p. 164), or the family name Armitage with the restored hermitage.

We have dropped the k sound in initial kn, as in knave, still sounded in Ger. Knabe, boy. French gets over the difficulty by inserting a vowel between the two consonants, e.g., canif is a Germanic word cognate with Eng. knife. This is a common device in French when a word of Germanic origin begins with two consonants. Cf. Fr. dérive, drift, Eng. drive; Fr. varech, sea-weed, Eng. wrack. Harangue, formerly harengue, is Old High Ger. hring, Eng. ring, the allusion being to the circle formed by the audience. Fr. chenapan, rogue, is Ger. Schnapphahn, robber, lit. fowl-stealer. The shallop that "flitteth silken-sail'd, skimming down to Camelot," is Fr. chaloupe, probably identical with Du. sloep, sloop.

The general dislike that French has for a double consonant sound at the beginning of a word appears also in the transformation of all Latin words which began with sc, sp, st, e.g., scola > escole (école), spongia > esponge (éponge), stabulum > estable (étable). English words derived from French generally show the older form, but without the initial vowel, school, sponge, stable.

The above are very simple examples of sound change. There are certain less regular changes, which appear to work in a more arbitrary fashion and bring about more picturesque results. Three of the most important of these are assimilation, dissimilation, and metathesis.

Assimilation is the tendency of a sound to imitate its neighbour. The tree called the lime was formerly the line, and earlier still the lind. We see the older form in linden and in such place-names as Lyndhurst, lime wood. Line often occurred in such compounds as line-bark, line-bast, line-wood, where the second component began with a lip consonant. The n became also a lip consonant because it was easier to pronounce, and by the 17th century we generally find lime instead of line. We have a similar change in Lombard for Ger. lang-bart, long-beard, or, according to some, long-axe. For Liverpool we find also Litherpool in early records. If the reader attempts to pronounce both names rapidly, he will be able to form his own opinion as to whether it is more natural for Liverpool to become Litherpool or vice-versâ, a vexed question with philologists. Fr. vélin, a derivative of Old Fr. veel (veau), calf, and venin, Lat. venenum, have given Eng. vellum and venom, the final consonant being in each case assimilated[43] to the initial labial. So also mushroom, Fr. mousseron, from mousse, moss.

Vulgar Lat. circare (from circa, around) gave Old Fr. cerchier, Eng. search. In modern Fr. chercher the initial consonant has been influenced by the medial ch. The m of the curious word ampersand, variously spelt, is due to the neighbouring p. It is applied to the sign &. I thought it obsolete till I came across it on successive days in two contemporary writers—

Children used to repeat the alphabet thus—"A per se A, B per se B," and so on to "and per se and." The symbol & is an abbreviation of Lat. et, written &.

Dissimilation is the opposite process. The archaic word pomander—

was formerly spelt pomeamber. It comes from Old Fr. pome ambre, apple of amber, a ball of perfume once carried by the delicate. In this case one of the two lip consonants has been dissimilated. A like change has occurred in Fr. nappe, cloth, from Lat. mappa, whence our napkin, apron (p. 113), and the family name Napier.

The sounds most frequently affected by dissimilation are those represented by the letters l, n, and r. Fr. gonfalon is for older gonfanon. Chaucer uses the older form, Milton the newer—

Gonfanon is of Germanic origin. It means literally "battle-flag," and the second element is cognate with English fane or vane (Ger. Fahne). Eng. pilgrim and Fr. pèlerin, from Lat. peregrinus, illustrate the change from r to l, while the word frail, an osier basket for figs, is due to a change from l to r, which goes back to Roman times. A grammarian of imperial Rome named Probus compiled, about the 3rd or 4th century, A.D., a list of cautions as to mispronunciation. In this list we find "flagellum, non fragellum." In the sense of switch, twig, fragellum gave Old Fr. freel, basket made of twigs, whence Eng. frail; while the correct flagellum gave Old Fr. fleel (fléau), whence Eng. flail. A Vulgar Lat. *mora, mulberry, from Lat. morus, mulberry tree, has given Fr. mûre. The r of berry has brought about dissimilation in Eng. mulberry and Ger. Maulbeere. Colonel has the spelling of Fr. colonel, but its pronunciation points rather to the dissimilated Spanish form coronel which is common in Elizabethan English. Cotgrave has colonel, "a colonell, or coronell; the commander of a regiment."

The female name Annabel is a dissimilation of Amabel, whence Mabel. By confusion with the popular medieval name Orable, Lat. orabilis, Annabel has become Arabel or Arabella. Our level is Old Fr. livel, Vulgar Lat. *libellum, for libella, a plummet, diminutive of libra, scales. Old Fr. livel became by dissimilation nivel, now niveau. Many conjectures have been made as to the etymology of oriel. It is from Old Fr. oriol, a recess, or sanctum, which first occurs in an Anglo-Norman poem of the 12th century on Becket. This is from a Late Latin diminutive aulæolum, a small chapel or shrine, which was dissimilated into auræolum.

Sometimes dissimilation leads to the disappearance of a consonant, e.g., Eng. feeble, Fr. faible, represents Lat. flebilis, lamentable, from flere, to weep. Fugleman was once flugelman, from Ger. Flügelmann, wing man, i.e., a tall soldier on the wing who exaggerated the movements of musketry drill for the guidance of the rest.

Metathesis is the transposition of two sounds. A simple case is our trouble, Fr. troubler, from Lat. turbulare. Maggot is for Mid. Eng. maddok, a diminutive of Anglo-Sax. maþa; cf. Ger. Made, maggot. Kittle, in the phrase "kittle cattle," is identical with tickle; cf. Ger. kitzeln, to tickle. One theory for the origin of tankard is that it stands for *cantar, from Lat. cantharus, with which it corresponds exactly in meaning; e.g., cantharus, "a pot, a jugge, a tankerd" (Cooper); cantharo, a "tankard or jug that houldeth much" (Florio); canthare, "a great jugge, or tankard" (Cotgrave). The metathesis may be due to association with the name Tankard (Tancred).

Wattle and wallet are used indifferently in Mid. English for a little bag. Shakespeare no doubt had in mind the wattles of a cock or turkey when he made Gonzalo speak of mountaineers—

Fr. moustique is for earlier mousquite, from Span. mosquito, a diminutive from Lat. musca, a fly. Tinsel is Fr. étincelle, spark, earlier estincele, which supposes a Lat. *stincilla for scintilla. The old word anlace, dagger, common in Mid. English and revived by Byron and Scott—

has provoked many guesses. Its oldest form, anelas, is a metathesis of the common Old Fr. alenas, dagger. This is formed from alêne, of Germanic origin, cognate with awl; cf. cutlass, Fr. coutelas (p. 126). Beverage is from Old Fr. bevrage, or beuvrage, now breuvage, Vulgar Lat. *biberaticum, from bibere, to drink. Here, as in the case of level (p. 58), and search (p. 57), English preserves the older form. In Martello tower, from a fort taken by the British (1794) in Mortella, i.e., Myrtle, Bay, Corsica, we have vowel metathesis.

It goes without saying that such linguistic phenomena are often observed in the case of children and uneducated people. Not long ago the writer was urged by a gardener to embellish his garden with a ruskit arch. When metathesis extends beyond one word we have what is known as a Spoonerism, the original type of which is said to be—

We have seen (p. 57) that the letters l, n, r are particularly subject to dissimilation and metathesis. But we sometimes find them alternating without apparent reason. Thus banister is a modern form for the correct baluster.[44] This was not at first applied to the rail, but to the bulging colonnettes on which it rests. Fr. balustre comes, through Italian, from Greco-Lat. balaustium, a pomegranate flower, the shape of which resembles the supports of a balustrade. Cotgrave explains balustres as "ballisters; little, round and short pillars, ranked on the outside of cloisters, terraces, galleries, etc." Glamour is a doublet of grammar (see p. 145), and flounce was formerly frounce, from Fr. froncer, now only used of "knitting" the brows—

Fr. flibustier, whence our filibuster, was earlier fribustier, a corruption of Du. vrijbuiter, whence directly the Eng. freebooter.[45]

All words tend in popular usage to undergo a certain amount of shrinkage. The reduction of Lat. digitale, from digitus, finger, to Fr. dé, thimble (little thumb) is a striking example. The strong tonic accent of English, which is usually on the first, or root, syllable, brings about a kind of telescoping which makes us very unintelligible to foreigners. This is seen in the pronunciation of names such as Cholmondeley and Marjoribanks. Bethlehem hospital, for lunatics, becomes bedlam; Mary Magdalene, taken as a type of tearful repentance, gives us maudlin, now generally used of the lachrymose stage of intoxication. Sacristan is contracted into sexton. Fr. paralysie becomes palsy, and hydropisie becomes dropsy. The fuller form of the word usually persists in the literary language, or is artificially introduced at a later period, so that we get such doublets as proctor and procurator.

In the case of French words which have a prefix, this prefix is very frequently dropped in English, e.g., raiment for arrayment; while suffixes, or final syllables, often disappear, e.g., treasure trove, for Old Fr. trové (trouvé), or become assimilated to some familiar English ending, e.g., parish, Fr. paroisse, skirmish, Fr. escarmouche; cartridge, Fr. cartouche, partridge, Fr. perdrix. A good example of such shrinkage is the word vamp, part of a shoe, Old Fr. avant-pie (pied), which became Mid. Eng. vampey, and then lost its final syllable. We may compare vambrace, armour for the forearm, Fr. avant-bras, vanguard, Fr. avant-garde, often reduced to van—

and the obsolete vaunt-courier, forerunner—

When the initial vowel is a-, its loss may have been helped by confusion with the indefinite article. Thus for anatomy we find atomy, for a skeleton or scarecrow figure, applied by Mistress Quickly to the constable (2 Henry IV., v. 4). Peal is for appeal, call; mend for amend, lone for alone, i.e., all one. Peach, used by Falstaff—

is for older appeach, related to impeach. Size, in all its senses, is for assize, Fr. assise, with a general meaning of allowance or assessment, from Fr. asseoir, to put, lay. Sizars at Cambridge are properly students in receipt of certain allowances called sizings. With painters' size we may compare Ital. assisa, "size that painters use" (Florio). We use the form assize in speaking of the "sitting" of the judges, but those most familiar with this tribunal speak of being tried at the 'sizes. The obsolete word cate, on which Petruchio plays—

is for earlier acate, an Old French dialect form corresponding to modern Fr. achat, purchase. The man entrusted with purchasing was called an acatour or catour (whence the name Cator), later cater, now extended to caterer, like fruiterer for fruiter, poulterer for poulter and upholsterer for upholdster or upholder.[46]

Limbeck has been squeezed out by the orthodox alembic—

and prentice has given way to apprentice. Tire and attire both survive, and maze persists by the side of amaze with the special sense which I have heard a Notts collier express by puzzle-garden (cf. Ger. Irrgarten). Binnacle is a corruption, perhaps due to association with bin, of earlier bittacle, from Lat. habitaculum, a little dwelling. It may have come to us through Fr. habitacle or Port. bitacola, "the bittacle, a frame of timber in the steerage, where the compass is placed on board a ship" (Vieyra, Port. Dict., 1794). As King of Scotland, King George has a household official known as the limner, or painter. For limner[47] we find in the 15th century lumner and luminour, which is aphetic for alluminour, or enlumineur. Cotgrave, s.v. enlumineur de livres, says, "we call one that coloureth, or painteth upon, paper, or parchment, an alluminer."

But confusion with the article is not necessary in order to bring about aphesis. It occurs regularly in the case of words beginning with esc, esp, est, borrowed from Old French (see p. 56). Thus we have squire from escuyer (êcuyer), skew from Old Fr. eschuer, to dodge, "eschew," ultimately cognate with Eng. shy, spice from espice (épice), sprite from esprit, stage from estage (étage), etc. In some cases we have the fuller form also, e.g., esquire, eschew; cf. sample and example. Fender, whether before a fireplace or slung outside a ship, is for defender; fence is always for defence, either in the sense of a barrier or in allusion to the noble art of self-defence.[48] The tender of a ship or of a locomotive is the attender, and taint is aphetic for attaint, Fr. atteinte, touch—

Puzzle was in Mid. Eng. opposaile, i.e., something put before one. We still speak of "a poser."

Spital, for hospital, survives in Spitalfields, and Spittlegate at Grantham and elsewhere. Crew is for accrewe (Holinshed). It meant properly a reinforcement, lit. on-growth, from Fr. accroître, to accrue. In recruit, we have a later instance of the same idea. Fr. recrue, recruit, from recroître, to grow again, is still feminine, like many other military terms which were originally abstract or collective. Cotgrave has recreuë, "a supplie, or filling up of a defective company of souldiers, etc." We have possum for opossum, and coon for racoon, and this for arrahacoune, which I find in a 16th-century record of travel; cf. American skeeter for mosquito. In these two cases we perhaps have also the deliberate intention to shorten (see p. 66), as also in the obsolete Australian tench, for the aphetic 'tentiary, i.e., penitentiary. With this we may compare 'tec for detective.

Drawing-room is for withdrawing room, and only the final t of saint is left in Tooley St., famed for its three tailors, formerly Saint Olave Street, and tawdry. This latter word is well known to be derived from Saint Audrey's fair. It was not originally depreciatory—

and the full form is recorded by Palsgrave, who has Seynt Andries (read Audrie's) lace, "cordon." The verb vie comes from Old Fr. envier, to challenge, Lat. invitare, whence the phrase à l'envi l'un de l'autre, "in emulation one of the other" (Cotgrave); cf. gin (trap), Fr. engin, Lat. ingenium. The prefix dis or des is lost in Spencer (see p. 165), spite, splay, sport, stain, etc.

In drat, formerly 'od rot, zounds for God's wounds, 'sdeath, odsbodikins, etc., there is probably a deliberate avoidance of profanity. The same intention appears in Gogs—

Cf. Fr. parbleu for par Dieu, and Ger. Potz for Gottes.

This English tendency to aphesis is satirised in a French song of the 14th century, intentionally written in bad French. Thus, in the line—

Glais is for Anglais and vauchier is for chevauchier (chevaucher), to ride on a foray. The literary language runs counter to this instinct, though Shakespeare wrote haviour for behaviour and longing for belonging, while such forms as billiments for habiliments and sparagus for asparagus are regular up to the 18th century. Children keep up the national practice when they say member for remember and zamine for examine. It is quite certain that baccy and tater would be recognised literary forms if America had been discovered two centuries sooner or printing invented two centuries later.

Many words are shortened, not by natural and gradual shrinkage, but by deliberate laziness. The national distaste for many syllables appears in wire for telegram, the Artful Dodger's wipe for the clumsy pocket handkerchief, soccer for association, and such portmanteau words as squarson, an individual who is at once squire and parson, or Bakerloo for Baker St. and Waterloo.

The simplest way of reducing a word is to take the first syllable and make it a symbol for the rest. Of comparatively modern formation are pub and Zoo, with which we may compare Bart's, for Saint Bartholomew's, Cri, Pav, "half a mo'" bike, and even paj, for pageant.

This method of shortening words was very popular in the 17th century, from which period date cit(izen), mob(ile vulgus), the fickle crowd, and, pun(digrion). We often find the fuller mobile used for mob. The origin of pundigrion is uncertain. It may be an illiterate attempt at Ital. puntiglio, which, like Fr. pointe, was used of a verbal quibble or fine distinction. Most of these clipped forms are easily identified, e.g., cab(riolet), gent(leman), hack(ney), vet(erinary surgeon). Cad is for Scot. caddie, errand boy, now familiar in connection with golf, and caddie is from Fr. cadet, younger. The word had not always the very strong meaning we now associate with it. Among Sketches by Boz is one entitled—

where cad means conductor. On tick, for on ticket, is found in the 17th century. We may compare the more modern biz and spec. Brig is for brigantine, Ital. brigantino, "a kinde of pinnasse or small barke called a brigantine" (Florio). The original meaning is pirate ship; cf. brigand. Wag has improved in meaning. It is for older waghalter. Cotgrave has baboin (babouin), "a trifling, busie, or crafty knave; a crackrope, waghalter, etc." The older sense survives in the phrase "to play the wag," i.e. truant. For the "rope" figure we may compare Scot. hempie, a minx, and obsolete Ital. cavestrolo, a diminutive from Lat. capistrum, halter, explained by Florio as "a wag, a haltersacke." Modern Ital. capestro is used in the same sense. Crack-rope is shortened to crack. Justice Shallow remembered Falstaff breaking Skogan's head—

Chap is for chapman, once in general use for a merchant and still a common family name. It is cognate with cheap, chaffer, and Ger. kaufen, to buy, and probably comes from Lat. caupo, tavern keeper. We have the Dutch form in horse-coper, and also in the word coopering, the illicit sale of spirits by Dutch boats to North Sea fishermen.[50] Merchant was used by the Elizabethans in the same way as our chap. Thus the Countess of Auvergne calls Talbot a "riddling merchant" (1 Henry VI., ii. 3). We may also compare Scot. callant, lad, from the Picard form of Fr. chaland, customer—

and our own expression "a rum customer," reduced in America to "a rum cuss." Hock, for Hochheimer, wine from Hochheim, occurs as early as Beaumont and Fletcher; and rum, spirit, is for earlier rumbullion, of obscure origin. Gin is for geneva, a corruption of Fr. genièvre, Lat. juniperus, with the berries of which it is flavoured. The history of grog is more complicated. The stuff called grogram, earlier grograyne, is from Fr. gros grain, coarse grain. Admiral Vernon (18th century) was called by the sailors "Old Grog" from his habit of wearing grogram breeches. When he issued orders that the regular allowance of rum was henceforth to be diluted with water, the sailors promptly baptized the mixture with his nickname.

Sometimes the two first syllables survive. We have navvy for navigator, brandy for brandywine, from Du. brandewyn, lit. burnt wine, and whisky for usquebaugh, Gaelic uisge-beatha, water of life (cf. eau-de-vie), so that the literal meaning of whisky is very innocent. It has a doublet in the river-name Usk. Before the 18th century usquebaugh is the regular form. In the following passage the Irish variety is referred to—

Canter is for Canterbury gallop, the pace of pilgrims riding to the shrine of St Thomas. John Dennis, known as Dennis the Critic, says of Pope—

In bugle, for bugle-horn, lit. wild-ox-horn, Old Fr. bugle, Lat. buculus, a diminutive of bos, ox, we have perhaps rather an ellipsis, like waterproof (coat), than a clipped form—

Patter is no doubt for paternoster—

and the use of the word marble for a toy sometimes made of that stone makes it very probable that the alley, most precious of marbles, is short for alabaster.

Less frequently the final syllable is selected, e.g., bus for omnibus, loo for lanterloo, variously spelt in the 17th and 18th centuries—

Fr. lanturelu was originally the meaningless refrain or "tol de rol" of a popular song in Richelieu's time. Van is for caravan, a Persian word, properly a company of merchants or ships travelling together, "also of late corruptly used with us for a kind of waggon to carry passengers to and from London" (Blount, Glossographia, 1674). Wig is for periwig, a corruption of Fr. perruque, of obscure origin. With the 17th century 'varsity, for university, we may compare Sam Weller's 'Tizer, for Morning Advertiser.

Christian names are treated in the same way. Alexander gives Alec and Sandy, Herbert, 'Erb or Bert. Ib (see p. 172) was once common for Isabella, while the modern language prefers Bella; Maud for Matilda is a telescoped form of Old Fr. Maheut, while 'Tilda is perhaps due to unconscious aphesis, like Denry—

Among conscious word-formations may be classed many reduplicated forms, whether riming, as hurly-burly, or alliterative, as tittle-tattle, though reduplication belongs to the natural speech of children, and, in at least one case, Fr. tante, from ante-ante, Lat. amita, the baby word has prevailed. In a reduplicated form only one half as a rule needs to be explained. Thus seesaw is from saw, the motion suggesting two sawyers at work on a log. Zigzag, from French, and Ger. zickzack are of unknown origin. Shilly-shally is for shill I, shall I? Namby-pamby commemorates the poet Ambrose Philips, who was thus nicknamed by Pope and his friends. The weapon called a snickersnee—

is of Dutch origin and means something like "cut and thrust." It is usually mentioned in connection with the Hollanders—

Here the reduplication is only apparent, for the older form was to stick or snee, representing the Dutch verbs steken, to thrust, snijden or snijen, to cut. The initial of the first verb has been assimilated to that of the second—

Reduplication is responsible for pickaback, earlier pickpack, from pack, bundle. The modern form is due to popular association with back.

Occasionally we have what is apparently the arbitrary prefixing of a consonant, e.g., spruce for pruce (p. 48). Dapple gray corresponds so exactly to Fr. gris pommelé, Mid. Eng. pomeli gris, Ger. apfelgrau, and Ital. pomellato, "spotted, bespeckled, pide, dapple-graie, or fleabitten, the colour of a horse" (Florio), that it is hard not to believe in an unrecorded *apple-gray, especially as we have daffodil for earlier affodil, i.e., asphodel. Cotgrave has asphodile (asphodèle), "the daffadill, affodill, or asphodill, flower." The playful elaboration daffadowndilly is as old as Spenser.

We have all noticed the fantastic way in which ideas are linked together in our thoughts. One thing suggests another with which it is accidentally associated in memory, the second suggests a third, and, in the course even of a few seconds, we find that we have travelled from one subject to another so remote that it requires an effort to reconstruct the series of links which connects them. The same thing happens with words. A large number of words, despite great changes of sense, retain the fundamental meaning of the original, but in many cases this is quite lost. A truer image than that of the linked chain would be that of a sphere giving off in various directions a number of rays each of which may form the nucleus of a fresh sphere. Or we may say that at each link of the chain there is a possibility of another chain branching off in a direction of its own. In Cotgrave's time to garble (see p. 21) and to canvass, i.e. sift through canvas, meant the same thing. Yet how different is their later sense development.

There is a word ban, found in Old High German and Anglo-Saxon, and meaning, as far back as it can be traced, a proclamation containing a threat, hence a command or prohibition. We have it in banish, to put under the ban. The proclamation idea survives in the banns of marriage and in Fr. arrière-ban, "a proclamation, whereby those that hold authority of the king in mesne tenure, are summoned to assemble, and serve him in his warres" (Cotgrave). This is folk-etymology for Old Fr. arban, Old High Ger. hari-ban, army summons. Slanting off from the primitive idea of proclamation is that of rule or authority. The French for outskirts is banlieue, properly the "circuit of a league, or thereabouts" (Cotgrave) over which the local authority extended. All public institutions within such a radius were associated with ban, e.g., un four, un moulin à ban, "a comon oven or mill whereat all men may, and every tenant and vassall must, bake, and grind" (Cotgrave). The French adjective banal, used in this connection, gradually developed from the meaning of "common" that of "common-place," in which sense it is now familiar in English.[52]

Bureau, a desk, was borrowed from French in the 17th century. In modern French it means not only the desk, but also the office itself and the authority exercised by the office. Hence our familiar bureaucracy, likely to become increasingly familiar. The desk was so called because covered with bureau, Old Fr. burel, "a thicke course cloath, of a brown russet, or darke mingled, colour" (Cotgrave), whence Mid. Eng. borel, rustic, clownish, lit. roughly clad, which occurs as late as Spenser—

With this we may compare the metaphorical use of home-spun—

The source of Old Fr. burel is perhaps Lat. burrus, fiery, from Gk. πῦρ, fire.

Romance was originally an adverb. To write in the vulgar tongue, instead of in classical Latin, was called romanice scribere, Old Fr. romanz escrire. When romanz became felt as a noun, it developed a "singular" roman or romant, the latter of which gave the archaic Eng. romaunt. The most famous of Old French romances are the epic poems called Chansons de geste, songs of exploits, geste coming from the Lat. gesta, deeds. Eng. gest or jest is common in the 16th and 17th centuries in the sense of act, deed, and jest-book meant a story-book. As the favourite story-books were merry tales, the word gradually acquired its present meaning.

A part of our Anglo-Saxon church vocabulary was supplanted by Latin or French words. Thus Anglo-Sax. ge-bed, prayer, was gradually expelled by Old Fr. preiere (prière), Lat. precaria. It has survived in beadsman—

beadroll, and bead, now applied only to the humble device employed in counting prayers.

Not only the Romance languages, but also German and Dutch, adopted, with the Roman character, Lat. scribere, to write. English, on the contrary, preserved the native to write, i.e. to scratch (runes), giving to scribere only a limited sense, to shrive. The curious change of meaning was perhaps due to the fact that the priestly absolution was felt as having the validity of a "written" law or enactment.

The meaning which we generally give to pudding is comparatively modern. The older sense appears in black pudding, a sausage made of pig's blood. This is also the meaning of Fr. boudin, whence pudding comes. A still older meaning of both words is intestine, a sense still common in dialect. The derivation of the word is obscure, but it is probably related to Fr. bouder, to pout, whence boudoir, lit. a sulking-room.

A hearse, now the vehicle in which a coffin is carried, is used by Shakespeare for a coffin or tomb. Its earlier meaning is a framework to support candles, usually put round the coffin at a funeral. This framework was so named from some resemblance to a harrow,[53] Fr. herse, Lat. hirpex, hirpic-, a rake.

Treacle is a stock example of great change of meaning. It is used in Coverdale's Bible (1535) for the "balm in Gilead" of the Authorised Version—

Old Fr. triacle is from Greco-Lat. theriaca, a remedy against poison or snake-bite (θήρ, a wild beast). In Mid. English and later it was used of a sovereign remedy. It has, like sirup (p. 146), acquired its present meaning via the apothecary's shop.

A stickler is now a man who is fussy about small points of etiquette or procedure. In Shakespeare he is one who parts combatants—

An earlier sense is that of seeing fair-play. The word has been popularly associated with the stick, or staff, used by the umpires in duels, and Torriano gives stickler as one of the meanings of bastoniere, a verger or mace-bearer. But it probably comes from Mid. Eng. stightlen, to arrange, keep order (see p. 172, n. 2).

Infantry comes, through French, from Italian. It means a collection of "infants" or juniors, so called by contrast with the proved veterans who composed the cavalry.

The pastern of a horse, defined by Dr Johnson as the knee, from "ignorance, madam, pure ignorance," still means in Cotgrave and Florio "shackle." Florio even recognises a verb to pastern, e.g., pastoiare, "to fetter, to clog, to shackle, to pastern, to give (gyve)." It comes from Old Fr. pasturon (paturon), a derivative of pasture, such shackles being used to prevent grazing horses from straying. Pester (p. 167) is connected with it. The modern Fr. paturon has changed its meaning in the same way.

To rummage means in the Elizabethan navigators to stow goods in a hold. A rummager was what we call a stevedore.[55] Rummage is Old Fr. arrumage (arrimage), from arrumer, to stow, the middle syllable of which is probably cognate with English room; cf. arranger, to put in "rank."

The Christmas waits were originally watchmen, Anglo-Fr. waite, Old Fr. gaite, from the Old High German form of modern Ger. Wacht, watch. Modern French still has the verb guetter, to lie in wait for, and guet, the watch. Minstrel comes from an Old French derivative of Lat. minister, servant. Modern Fr. ménétrier is only used of a country fiddler who attends village weddings.

The lumber-room is supposed to be for Lombard room, i.e., the room in which pawnbrokers used to store pledged property. The Lombards introduced into this country the three balls, said to be taken from the arms of the Medici family.

Livery is correctly explained by the poet Spenser—

This passage explains also livery stable.[56] Our word comes from Fr. livrée, the feminine past participle of livrer, from Lat. liberare, to deliver.

Pedigree was in Mid. English pedegrew, petigrew, etc. It represents Old Fr. pie (pied) de grue, crane's foot, from the shape of a sign used in showing lines of descent in genealogical charts. The older form survives in the family name Pettigrew. Here it is a nickname, like Pettifer (pied de fer), iron-foot; cf. Sheepshanks.

Fairy is a collective, Fr. féerie, its modern use being perhaps due to its occurrence in such phrases as Faerie Queen, i.e., Queen of Fairyland. Cf. paynim, used by some poets for pagan, but really a doublet of paganism, occurring in paynim host, paynim knight, etc. The correct name for the individual fairy is fay, Fr. fée, Vulgar Lat. *fata, connected with fatum, fate. This appears in Ital. fata, "a fairie, a witch, an enchantres, an elfe" (Florio). The fata morgana, the mirage sometimes seen in the Strait of Messina, is attributed to the fairy Morgana of Tasso, the Morgan le Fay of our own Arthurian legends.

Many people must have wondered at some time why the clubs and spades on cards are so called. The latter figure, it is true, bears some resemblance to a spade, but no giant of fiction is depicted with a club with a triple head. The explanation is that we have adopted the French pattern, carreau (see p. 161), diamond, cœur, heart, pique, pike, spear-head, trèfle, trefoil, clover-leaf, but have given to the two latter the names used in the Italian and Spanish pattern, which, instead of the pike and trefoil, has the sword (Ital. spada) and mace (Ital. bastone). Etymologically both spades are identical, the origin being Greco-Lat. spatha, the name of a number of blade-shaped objects; cf. the diminutive spatula.

Wafer, in both its senses, is related to Ger. Wabe, honeycomb. We find Anglo-Fr. wafre in the sense of a thin cake, perhaps stamped with a honeycomb pattern. The cognate Fr. gaufre is the name of a similar cake, which not only has the honeycomb pattern, but is also largely composed of honey. Hence our verb to goffer, to give a cellular appearance to a frill.

The meanings of adjectives are especially subject to change. Quaint now conveys the idea of what is unusual, and, as early as the 17th century, we find it explained as "strange, unknown." This is the exact opposite of its original meaning, Old Fr. cointe, Lat. cognitus; cf. acquaint, Old Fr. acointier, to make known. It is possible to trace roughly the process by which this remarkable volte-face has been brought about. The intermediate sense of trim or pretty is common in Shakespeare—

We apply restive to a horse that will not stand still. It means properly a horse that will not do anything else. Fr. rétif, Old Fr. restif, from rester, to remain, Lat. re-stare, has kept more of the original sense of stubbornness. Scot. reest, reist, means to stand stock-still—

Dryden even uses restive in the sense of sluggish—

Reasty, used of meat that has "stood" too long, is the same word (cf. testy, Old Fr. testif, heady), and rusty bacon is probably folk-etymology for reasty bacon—

Sterling has an obscure history. It is from Old Fr. esterlin, a coin which etymologists of an earlier age connected with the Easterlings, or Hanse merchants, who formed one of the great mercantile communities of the Middle Ages; and perhaps some such association is responsible for the meaning that sterling has acquired; but chronology shows this traditional etymology to be impossible. We find unus sterlingus in a medieval Latin document of 1184, and the Old Fr. esterlin occurs in Wace's Roman de Rou (Romaunt of Rollo the Sea King), which was written before 1175. Hence it is conjectured that the original coin was named from the star which appears on some Norman pennies.

When Horatio says—

we are reminded that eager is identical with the second part of vin-egar, Fr. aigre, sour, Lat. acer, keen. It seems hardly possible to explain the modern sense of nice, which in the course of its history has traversed nearly the whole diatonic scale between "rotten" and "ripping." In Mid. English and Old French it means foolish. Cotgrave explains it by "lither, lazie, sloathful, idle; faint, slack; dull, simple," and Shakespeare uses it in a great variety of meanings. It is supposed to come from Lat. nescius, ignorant. The transition from fond, foolish, which survives in "fond hopes," to fond, loving, is easy. French fou is used in exactly the same way. Cf. also to dote on, i.e., to be foolish about. Puny is Fr. puîné, from puis né, later born, junior, whence the puisne justices. Milton uses it of a minor—

Petty, Fr. petit, was similarly used for a small boy.

In some cases a complimentary adjective loses its true meaning and takes on a contemptuous or ironic sense. None of us care to be called bland, and to describe a man as worthy is to apologise for his existence. We may compare Fr. bonhomme, which now means generally an old fool, and bonne femme, good-wife, goody. Dapper, the Dutch for brave (cf. Ger. tapfer), and pert, Mid. Eng. apert, representing in meaning Lat. expertus, have changed much since Milton wrote of—

Pert seems in fact to have acquired the meaning of its opposite malapert, though the older sense of brisk, sprightly, survives in dialect—

Smug, cognate with Ger. schmuck, trim, elegant, beautiful, has its original sense in Shakespeare—

The degeneration of an adjective is sometimes due to its employment for euphemistic purposes. The favourite substitute for fat is stout, properly strong,[57] dauntless, etc., cognate with Ger. stolz, proud. Precisely the same euphemism appears in French, e.g., "une dame un peu forte." Ugly is replaced in English by plain, and in American by homely—

In the case of this word, as in many others, the American use preserves a meaning which was once common in English. Kersey's Dictionary (1720) explains homely as "ugly, disagreeable, course (coarse), mean."

Change of meaning may be brought about by association. A miniature is a small portrait, and we even use the word as an adjective meaning small, on a reduced scale. But the true sense of miniature is something painted in minium, red lead. Florio explains miniatura as "a limning (see p. 63), a painting with vermilion." Such paintings were usually small, hence the later meaning. The word was first applied to the ornamental red initial capitals in manuscripts. Vignette still means technically in French an interlaced vine-pattern on a frontispiece.[58] Cotgrave has vignettes, "vignets; branches, or branch-like borders, or flourishes in painting, or ingravery."

The degeneration in the meaning of a noun may be partly due to frequent association with disparaging adjectives. Thus hussy, i.e. housewife, quean,[59] woman, wench, child, have absorbed such adjectives as impudent, idle, light, saucy, etc. Shakespeare uses quean only three times, and these three include "cozening quean" (Merry Wives, iv. 2) and "scolding quean" (All's Well, ii. 2). With wench, still used without any disparaging sense by country folk, we may compare Fr. garce, lass, and Ger. Dirne, maid-servant, both of which are now insulting epithets, but, in the older language, could be applied to Joan of Arc and the Virgin Mary respectively. Garce was replaced by fille, which has acquired in its turn a meaning so offensive that it has now given way to jeune fille. Minx, earlier minkes, is probably the Low Ger. minsk, Ger. Mensch, lit. human, but used also in the sense of "wench." For the consonantal change cf. hunks, Dan. hundsk, stingy, lit. doggish. These examples show that the indignant "Who are you calling a woman?" is, philologically, in all likelihood a case of intelligent anticipation.

Adjectives are affected in their turn by being regularly coupled with certain nouns. A buxom help-mate was once obedient, the word being cognate with Ger. biegsam, flexible, yielding—

An obedient nature is "buxom, blithe and debonair," qualities which affect the physique and result in heartiness of aspect and a comely plumpness. An arch damsel is etymologically akin to an archbishop, both descending from the Greek prefix ἀρχι, from ἀρχή, a beginning, first cause. Shakespeare uses arch as a noun—

Occurring chiefly in such phrases as arch enemy, arch heretic, arch hypocrite, arch rogue, it acquired a depreciatory sense, which has now become so weakened that archness is not altogether an unpleasing attribute. We may compare the cognate German prefix Erz. Ludwig has, as successive entries, Ertz-dieb, "an arch-thief, an arrant thief," and Ertz-engel, "an arch-angel." The meaning of arrant is almost entirely due to association with "thief." It means lit. wandering, vagabond, so that the arrant thief is nearly related to the knight errant, and to the Justices in eyre, Old Fr. eire, Lat. iter, a way, journey. Fr. errer, to wander, stray, is compounded of Vulgar Lat. iterare, to journey, and Lat. errare, to stray, and it would be difficult to calculate how much of each enters into the composition of le Juif errant.

As I have suggested above, association accounts to some extent for changes of meaning, but the process is in reality more complex, and usually a number of factors are working together or in opposition to each other. A low word may gradually acquire right of citizenship. "That article blackguardly called pluck" (Scott) is now much respected. It is the same word as pluck, the heart, liver, and lungs of an animal—

Having become respectable, it is now replaced in sporting circles by the more emphatic guts, which reproduces the original metaphor. A word may die out in its general sense, surviving only in some special meaning. Thus the poetic sward, scarcely used except with "green," meant originally the skin or crust of anything. It is cognate with Ger. Schwarte, "the sward, or rind, of a thing" (Ludwig), which now means especially bacon-rind. Related words may meet with very different fates in kindred languages. Eng. knight is cognate with Ger. Knecht, servant, which had, in Mid. High German, a wide range of meanings, including "warrior, hero." There is no more complimentary epithet than knightly, while Ger. knechtisch means servile. The degeneration of words like boor,[60] churl, farmer, is a familiar phenomenon (cf. villain, p. 150). The same thing has happened to blackguard, the modern meaning of which bears hardly on a humble but useful class. The name black guard was given collectively to the kitchen detachment of a great man's retinue. The scavenger has also come down in the world, rather an unusual phenomenon in the case of official titles. The medieval scavager[61] was an important official who seems to have been originally a kind of inspector of customs. He was called in Anglo-French scawageour, from the noun scawage, showing. The Old French dialect verb escauwer is of Germanic origin and cognate with Eng. show and Ger. schauen, to look. The cheater, now usually cheat, probably deserved his fate. The escheators looked after escheats, i.e., estates or property that lapsed and were forfeited. The origin of the word is Old Fr. escheoir (échoir), to fall due, Vulgar Lat. ex *cadēre for cadĕre. Their reputation was unsavoury, and cheat has already its present meaning in Shakespeare. He also plays on the double meaning—

Beldam implies "hag" as early as Shakespeare, but he also uses it in its proper sense of "grandmother," e.g., Hotspur refers to "old beldam earth" and "our grandam earth" in the same speech (1 Henry IV., iii. 1), and Milton speaks of "beldam nature"—

It is of course from belle-dame, used in Mid. English for grandmother, as belsire was for grandfather. Hence it is a doublet of belladonna. The masculine belsire survives as a family name, Belcher[62]; and to Jim Belcher, most gentlemanly of prize-fighters, we owe the belcher handkerchief, which had large white spots with a dark blue dot in the centre of each on a medium blue ground. It was also known to the "fancy" as a "bird's-eye wipe."

The convenient name semantics has been applied of late to the science of meanings, as distinguished from phonetics, the science of sound. The comparative study of languages enables us to observe and codify the general laws which govern sense development, and to understand why meanings become extended or restricted. One phenomenon which seems to occur normally in language results from what we may call the simplicity of the olden times. Thus the whole vocabulary which is etymologically related to writing and books has developed from an old Germanic verb that means to scratch and the Germanic name for the beech. Our earliest books were wooden tablets on which inscriptions were scratched. The word book itself comes from Anglo-Sax. bōc, beech; cf. Ger. Buchstabe, letter, lit. beech-stave. Lat. liber, book, whence a large family of words in the Romance languages, means the inner bark of a tree, and bible is ultimately from Greek βύβλος, the inner rind of the papyrus, the Egyptian rush from which paper was made.[63]

The earliest measurements were calculated from the human body. All European languages use the foot, and we still measure horses by hands, while span survives in table-books. Cubit is Latin for elbow, the first part of which is the same as ell, cognate with Lat. ulna, also used in both senses. Fr. brasse, fathom, is Lat. brachia, the two arms, and pouce, thumb, means inch. A further set of measures are represented by simple devices: a yard[64] is a small "stick," and the rod, pole, or perch (cf. perch for birds, Fr. perche, pole) which gives charm to our arithmetic is a larger one. A furlong is a furrow-long. For weights common objects were used, e.g., a grain, or a scruple, Lat. scrupulus, "a little sharpe stone falling sometime into a man's shooe" (Cooper), for very small things, a stone for heavier goods. Gk. δραχμά, whence our dram, means a handful. Our decimal system is due to our possession of ten digits, or fingers, and calculation comes from Lat. calculus, a pebble.

A modern Chancellor of the Exchequer, considering his budget, is not so near the reality of things as his medieval predecessor, who literally sat in his counting-house, counting up his money. For the exchequer, named from the Old Fr. eschequier (échiquier), chess-board, was once the board marked out in squares on which the treasurer reckoned up with counters the king's taxes. This Old Fr. eschequier, which has also given chequer, is a derivative of Old Fr. eschec (échec), check. Thus "check trousers" and a "chequered career" are both directly related to an eastern potentate (see chess, p. 120.). The chancellor himself was originally a kind of door-keeper in charge of a chancel, a latticed barrier which we now know in church architecture only. Chancel is derived, through Fr. chancel or cancel, from Lat. cancellus, a cross-bar, occurring more usually in the plural in the sense of lattice, grating. We still cancel a document by drawing such a pattern on it. In German cancellus has given Kanzel, pulpit. The budget, now a document in which millions are mere items, was the chancellor's little bag or purse—

Fr. bougette, from which it is borrowed, is a diminutive of bouge, a leathern bag, which comes from Lat. bulga, "a male or bouget of leather; a purse; a bagge" (Cooper). Modern French has borrowed back our budget, together with several other words dealing with business and finance.

Among the most important servants of the exchequer were the controllers. We now call them officially comptroller, through a mistaken association with Fr. compte, account. The controller had charge of the counter-rolls (cf. counterfoil), from Old Fr. contre-rolle, "the copy of a role (of accounts, etc.), a paralell of the same quality and content, with the originall" (Cotgrave). In French contrôle has preserved the sense of supervision or verification which it has lost in ordinary English.

A very ancient functionary of the exchequer, the tally-cutter, was abolished in the reign of George III. Tallies (Fr. tailler, to cut) were sticks "scored" across in such a way that the notches could be compared for purposes of verification. Jack Cade preferred those good old ways—

This rudimentary method of calculation was still in use in the Kentish hop-gardens within fairly recent times; and some of us can remember very old gentlemen asking us, after a cricket match, how many "notches" we had "scored"—

This use of score, for a reckoning in general, or for twenty, occurs in Anglo-Saxon, but the word is Scandinavian. The words score and tally, originally of identical meaning, were soon differentiated, a common phenomenon in such cases. For the exchequer tally was substituted an "indented cheque receipt." An indenture, chiefly familiar to us in connection with apprenticeship, was a duplicate document of which the "indented" or toothed edges had to correspond like the notches of the score or tally. Cheque, earlier check, is identical with check, rebuff. The metaphor is from the game of chess (see p. 120), to check a man's accounts involving a sort of control, or pulling up short, if necessary. A cheque is a method of payment which makes "checking" easy. The modern spelling is due to popular association with exchequer, which is etymologically right, though the words have reached their modern functions by very different paths.

The development of the meaning of chancellor can be paralleled in the case of many other functionaries, once humble but now important. The titles of two great medieval officers, the constable and the marshal, mean the same thing. Constable, Old Fr. conestable (connétable), is Lat. comes stabuli, stable fellow. Marshal, the first element of which is cognate with mare, while the second corresponds to modern Ger. Schalk, rascal, expresses the same idea in German. Both constable and marshal are now used of very high positions, but Policeman X. and the farrier-marshal, or shoeing-smith, of a troop of cavalry, remind them of the base degrees by which they did ascend. The Marshalsea where Little Dorrit lived is for marshalsy, marshals' office, etc. The steward, or sty-ward, looked after his master's pigs. He rose in importance until, by the marriage of Marjorie Bruce to Walter the Stewart of Scotland, he founded the most picturesque of royal houses. The chamberlain, as his name suggests, attended to the royal comforts long before he became a judge of wholesome literature.

All these names now stand for a great number of functions of varying importance. Other titles which are equally vague are sergeant (see p. 148) and usher, Old Fr. uissier[65] (huissier), lit. door-keeper, Lat. ostiarius, a porter. Another official was the harbinger, who survives only in poetry. He was a forerunner, or vauntcourier, who preceded the great man to secure him "harbourage" for the night, and his name comes from Old Fr. herberger (héberger), to shelter (see p. 164). As late as the reign of Charles II. we read that—

One of the most interesting branches of semantics, and the most useful to the etymologist, deals with the study of parallel metaphors in different languages. We have seen (p. 29) how, for instance, the names of flowers show that the same likeness has been observed by various races. The spice called clove and the clove-pink both belong to Lat. clavus, a nail. The German for pink is Nelke, a Low German diminutive, nail-kin, of Nagel, nail. The spice, or Gewürznelke, is called in South Germany Nägele, little nail. A clove of garlic is quite a separate word; but, as it has some interesting cognates, it may be mentioned here. It is so called because the bulb cleaves naturally into segments.[66] The German name is Knoblauch, for Mid. High Ger. klobe-louch, clove-leek, by dissimilation of one l. The Dutch doublet is kloof, a chasm, gully, familiar in South Africa.

Fr. poison, Lat. potio, potion-, a drink, and Ger. Gift, poison, lit. gift, seem to date from treacherous times. On the other hand, Ger. Geschenk, a present, means something poured out (see nuncheon, p. 124), while a tip is in French pourboire and in German Trinkgeld, even when accepted by a lifelong abstainer. In English we "ride a hobby," i.e., a hobby-horse, or wooden horse. German has the same metaphor, "ein Steckenpferd reiten," and French says "enfourcher un dada," i.e., to bestride a gee-gee. Hobby, for Mid. Eng. hobin, a nag, was a proper name for a horse. Like Dobbin and Robin, it belongs to the numerous progeny of Robert.

In some cases the reason for a metaphor is not quite clear to the modern mind. The bloodthirsty weasel is called in French belette,[67] little beauty, in Italian donnola, in Portuguese doninha, little lady, in Spanish comadreja, gossip (Fr. commère, Scot. cummer, p. 94), in Bavarian Schöntierlein, beautiful little animal, in Danish kjönne, beautiful, and in older English fairy.[68] From Lat. medius we get mediastinus, "a drugge (drudge) or lubber to doe all vile service in the house; a kitching slave" (Cooper). Why this drudge should have a name implying a middle position I cannot say; but to-day in the North of England a maid-of-all-work is called a tweeny (between maid).

A stock semantic parallel occurs in the relation between age and respectability. All of us, as soon as we get to reasonable maturity, lay great stress on the importance of deference to "elders." It follows naturally that many titles of more or less dignity should be evolved from this idea of seniority. The Eng. alderman is obvious. Priest, Old Fr. prestre[69] (prêtre), from Gk. πρεσβύτερος, comparative of πρέσβυς, old, is not so obvious. In the Romance languages we have a whole group of words, e.g., Fr. sire, sieur, seigneur, Ital. signor, Span. señor, with their compounds monsieur, messer, etc., all representing either senior or seniorem. Ger. Eltern, parents, is the plural comparative of alt, old, and the first element of seneschal (see marshal, p. 90) is cognate with Lat. senex. From Fr. sire comes Eng. sir, and from this was formed the adjective sirly,[70] now spelt surly, which in Shakespeare still means haughty, arrogant—

A list, in the sense of enumeration, is a "strip." The cognate German word is Leiste, border. We have the original meaning in "list slippers." Fr. bordereau, a list, which became very familiar in connection with the Dreyfus case, is a diminutive of bord, edge. Label is the same word as Old Fr. lambel (lambeau), rag. Scroll is an alteration, perhaps due to roll, of Mid. Eng. scrow or escrow, from Old Fr. escroue,[71] rag, shred. Docket, earlier dogget, is from an old Italian diminutive of doga, cask-stave, which meant a bendlet in heraldry. Schedule is a diminutive of Lat. scheda, "a scrowe" (Cooper), properly a strip of papyrus. Ger. Zettel, bill, ticket, is the same word. Thus all these words, more or less kindred in meaning, can be reduced to the primitive notion of strip or scrap.

Farce, from French, means stuffing. The verb to farce, which represents Lat. farcire, survives in the perverted force-meat. A parallel is satire, from Lat. satura (lanx), a full dish, hence a medley. Somewhat similar is the modern meaning of magazine, a "store-house" of amusement or information.

The closest form of intimacy is represented by community of board and lodging, or, in older phraseology, "bed and board." Companion, with its related words, belongs to Vulgar Lat. *companio, companion-, bread-sharer. The same idea is represented by the pleonastic Eng. messmate, the second part of which, mate, is related to meat. Mess, food, Old Fr. mes (mets), Lat. missum, is in modern English only military or naval, but was once the usual name for a dish of food—

With mate we may compare Fr. matelot, earlier matenot, representing Du. maat, meat, and genoot, a companion. The latter word is cognate with Ger. Genosse, a companion, from geniessen, to enjoy or use together. In early Dutch we find also mattegenoet, through popular association with matte, hammock, one hammock serving, by a Box and Cox arrangement, for two sailors.

Comrade is from Fr. camarade, and this from Span. camarada, originally a "room-full," called in the French army une chambrée. This corresponds to Ger. Geselle, comrade, from Saal, room. The reduction of the collective to the individual is paralleled by Ger. Bursche, fellow, from Mid. High Ger. burse, college hostel; cf. Frauenzimmer, wench, lit. women's room. It can hardly be doubted that chum is a corrupted clip from chamber-fellow.[72] It is thus explained in a Dictionary of the Canting Crew (1690), within a few years of its earliest recorded occurrence, and the reader will remember Mr Pickwick's introduction to the chummage system in the Fleet (Ch. 42).

English gossip, earlier god-sib, related in God, a sponsor, soon developed the subsidiary meanings of boon companion, crony, tippler, babbler, etc., all of which are represented in Shakespeare. The case of Fr. compère and commère, godfather and godmother, is similar. Cotgrave explains commérage as "gossiping; the acquaintance, affinity, or league that growes betweene women by christning a child together, or one for another." Ger. Gevatter, godfather, has also acquired the sense of Fr. bonhomme (p. 80), Eng. daddy. From commère comes Scot. cummer or kimmer—

While christenings led to cheerful garrulity, the wilder fun of weddings has given the Fr. faire la noce, to go on the spree. In Ger. Hochzeit, wedding, lit. high time, we have a converse development of meaning.

Parallel sense development in different languages sometimes gives us a glimpse of the life of our ancestors. Our verb to curry (leather) comes from Old Fr. corréer[73] (courroyer), to make ready, put in order, which represents a theoretical *con-red-are, the root syllable of which is Germanic and cognate with our ready. Ger. gerben, to tan, Old High Ger. garawen, to make ready, is a derivative of gar, ready, complete, now used only as an adverb meaning "quite," but cognate with our yare—

Both curry and gerben must have acquired their restricted meaning at a time when there was literally nothing like leather.

Even in slang we find the same parallelism exemplified. We call an old-fashioned watch a turnip. In German it is called Zwiebel, onion, and in French oignon. Eng. greenhorn likens an inexperienced person to an animal whose horns have just begun to sprout. In Ger. Gelbschnabel, yellow-bill, and Fr. bec-jaune, we have the metaphor of the fledgling. Ludwig explains Gelbschnabel by "chitty-face," chit, cognate with kit-ten, being a general term in Mid. English for a young animal. From bec-jaune we have archaic Scot. beejam, university freshman. Cotgrave spells the French word bejaune, and gives, as he usually does for such words,[74] a very full gloss, which happens, by exception, to be quotable—

The Englishman intimates that a thing has ceased to please by saying that he is "fed up" with it. The Frenchman says, "J'en ai soupé." Both these metaphors are quite modern, but they express in flippant form the same figure of physical satiety which is as old as language. Padding is a comparatively new word in connection with literary composition, but it reproduces, with a slightly different meaning, the figure expressed by bombast, lit. wadding, a derivative of Greco-Lat. bombyx, originally "silk-worm," whence also bombasine. We may compare also "fustian eloquence"—

And a very similar image is found in the Latin poet Ausonius—

Even to "take the cake" is paralleled by the Gk. λαβεῖν τὸν πυραμοῦντα, to be awarded the cake of roasted wheat and honey which was originally the prize of him who best kept awake during a night-watch.

In the proverbial expressions which contain the concentrated wisdom of the ages we sometimes find exact correspondences. Thus "to look a gift-horse in the mouth" is literally reproduced in French and German. Sometimes the symbols vary, e.g., the risk one is exposed to in acquiring goods without examination is called by us "buying a pig in a poke."[75] French and German substitute the cat. We say that "a cat may look at a king." The French dramatis personæ are a dog and a bishop. The "bird in hand" which we regard as the equivalent of two in the bush is in German compared advantageously with ten on the roof.

Every language has an immense number of metaphors to describe the various stages of intoxication. We, as a seafaring nation, have naturally a set of such metaphors taken from nautical English. In French and German the state of being "half-seas over" or "three sheets in the wind," and the practice of "splicing the main-brace" are expressed by various land metaphors. But the more obvious nautical figures are common property. We speak of being stranded; French says "échouer (to run ashore) dans une entreprise," and German uses scheitern, to strand, split on a rock, in the same way.

Finally, we observe the same principle in euphemism, or that form of speech which avoids calling things by their names. Euphemism is the result of various human instincts which range from religious reverence down to common decency. There is, however, a special type of euphemism which may be described as the delicacy of the partially educated. It is a matter of common observation that for educated people a spade is a spade, while the more outspoken class prefers to call it a decorated shovel. Between these two classes come those delicate beings whose work in life is—

In the United States refined society has succeeded in banning as improper the word leg, which must now be replaced by limb, even when the possessor is a boiled fowl, and this refinement is not unknown in England. The coloured ladies of Barbados appear to have been equally sensitive—

This tendency shows itself especially in connection with the more intimate garments and articles intended for personal use. We have the absurd name pocket handkerchief, i.e., pocket hand-cover-head, for a comparatively modern convenience, the earlier names of which have more of the directness of the Artful Dodger's "wipe." Ben Jonson calls it a muckinder. In 1829 the use of the word mouchoir in a French adaptation of Othello caused a riot at the Comédie Française. History repeats itself, for, in 1907, a play by J. M. Synge was produced in Dublin, but—

This is all the more ludicrous when we reflect that shift, i.e. change of raiment, is itself an early euphemism for smock; cf. Ital. mutande, "thinne under-breeches" (Florio), from a country and century not usually regarded as prudish. The fact is that, just as the low word, when once accepted, loses its primitive vigour (see pluck, p. 83), the euphemism is, by inevitable association, doomed from its very birth.

I will now give a few examples of the way in which the study of semantics helps the etymologist. The antlers of a deer are properly the lowest branches of the horns, what we now call brow-antlers. The word comes from Old Fr. antoilliers, which answers phonetically to a conjectured Lat. *ante-oculares, from oculus, eye. This conjecture is confirmed by the Ger. Augensprosse, brow-antler, lit. eye-sprout.

Eng. plover, from Fr. pluvier, could come from a Vulgar Lat. *pluviarius, belonging to rain. The German name Regenpfeifer, lit. rain-piper, shows this to be correct. It does not matter, etymologically, whether the bird really has any connection with rain, for rustic observation, interesting as it is, is essentially unscientific. The honeysuckle is useless to the bee. The slow-worm, which appears to be for slay-worm, strike-serpent,[76] is perfectly harmless, and the toad, though ugly, is not venomous, nor does he bear a jewel in his head.

Kestrel, a kind of hawk, represents Old Fr. quercerelle (crécerelle), "a kastrell" (Cotgrave). Crécerelle is a diminutive of crécelle, a rattle, used in Old French especially of the leper's rattle or clapper, with which he warned people away from his neighbourhood. It is connected with Lat. crepare, to resound. The Latin name for the kestrel is tinnunculus, lit. a little ringer, derived from the verb tinnire, to clink, jingle, "tintinnabulate." Cooper tells us that "they use to set them (kestrels) in pigeon houses, to make doves to love the place, bicause they feare away other haukes with their ringing voyce." This information is obtained from the Latin agriculturist Columella. This parallel makes it clear that Fr. crécerelle, kestrel, is a metaphorical application of the same word, meaning a leper's "clicket."

The curious word akimbo occurs first in Mid. English in the form in kenebowe. In half a dozen languages we find this attitude expressed by the figure of a jug-handle, or, as it used to be called, a pot-ear. The oldest equivalent is Lat. ansatus, used by Plautus, from ansa, a jug-handle. Ansatus homo is explained by Cooper as "a man with his arms on kenbow." Archaic French for to stand with arms akimbo is "faire le pot a deux anses," and the same striking image occurs in German, Dutch, and Spanish. Hence it seems a plausible conjecture that kenebowe means "jug-handle." This is confirmed by the fact that Dryden translates ansa, "the eare or handle of a cuppe or pot" (Cooper), by "kimbo handle" (Vergil, Ecl. iii. 44). Eng. bow, meaning anything bent, is used in many connections for handle. The first element may be can, applied to every description of vessel in earlier English, as it still is in Scottish, or it may be some Scandinavian word. In fact the whole compound may be Scandinavian. Thomas' Latin Dictionary (1644) explains ansatus homo as "one that in bragging manner strowteth up and down with his armes a-canne-bow."

Demure has been explained as from Mid. Eng. mure, ripe, mature, with prefixed de. But demure is the older word of the two, and while the loss of the atonic first syllable is normal in English (p. 61), it would be hard to find a case in which a meaningless prefix has been added. Nor does the meaning of demure approximate very closely to that of ripe. It now has a suggestion of slyness, but in Milton's time meant sedate—

and its oldest meaning is calm, settled, used of the sea. When we consider that it is nearly equivalent to staid, earlier stayed, and compare the equivalent terms in other languages, e.g., Lat. sedatus, Fr. rassis, Ger. gesetzt, etc., it seems likely that it is formed from the Old Norman demurer (demeurer), to "stay," just as stale is formed from Old Fr. estaler (étaler), to display on a stall, or trove, in "treasure trove," from Old Fr. trover (trouver).

The origin of lugger is unknown, but the word is recorded a century later than lugsail, whence it is probably derived. The explanation of lugsail as a sail that is lugged seems to be a piece of folk-etymology. The French for lugsail is voile de fortune, and a still earlier name, which occurs also in Tudor English, is bonaventure, i.e., good luck. Hence it is not unreasonable to conjecture that lugsail stands for *luck-sail, just as the name Higson stands for Hickson (see p. 172).

The pips on cards or dice have nothing to do with apple pips. The oldest spelling is peeps. In the Germanic languages they are called "eyes," and in the Romance languages "points"; and the Romance derivatives of Lat. punctus, point, also mean "peep of day." Hence the peeps are connected with the verb to peep.

The game called dominoes is French, and the name is taken from the phrase faire domino, to win the game. Domino, a hooded cloak worn by priests in winter, is an Italian word, apparently connected with Lat. dominus. French also has, in various games, the phrase faire capot, with a meaning like that of faire domino. Capot, related to Eng. cap and Fr. chapeau, means properly a hooded cloak. The two metaphors are quite parallel, but it is impossible to say what was the original idea. Perhaps it was that of extinguishing the opponent by putting, as it were, his head in a bag.

The card game called gleek is often mentioned in Tudor literature. It is derived from Old Fr. glic, used by Rabelais, and the word is very common in the works of the more disreputable French poets of the 15th century. According to French archaeologists the game was also called bonheur, chance, fortune, and hasard. Hence glic represents in all probability Ger. Glück, luck.[77] The Old French form ghelicque would correspond to Mid. High Ger. gelücke. The history of tennis (p. 10) and trump (p. 9) shows that it is not necessary to find the German word recorded in the same sense.

The word sentry, which occurs in English only, has no connection at all with sentinel, the earliest form of which is Ital. sentinella, of unknown origin. The older lexicographers obscured the etymology of sentry, which is really quite simple, by always attempting to treat it along with sentinel. It is a common phenomenon in military language that the abstract name of an action is applied to the building or station in which the action is performed, then to the group of men thus employed, and finally to the individual soldier. Thus Lat. custodia means (1) guardianship, (2) a ward-room, watch-tower, (3) the watch collectively, (4) a watchman. Fr. vigie, the look-out man on board ship, can be traced back in a similar series of meanings to Lat. vigilia, watching.[78] A sentry, now a single soldier, was formerly a band of soldiers—

and earlier still a watch-tower, e.g., Cotgrave explains Old Fr. eschauguette (échauguette) as "a sentrie, watch-tower, beacon." The purely abstract sense survives in the phrase "to keep sentry" i.e. guard—

It is a contracted form of sanctuary. In the 17th century it is a pretty familiar word in this sense.[79] The earliest example I have come across is in Nashe—

Fr. guérite, a sentry box, can be traced back in the same way to Old Fr. garir (guérir), to save. Cotgrave explains it as "a place of refuge, and of safe retyrall," also "a sentrie, or little lodge for a sentinell, built on high." It is to this latter sense that we owe Eng. garret. In medieval French guérite means refuge, sanctuary—

If French had not borrowed sentinelle from Italian, guérite would probably now mean "sentry"; cf. the history of vigie (p. 103), or of vedette, a cavalry sentry, but originally "a prying or peeping hole" (Florio), from Ital. vedere, to see.

Every expression that we employ, apart from those that are connected with the most rudimentary objects and actions, is a metaphor, though the original meaning is dulled by constant use. Thus, in the above sentence, expression means what is "squeezed out," to employ is to "twine in" like a basket maker, to connect is to "weave together," rudimentary means "in the rough state," and an object is something "thrown in our way." A classification of the metaphors in use in the European languages would show that a large number of the most obvious kind, i.e. of those which "come to meet" one, are common property, while others would reflect the most striking habits and pursuits of the various races. It would probably be found that in the common stock of simple metaphor the most important contribution would come from agriculture, while in English the nautical element would occur to an extent quite unparalleled in other European languages.[81] A curious agricultural metaphor which, though of Old French origin, now appears to be peculiar to English, is to rehearse, lit. to harrow over again (see hearse, p. 75).

Some metaphors are easy to track. It does not require much philological knowledge to see that astonish, astound, and stun all contain the idea of "thunder-striking," Vulgar Lat. *ex-tonare. To embarrass is obviously connected with bar, and to interfere is to "strike between," Old Fr. entreferir. This word was especially used in the 16th century of a horse knocking its legs together in trotting, "to interfeere, as a horse" (Cotgrave). When we speak of a prentice-hand, sound journeyman work, and a masterpiece, we revive the medieval classification of artisans into learners, qualified workmen, and those who, by the presentation to their guild of a finished piece of work, were recognised as past (passed) masters.

But many of our metaphors are drawn from pursuits with which we are no longer familiar, or from arts and sciences no longer practised. Disaster, ill-starred, and such adjectives as jovial, mercurial, are reminiscent of astrology. To bring a thing to the test is to put it in the alchemist's or metallurgist's test or trying-pot (cf. test-tube), Old Fr. test (têt). This is related to Old Fr. teste (tête) head, from Lat. testa, tile, pot, etc., used in Roman slang for caput. Shakespeare has the complete metaphor—

The old butchers' shops which adjoin Nottingham Market Place are still called the Shambles. The word is similarly used at Carlisle, and probably elsewhere; but to most people it is familiar only in the metaphorical sense of place of slaughter, generally regarded as a singular. Thus Denys of Burgundy says—

etymologically misusing the word, which does not mean slaughter-house, but the bench on which meat is exposed for sale. It is a very early loan from Lat. scamnum, a bench or form, also explained by Cooper as "a step or grice (see p. 118) to get up to bedde." The same diminutive form occurs in Fr. escabeau, an office stool, and Ger. Schemel, a stool.

Fusty, earlier foisty, is no longer used in its proper sense. It comes from Old Fr. fusté, "fusty; tasting of the caske, smelling of the vessell wherein it hath been kept" (Cotgrave), a derivative of Old Fr. fust (fût) a cask.[83]

The smith's art has given us brand-new, often corrupted into bran-new. Shakespeare uses fire-new—

Modern German has funkelnagelneu, spark nail new; but in older German we find also spanneu, splinterneu, chip new, splinter new; which shows the origin of our spick and span (new), i.e., spike and chip new. French has tout battant neuf, beating new, i.e., fresh from the anvil.

Many old hunting terms survive as metaphors. To be at bay, Fr. aux abois, is to be facing the baying hounds. The fundamental meaning of Old Fr. abaier (aboyer), of obscure origin, is perhaps to gape at.[84] Thus a right or estate which is in abeyance is one regarded with open-mouthed expectancy. The toils are Fr. toiles, lit. cloths, Lat. tela, the nets put round a thicket to prevent the game from escaping. To "beat about the bush" seems to be a mixture of two metaphors which are quite unlike in meaning. To "beat the bush" was the office of the beaters, who started the game for others, hence an old proverb, "I will not beat the bush that another may have the birds." To "go about the bush" would seem to have been used originally of a hesitating hound. The two expressions have coalesced to express the idea for which French says "y aller par quatre chemins." Crestfallen and white feather belong to the old sport of cock-fighting. Jeopardy is Old Fr. jeu parti, a divided game, hence an equal encounter. To run full tilt is a jousting phrase. To pounce upon is to seize in the pounces, the old word for a hawk's claws. The ultimate source is Lat. pungere, to prick, pierce. A goldsmith's punch was also called a pounce, hence the verb to pounce, to make patterns on metal. The northern past participle pouncet[85] occurs in pouncet-box, a metal perforated globe for scents—

To the language of hawking belongs also haggard. Cotgrave defines faulcon (faucon) hagard, as "a faulcon that preyed for her selfe long before she was taken." Hence the sense of wild, untameable. The original meaning is hedge-hawk, the first syllable representing Old High Ger. hag, hedge. Hag, a witch, is of cognate origin.

The antiquity of dicing appears in the history of Ger. gefallen, to please, originally used of the "fall" of the dice. In Mid. High German it is always used with wohl, well, or übel, ill; e.g., es gefällt mir wohl, it "falls out" well for me. There can be no reasonable doubt that the deuce! is a dicer's exclamation at making the lowest throw, two, Fr. deux. We still use deuce for the two in cards, and German has Daus in both senses. Tennis has given us bandy, Fr. bander, "to bandie, at tennis" (Cotgrave). We now only bandy words or reproaches, but Juliet understood the word in its literal sense—

Fowling has given us cajole, decoy, and trepan. Fr. cajoler, which formerly meant to chatter like a jay in a cage, has in modern French assumed the meaning of enjôler, earlier engeoler, "to incage, or ingaole" (Cotgrave), hence to entice. Fr. geôle, gaol, represents Vulgar Lat. *caveola. Decoy, earlier also coy, is Du. kooi, cage. The later form is perhaps due to duck-coy. Du. kooi is also of Latin origin. It comes, like Fr. cage, from Vulgar Lat. *cavea, and has a doublet kevie, whence Scot. cavie, a hen-coop. Trepan was formerly trapan, and belongs to trap—

It is now equivalent to kidnap, i.e. to nab kids (children), once a lucrative pursuit. The surgical trepan is a different word altogether, and belongs to Greco-Lat. trypanon, an auger, piercer. To allure is to bring to the lure, or bait. To the same group of metaphors belongs inveigle, which corresponds, with altered prefix, to Fr. aveugler, to blind, Vulgar Lat. *ab-oculare.[86] A distant relative of this word is ogle, which is of Low German origin; cf. Ger. liebäugeln "to ogle, to smicker, to look amorously, to cast sheeps-eyes, to cast amorous looks" (Ludwig).

The archaic verb to cozen is a metaphor of quite another kind. Every young noble who did the grand tour in the 16th and 17th centuries spent some time at Naples, "where he may improve his knowledge in horsemanship" (Howell, Instructions for Forreine Travell, 1642). Now the Italian horse-dealers were so notorious that Dekker, writing about 1600, describes a swindling "horse-courser" as a "meere jadish Non-politane," a play on Neapolitan. The Italian name is cozzone, "a horse-courser, a horse-breaker, a craftie knave" (Florio), whence the verb cozzonare, "to have perfect skill in all cosenages" (Torriano). The essential idea of to cozen in the Elizabethans is that of selling faulty goods in a bad light, a device said to be practised by some horse-dealers. At any rate the words for horse-dealer in all languages, from the Lat. mango to the Amer. horse-swapper, mean swindler and worse things. Cozen is a favourite word with the Elizabethan dramatists, because it enables them to bring off one of those stock puns that make one feel "The less Shakespeare he"—

In the Merry Wives of Windsor (iv. 5) there is a lot of word-play on "cousins-german" and "German cozeners." An exact parallel to the history of cozen is furnished by the verb to jockey, from jockey, in its older sense of horse-dealer.

Scion is a metaphor from the garden. It is Fr. scion, "a scion; a young and tender plant; a shoot, sprig, or twig" (Cotgrave). Ger. Sprössling, sproutling, is also used of an "offshoot" from a "stock." We have a similar metaphor in the word imp. We now graft trees, a misspelling of older graffe, Fr. greffe, Greco-Lat. graphium, a pencil, from the shape of the slip. But the older word was imp, which we find also used of inserting a new feather into the wing or tail of a hawk, or fitting a small bell-rope to a larger one. The art of grafting was learnt from the Romans, who had a post-classical verb imputare,[87] to graft, which has given Eng. imp, Ger. impfen, Fr. enter, and is represented in most other European languages. Imp was used like scion, but degenerated in meaning. In Shakespeare it has already the somewhat contemptuous shade of meaning which we find in Ger. Sprössling, and is only used by comic characters. Thus Pistol addresses Prince Hal—

But Thomas Cromwell, in his last letter to Henry VIII., speaks of—

The special sense of "young devil" appears to be due to the frequent occurrence of such phrases as "imps (children) of Satan," "the devil and his imps," etc. Ger. impfen also means to vaccinate. Our earlier term inoculate[88] originally meant to graft, and, in fact, engraft was also used in this sense.

Zest is quite obsolete in its original meaning of a piece of orange peel used to give piquancy to wine. It is a French word of unknown origin, properly applied to the inner skin of fruit and nuts. Cotgrave explains it as "the thick skinne, or filme whereby the kernell of a wallnut is divided."

The sound, spelling, and even the meaning of a word are often perverted by influences to which the collective name of folk-etymology has been given. I here use the term to include all phenomena which are due to any kind of misunderstanding of a word. A word beginning with n sometimes loses this sound through its being confused with the n of the indefinite article an. Thus an adder and an auger are for a nadder (cf. Ger. Natter) and a nauger, Mid. Eng. navegor, properly an instrument for piercing the nave of a wheel. Apron was in Mid. English naprun, from Old Fr. naperon, a derivative of nappe, cloth. The aitch-bone was formerly the nache-bone, from Old Fr. nache, buttock, Vulgar Lat. *natica for nates. Nache is still used by French butchers. Humble-pie is a popular perversion of umble-pie, i.e., a pie made from the umbles, or inferior parts of the stag. But umble is for earlier numble, Old Fr. nomble, formed, with dissimilation, from Lat. lumbulus, diminutive of lumbus, loin; cf. niveau (p. 58). Thus humble-pie has etymologically no connection with humility. Umpire represents Old Fr. non per (pair), not equal, the umpire being a third person called in when arbitrators could not agree. This appears clearly in the following extract from a medieval letter—

For the sense we may compare Span. tercero, "the third, a broaker, a mediator" (Percyvall). An eyas falcon is for a neyas falcon, Fr. niais, foolish, lit. nestling, related to nid, nest. Rosenkrantz uses it in the literal sense—

Somewhat similar is the loss in French of initial a in la boutique for l'aboutique, Greco-Lat. apotheca, and la Pouille for l'Apouille, Apulia, or of the initial l in ounce, a kind of tiger-cat, from Fr. once, earlier lonce, "the ounce, a ravenous beast" (Cotgrave), taken as l'once. It is almost a doublet of lynx.

The opposite has happened in the case of a newt for an ewt and a nick-name for an eke-name. Eke, also, occurs in the first stanza of John Gilpin. It is cognate with Ger. auch, also, and Lat. augere, to increase. Nuncle, the customary address of a court fool to his superiors—

is for mine uncle. We also find naunt. Nonce occurs properly only in the phrase for the nonce, which is for earlier for then ones, where then is the dative of the definite article. Family names like Nash, Nokes are aphetic for atten ash, at the ash, atten oakes, at the oaks. The creation of such forms was perhaps helped by our tendency to use initial n in Christian names, e.g., Ned for Edward, Noll for Oliver, Nell for Ellen.

Agglutination of the definite article is common in French, e.g., lingot, ingot, lierre, ivy, for l'ierre, Lat. hedera, and the dialect lévier, sink, for évier, Lat. aquarium, whence Eng. ewer. The derivation of Fr. landier, andiron, is unknown, but the iron of the English word is due to folk-etymology. Such agglutination occurs often in family names such as Langlois, lit. the Englishman, Lhuissier, the usher (see p. 90), and some of these have passed into English, e.g., Levick for l'évêque, the bishop.

The two words alarm and alert include the Italian definite article. The first is Ital. all'arme, to arms, for a le arme, and the second is all'erta for alla (a la) erta, the last word representing Lat. erecta. With rolled r, alarm becomes alarum, whence the aphetic larum—

Ger. Lärm, noise, is the same word. In Luther's time we also find Allerm.

We have the Arabic definite article in a great many words borrowed from Spanish. Alcalde, or alcade, and alguazil, common in Elizabethan literature, are two old friends from the Arabian Nights, the cadi and the wazir, or vizier. The Arabic article also occurs in acton, Old Fr. auqueton, now hoqueton, for al qutn (cotton), because originally used of a wadded coat—

In alligator, Span. el lagarto, the lizard, from Lat. lacertus, we have the Spanish definite article. See also lariat, p. 24.

A foreign word ending in a sibilant is sometimes mistaken for a plural. Thus Old Fr. assets (assez), enough, Lat. ad satis, has given Eng. assets, plural, with a barbarous, but useful, singular asset. Cherry is for cheris, from a dialect form of Fr. cerise, and sherry for sherris, from Xeres in Spain (see p. 51). Falstaff opines that—

Pea is a false singular from older pease, Lat. pisum. Perhaps the frequent occurrence of pease-soup, not to be distinguished from pea-soup, is partly responsible for this mistake. Marquee, a large tent, is from Fr. marquise. With this we may class the heathen Chinee and the Portugee. Milton wrote correctly of—

It has been ingeniously suggested that Yankee has been derived in the same way from Du. Jan Kees, John Cornelius, supposed to have been a nickname for early Dutch colonists. It is more probably the Dutch dim. Janke, i.e. Johnny. The vulgarism shay for chaise[90] is of similar formation. Corp, for corpse, is also used provincially. Kickshaws is really a singular from Fr. quelque chose—

Cotgrave spells it quelkchoses (s.v. fricandeau).

Skate has a curious history. It is a false singular from Du. schaats. This is from escache, an Old French dialect form of échasse, stilt, which was used in the Middle Ages for a wooden leg. It is of German origin, and is related to shank. Cf., for the sense development, Eng. patten, from Fr. patin, a derivative of patte, foot, cognate with paw. Skates are still called pattens by the fenmen of Cambridgeshire. We also had formerly a doublet from Old Fr. escache directly, but in the older sense, for Cotgrave has eschasses (échasses), "stilts, or scatches to go on." Row, a disturbance, belongs to rouse, a jollification—

of uncertain origin, but probably aphetic for carouse, drink carouse being wrongly separated as drink a rouse. The bird called a wheatear was formerly called wheatears, a corruption of a name best explained by its French equivalent cul blanc, "the bird called a whittaile" (Cotgrave). We may compare the bird-name redstart, where start means rump.

Conversely a word used in the plural is sometimes regarded as a singular, the result being a double plural. Many Latin neuter plurals were adopted into French as feminine singulars, e.g., cornua, corne, horn; labra, lèvre, lip; vela, voile, sail. It is obvious that this is most likely to occur in the case of plurals which are used for a pair, or set, of things, and thus have a kind of collective sense. Breeches or breeks is a double plural, Anglo-Sax. brēc being already the plural of brōc. In Mid. English we still find breche or breke used of this garment. Trousers was earlier trouses, plural of trouse, now trews, and was used especially of Irish native costume. The latest researches throw doubt on the identity of these words with Fr. trousse, a page's short breeches. The etymology which now finds most favour is Irish and Gaelic triubhas, from Late Lat. tubracci or tribracci, which is supposed to be a corrupted compound from tibia, leg, shank, and braccæ, breeches. Bodice is for bodies, as pence is for pennies. Cotgrave explains corset by "a paire of bodies for a woman," and the plural sense occurs as late as Harrison Ainsworth—

Trace, of a horse, is the Old Fr. plural trais[91] (traits) of trait, "a teame-trace" (Cotgrave). Apprentice is the plural of Fr. apprenti, formerly apprentif, a derivative of apprendre, to learn, hence a disciple. Invoice is the plural of the obsolete invoy, from Fr. envoi, sending.

In the Grecian steps, at Lincoln, we have a popular corruption of the common Mid. Eng. and Tudor grece, grese, plural of Old Fr. gré, step, from Lat. gradus. Shakespeare spells it grize—

Scot. brose, or brewis, was in Mid. Eng. browes, from Old Fr. brouez, plural of brouet, a word cognate with our broth. From this association comes perhaps the use of broth as a plural in some of our dialects. Porridge, not originally limited to oatmeal, seems to be combined from pottage and Mid. Eng. porrets, plural of porret, leek, a diminutive from Lat. porrum. Porridge is sometimes used as a plural in Scottish—

and in the northern counties of England people speak of taking "a few" porridge, or broth. Baize, now generally green, is for earlier bayes, the plural of the adjective bay, now used only of horses; cf. Du. baai, baize. The origin of the adjective bay, Fr. bai, forms of which occur in all the Romance languages, is Lat. badius, "of bay colour, bayarde" (Cooper). Hence the name Bayard, applied to FitzJames' horse in The Lady of the Lake (v. 18), and earlier to the steed that carried the four sons of Aymon. Quince is the plural of quin, from the Norman form of Old Fr. coin (coing), which is derived from Gk. κυδώνιον. Truce is the plural of Mid. Eng. trewe (lit. truth, faith) with the same meaning. Already in Anglo-Saxon it is found in the plural, probably as rendering Lat. induciæ. Lettuce, Mid. Eng. letows, seems also to be a plural, from Fr. laitue, Lat. lactuca.

Earnest in the sense of pledge—

has nothing to do with the adjective earnest. It is the Mid. Eng. ernes, earlier erles, which survives as arles in some of our dialects. The verb to earl is still used in Cumberland of "enlisting" a servant with a shilling in the open market. The Old French word was arres or erres, now written learnedly arrhes, a plural from Lat. arrha, "an earnest penny, earnest money" (Cooper). The existence of Mid. Eng. erles shows that there must have been also an Old French diminutive form. For the apparently arbitrary change of l to n we may compare banister for baluster (see p. 60).

The jesses of a hawk—

were the thongs by which it was held or "thrown" into the air. Jess is the Old Fr. jes, the plural of jet, from jeter, to throw. In Colman's Elder Brother we read of a gentleman who lounged and chatted, "not minding time a souse," where souse is the plural of Fr. sou, halfpenny. From Fr. muer, to moult, Lat. mutare, we get Fr. mue, moulting, later applied to the coop or pen in which moulting falcons were confined, whence the phrase "to mew (up)"—

When, in 1534, the royal mews, or hawk-houses, near Charing Cross were rebuilt as stables, the word acquired its present meaning.

Chess, Old Fr. esches (échecs), is the plural of check, Fr. échec, from Persian shāh, king. By analogy with the "game of kings," the name jeu des dames was given in French to draughts, still called dams in Scotland. Draught, from draw, meant in Mid. English a "move" at chess. The etymology of tweezers can best be made clear by starting from French étui, a case, of doubtful origin. This became in English etwee, or twee, e.g., Cotgrave explains estui (étui) as "a sheath, case, or box to put things in; and (more particularly) a case of little instruments, as sizzars, bodkin, penknife, etc., now commonly termed an ettwee." Such a case generally opens book-fashion, each half being fitted with instruments. Accordingly we find it called a surgeon's "pair of twees," or simply tweese, and later a "pair of tweeses." The implement was named from the case (cf. Fr. boussole, p. 127), and became tweezers by association with pincers (Fr. pinces), scissors, etc.

The form of a word is often affected by association with some other word with which it is instinctively coupled. Thus larboard, for Mid. Eng. ladeboard, i.e. loading side, is due to starboard, steering side. Bridal, for bride-ale, from the liquid consumed at marriage festivities, is due to analogy with betrothal, espousal, etc. A 16th-century Puritan records with satisfaction the disappearance of—

Rampart is from Old Fr. rempar, a verbal noun from remparer, to repair; cf. Ital. riparo, "a rampire, a fort, a banke" (Florio). By analogy with Old Fr. boulevart (boulevard), of German origin and identical with our bulwark,[93] rempar became rempart. The older English form occurs in the obsolete rampier or rampire, which survive in the dialect ramper, embankment, causeway. For the spelling rampire we may compare umpire (p. 113). The apple called a jenneting, sometimes "explained" as for June-eating, was once spelt geniton, no doubt for Fr. jeanneton, a diminutive of Jean. It is called in French pomme de Saint-Jean, and in German Johannisapfel, because ripe about St John's Day (June 24). The modern form is due to such apple names as golding, sweeting, codlin, pippin.

In the records of medieval London we frequently come across the distinction made between people who lived "in the city," Anglo-Fr. deinz (dans) la cité, and "outside the city," Anglo-Fr. fors (hors) la cité. The former were called deinzein, whence our denizen, and the latter forein.[94] The Anglo-French form of modern Fr. citoyen was citein, which became citizen by analogy with denizen. The following passage from a medieval London by-law shows how rigid was the division between "denizen" and "foreign" traders—

Even words which have opposite meanings may affect each other by association. Thus Lat. reddere, to give back, became Vulgar Lat. *rendere by analogy with prendere (prehendere), to take away; hence Fr. rendre. Our word grief, from Fr. grief, is derived from a Vulgar Lat. *grĕvis, heavy (for grăvis), which is due to lĕvis, light.

The plural of titmouse is now usually titmice, by analogy with mouse, mice, with which it has no connection. The second part of the word is Anglo-Sax. māse, used of several small birds. It is cognate with Ger. Meise, titmouse, and Fr. mésange, "a titmouse, or tittling" (Cotgrave). Tit, of Norse origin, is applied to various small animals, and occurs also as a prefix in titbit or tidbit. Cf. tomtit (p. 37).

The Spanish word salva, "a taste, a salutation" (Percyvall), was used of the pregustation of a great man's food or drink. We have given the name to the tray or dish from which the "assay" was made, but, by analogy with platter, trencher, we spell it salver. In another sense, that of a "salutation" in the form of a volley of shot, we have corrupted it into salvo. With the use of Span. salva we may compare that of Ital. credenza, lit. faith, "the taste or assaie of a princes meate and drinke" (Florio), whence Fr. crédence, side-board, used in English only in the ecclesiastical compound credence table, and Ger. credenzen, to pour out.

In spoken English the ending -ew, -ue, of French origin, has been often changed to -ee, -ey. Thus pedigree was formerly pedigrew (see p. 77). The fencing term veney—

also spelt venew, is from Fr. venue, "a venny in fencing" (Cotgrave). Carew has become Carey, and Beaulieu, in Hampshire, is called Bewley. Under the influence of these double forms we sometimes get the opposite change, e.g., purlieu, now generally used of the outskirts of a town, is for purley, a strip of disforested woodland. This is a contraction of Anglo-Fr. pour-allée, used to translate the legal Lat. perambulatio, a going through. A change of venue[96] is sometimes made when it seems likely that an accused person, or a football team, will not get justice from a local jury. This venue is in law Latin vicinetum, neighbourhood, which gave Anglo-Fr. visné, and this, perhaps by confusion with the venire facias, or jury summons, became venew, venue.

In the preceding examples the form has been chiefly affected. In the word luncheon both form and meaning have been influenced by the obsolete nuncheon, a meal at noon, Mid. Eng. none-chenche, for *none-schenche, noon draught, from Anglo-Sax. scencan,[97] to pour. Drinking seems to have been regarded as more important than eating, for in some counties we find this nuncheon replaced by bever, the Anglo-French infinitive from Lat. bibere, to drink. Lunch, a piece or hunk, especially of bread, also used in the sense of a "snack" (cf. Scot. "piece"), was extended to luncheon by analogy with nuncheon, which it has now replaced—

The term folk-etymology is often applied in a narrower sense to the corruption of words through a mistaken idea of their etymology or origin. The tendency of the uneducated is to distort an unfamiliar or unintelligible word into some form which suggests a meaning. Some cases may have originated in a kind of heavy jocularity, as in sparrow-grass for asparagus or sparagus (see p. 66), or Rogue Riderhood's Alfred David for affidavit—

In others there has been a wrong association of ideas, e.g., the primrose, rosemary, and tuberose have none of them originally any connection with the rose. Primrose was earlier primerole, an Old French derivative of Latin primula; rosemary, French romarin, is from Lat. ros marinus, sea-dew; tuberose is the Latin adjective tuberosus, bulbous, tuberous. Or attempts are made at translation, such as Sam Weller's Have his carcase for Habeas Corpus, or the curious names which country folk give to such complaints as bronchitis, erysipelas, etc. To this class belongs Private Mulvaney's perversion of locomotor ataxy—

Our language is, owing to our borrowing habits, particularly rich in these gems. Examples familiar to everybody are crayfish from Fr. écrevisse, gilly-flower from Fr. giroflée, shame-faced for shamefast. Other words in which the second element has been altered are causeway, earlier causey, from the Picard form of Fr. chaussée, Lat. (via) calciata, i.e., made with lime, calx; penthouse, for pentice, Fr. appentis, "the penthouse of a house" (Cotgrave), a derivative of Old Fr. appendre, to hang to. Fr. hangar, a shed, now introduced into English by aviators as unnecessarily as garage by motorists, may also contain the same idea of "hanging."

In hiccough, for earlier hickup, an onomatopœic word, the spelling, suggested by cough, has not affected the pronunciation. Surcease is Fr. sursis, past participle of surseoir, "to surcease, pawse, intermit, leave off, give over, delay or stay for a time" (Cotgrave), Lat. supersedere. Taffrail has been confused with rail, its older form being tafferel, from Du. tafereel, diminutive of tafel, picture, from Lat. tabula. It meant originally the flat part of the stern of a ship ornamented with carvings or pictures. This is called tableau in nautical French. Fr. coutelas, an augmentative of Old Fr. coutel (couteau), knife, gave Eng. cutlass, which has no more etymological connection with "cutting" than a cutler, Fr. coutelier, or a cutlet, Fr. côtelette, little rib, Lat. costa. Cutlas was popularly corrupted into curtal-axe, the form used by Rosalind—

We have a similar corruption in pick-axe, Mid. Eng. pikeys, Old Fr. piquois, picquois, "a pickax" (Cotgrave), from the verb piquer. The word posthumous has changed its meaning through folk-etymology. It represents the Latin superlative postumus, latest born. By association with humus, ground, earth, it came to be used of a child born, or a work published, after its author's death, a meaning which the derivatives of postumus have in all the Romance languages.

The first part of the word has been distorted in pursy, short-winded—

Fr. poussif, from Lat. pulsus, throbbing. It was formerly used also in connection with horses—

Arquebus, Fr. arquebuse, is a doublet of hackbut, Old Fr. haquebute, "an haquebut, or arquebuse; a caliver" (Cotgrave). The corruption is due to arcus, bow. Both arquebus and hackbut are common in Scott—

The origin is Du. haakbus, hook-gun, the second element of which appears in blunderbuss. The first part of this word has undergone so many popular transformations that it is difficult to say which was the original form. Ludwig has Donner-büchs, Blunder-büchs, oder Muszketon, "a thunder-box; a blunder-buss; a musketoon; a wide-mouthed brass-gun, carrying about twenty pistol bullets at once." It was also called in German Plantier-büchs, from plantieren, to plant, set up, because fired from a rest. Du. bus, like Ger. Büchse, means both "box" and "gun." In the bushes, or axle-boxes, of a cart-wheel, we have the same word. The ultimate origin is Greek πύξος, the box-tree, whence also the learned word pyx. Fr. boîte, box, is cognate, and Fr. boussole, mariners' compass, is from the Italian diminutive bossola, "a boxe that mariners keepe their compasse in. Also taken for the compasse" (Florio).

Scissors were formerly cizars (cf. Fr. ciseaux), connected with Lat. cædere, to cut. The modern spelling is due to association with Lat. scissor, a cutter, tailor, from scindere, to cut. Runagate is well known to be a corrupt doublet of renegade, one who has "denied" his faith. Recreant, the present participle of Old Fr. recreire, Vulgar Lat. *recredere, to change one's faith, contains very much the same idea; cf. miscreant, lit. unbeliever. Jaunty, spelt janty by Wycherley and genty by Burns, is Fr. gentil, wrongly brought into connection with jaunt.

In some cases of folk-etymology it is difficult to see to what idea the corruption is due.[98] The mollusc called a periwinkle was in Anglo-Saxon pinewincla, which still survives in dialect as pennywinkle. It appears to have been influenced by the plant-name periwinkle, which is itself a corruption of Mid. Eng. pervenke, from Lat. pervinca; cf. Fr. pervenche. The material called lutestring was formerly lustring, Fr. lustrine, from its glossiness. A wiseacre is "one that knows or tells truth; we commonly use it in malam partem for a fool" (Blount, Glossographia, 1674). This comes, through Dutch, from Ger. Weissager, commonly understood as wise-sayer, but really unconnected with sagen, to say. The Old High Ger. wīzago, prophet, is cognate with Eng. witty. The military and naval word ensign is in Shakespeare corrupted, in both its meanings, into ancient. Thus Falstaff describes his tatterdemalion recruits as—

while Ancient Pistol is familiar to every reader. A cordwainer, from Old Fr. cordouanier, "a shoomaker, a cordwainer" (Cotgrave), worked with cordouan, "Cordovan leather; which is properly a goat's skin tanned." The modern French form cordonnier is due to association with cordon, a thong, bootlace, etc. Witch-elm has nothing to do with witches. It is for older weech-elm, wiche-elm, and belongs to Anglo-Sax. wīcan, to bend. Service-tree is a meaningless corruption of Mid. Eng. serves, an early loan word from Lat. sorbus.

In the case of a double-barrelled word, folk-etymology usually affects one half only, e.g., verdigris is for Fr. vert-de-gris, for Old Fr. vert de Grece, Greek green. The reason for the name is unknown. Cotgrave calls it "Spanish green." Mid. English had the more correct vertegresse and verte Grece (Promptorium Parvulorum, 1440). The cavalry trumpet-call boot and saddle is for Fr. boute-selle, lit. "put saddle." Court card is for coat card, a name given to these cards from the dresses depicted on them. Florio has carta di figura, "a cote carde." The card game called Pope Joan would appear to be in some way corrupted from nain jaune, lit. "yellow dwarf," its French name.

But occasionally the results of folk-etymology are literally preposterous.[99] The Fr. choucroute is from sūrkrūt, a dialect pronunciation of Ger. Sauer-kraut, sour cabbage, so that the first syllable, meaning "sour," has actually been corrupted so as to mean "cabbage." Another example, which I have never seen quoted, is the name of a beech-wood near the little town of Remilly in Lorraine. The trees of this wood are very old and curiously twisted, and they are called in French les jolis fous, where fou (Lat. fagus) is the Old French for "beech" (fouet, whip, is its diminutive). This is rendered in German as tolle Buchen, mad beeches, the fou having been misunderstood as referring to the fantastic appearance of the trees.

Forlorn hope is sometimes used metaphorically as though the hope were of the kind that springs eternal in the human breast. In military language it now means the leaders of a storming party—

but was earlier used of soldiers in any way exposed to special danger. Cotgrave has enfans perdus, "perdus; or the forlorne hope of a campe (are commonly gentlemen of companies)." It is from obsolete Du. verloren hoop, where hoop, cognate with Eng. heap, is used for a band or company. In 16th-century German we find ein verlorener Haufe. Both the Dutch and German expressions are obsolete in this sense.

The military phrase to run the gauntlet has no connection with gauntlet, glove. The older form gantlope—

It is a punishment of Swedish origin from the period of the Thirty Years' War. The Swedish form is gatlopp, in which gat is cognate with Eng. gate, in its northern sense of "street," and lopp with Eng. leap and Ger. laufen, to run.

The press-gang had originally nothing to do with "pressing." When soldiers or seamen were engaged, they received earnest money called prest-money, i.e., an advance on "loan," Old Fr. prest (prêt), and the engagement was called presting or impresting. Florio explains soldato (see p. 154), lit. "paid," by "prest with paie as soldiers are." The popular corruption to press took place naturally as the method of enlistment became more "pressing."

The black art is a translation of Old Fr. nigromance, "nigromancie, conjuring, the black art" (Cotgrave); but this is folk-etymology for nécromantie, Greco-Lat. necromantia, divination by means of the dead. The popular form négromancie still survives in French. To curry favour is a corruption of Mid. Eng. "to curry favel." The expression is translated from French. Palsgrave has curryfavell, a flatterer, "estrille faveau," estriller (étriller) meaning "to curry (a horse)." Faveau, earlier fauvel, is the name of a horse in the famous Roman de Fauvel, a satirical Old French poem of the early 14th century. He symbolises worldly vanity carefully tended by all classes of society. The name is a diminutive of Fr. fauve, tawny, cognate with Eng. fallow (deer). (See also p. 192, n.)

A very curious case of folk-etymology is seen in the old superstition of the hand of glory. This is understood to be a skeleton hand from the gallows which will point out hidden treasure—

It is simply a translation of Fr. main de gloire. But the French expression is a popular corruption of mandragore, from Lat. mandragora, the mandragore, or mandrake, to the forked roots of which a similar virtue was attributed, especially if the plant were obtained from the foot of the gallows.

Akin to folk-etymology is contamination, i.e., the welding of two words into one. This can often be noticed in children, whose linguistic instincts are those of primitive races. I have heard a child, on her first visit to the Zoo, express great eagerness to see the canimals (camels × animals), which, by the way, turned out to be the giraffes. A small boy who learnt English and German simultaneously evolved, at the age of two, the word spam (sponge × Ger. Schwamm). In a college in the English midlands, a student named Constantine, who sat next to a student named Turpin, once heard himself startlingly addressed by a lecturer as Turpentine. People who inhabit the frontier of two languages, and in fact all who are in any degree bilingual, must inevitably form such composites occasionally. The h aspirate of Fr. haut, Lat. altus, high, can only be explained by the influence of Old High Ger. hōh (hoch). The poetic word glaive cannot be derived from Lat. gladius, sword, which has given Fr. glai, an archaic name for the gladiolus. We must invoke the help of a Gaulish word cladebo, sword, which is related to Gaelic clay-more, big sword. It has been said that in this word the swords of Cæsar and Vercingetorix still cross each other. In Old French we find oreste, a storm, combined from orage and tempeste (tempête). Fr. orteil, toe, represents the mixture of Lat. articulus, a little joint, with Gaulish ordag. A battledore was in Mid. English a washing beetle, which is in Provençal batedor, lit. beater. Hence it seems that this is one of the very few Provençal words which passed directly into English during the period of our occupation of Guienne. It has been contaminated by the cognate beetle.

Cannibal is from Span. canibal, earlier caribal, i.e. Carib, the n being perhaps due to contamination with Span. canino, canine, voracious. It can hardly be doubted that this word suggested Shakespeare's Caliban. Seraglio is due to confusion between the Turkish word serai, a palace, and Ital. serraglio, "an inclosure, a close, a padocke, a parke, a cloister or secluse" (Florio), which belongs to Lat. sera, a bolt or bar.

Anecdotage is a deliberate coinage ascribed to John Wilkes—

In some cases it is impossible to estimate the different elements in a word. Arbour certainly owes its modern spelling to Lat. arbor, a tree, but it represents also Mid. Eng. herbere, erbere, which comes, through French, from Lat. *herbarium. But this can only mean herb-garden, so that the sense development of the word must have been affected by harbour, properly "army-shelter," ultimately identical with Fr. auberge (p. 164). When Dryden wrote—

he was expressing a composite idea made up from the verb seal, Old Fr. seeler (sceller), Lat. sigillare, and seel, Old Fr. ciller, Vulgar Lat. *ciliare, from cilium, eye-brow. The latter verb, meaning to sew together the eyelids of a young falcon, was once a common word—

The verb fret is Anglo-Sax. fretan, to eat away (cf. Ger. fressen). Fret is also used of interlaced bars in heraldry, in which sense it corresponds to Fr. frette with the same meaning; for this word, which also means ferrule, a Vulgar Lat. *ferritta (ferrum, iron) has been suggested. When Hamlet speaks of—

is he thinking of frets in heraldry, or of fretwork, or are these two of one origin? Why should fret, in this sense, not come from fret, to eat away, since fretwork may be described as the "eating away" of part of the material? Cf. etch, which comes, through Dutch, from Ger. ätzen, the factitive of essen, to eat. But the German for fretwork is durchbrochene Arbeit, "broken-through" work, and Old Fr. fret or frait, Lat. fractus, means "broken." Who shall decide how much our fretwork owes to each of these possible etymons?

That form of taxation called excise, which dates from the time of Charles I., has always been unpopular. Andrew Marvell says that Excise—

Dr Johnson defines it as "a hateful tax levied upon commodities, and adjudged not by the common judges of property, but wretches hired by those to whom excise is paid," an outburst which Lord Mansfield considered "actionable." The name, like the tax, came from the Netherlands, where it was called accijs—

In modern Dutch it has become accijns, through confusion with cijns, tax (Lat. census; cf. Ger. Zins, interest). But the Dutch word is from Fr. accise, which appears in medieval Latin as accisia, as though connected with "cutting" (cf. tallage, from Fr. tailler, to cut), or with the "incidence" of the tax. It is perhaps a perversion of Ital. assisa, "an imposition, or taxe, or assesment" (Torriano); but there is also an Old Fr. aceis which must be related to Latin census.

When folk-etymology and contamination work together, the result is sometimes bewildering. Thus equerry represents an older querry or quirry, still usual in the 18th century. Among my books is—

The modern spelling is due to popular association with Lat. equus. But this querry is identical with French écurie, stable, just as in Scottish the post often means the postman. And écurie, older escurie, is from Old High Ger. scura[100] (Scheuer, barn). The word used in modern French in the sense of our equerry is écuyer, older escuier, Lat. scutarius, shield-bearer, whence our word esquire. This écuyer is in French naturally confused with écurie, so that Cotgrave defines escuyrie as "the stable of a prince, or nobleman; also, a querry-ship; or the duties, or offices belonging thereto; also (in old authors) a squire's place; or, the dignity, title, estate of an esquire."

Ignorance of the true meaning of a word often leads to pleonasm. Thus greyhound means hound-hound, the first syllable representing Icel. grey, a dog. Peajacket is explanatory of Du. pij, earlier pye, "py-gown, or rough gown, as souldiers and seamen wear" (Hexham). On Greenhow Hill means "on green hill hill," and Buckhurst Holt Wood means "beech wood wood wood," an explanatory word being added as its predecessor became obsolete. The second part of salt-cellar is not the same word as in wine-cellar. It comes from Fr. salière, "a salt-seller" (Cotgrave), so that the salt is unnecessary. We speak pleonastically of "dishevelled hair," while Old Fr. deschevelé, lit. dis-haired, now replaced by échevelé, can only be applied to a person, e.g., une femme toute deschevelée, "discheveled, with all her haire disorderly falling about her eares" (Cotgrave). The word cheer meant in Mid. English "face." Its French original chère scarcely survives except in the phrase faire bonne chère, lit. "make a good face," a meaning preserved in "to be of good cheer." In both languages the meaning has been transferred to the more substantial blessings which the pleasant countenance seems to promise, and also to the felicity resulting from good treatment. The true meaning of the word is so lost that we can speak of a "cheerful face," i.e., a face full of face.

But there are many words whose changes of form cannot be altogether explained by any of the influences that have been discussed in this and the preceding chapters. Why should cervelas, "a large kind of sausage, well season'd, and eaten cold in slices" (Kersey's Eng. Dict., 1720), now be saveloy? We might invoke the initial letters of sausage to account for part of the change, but the oy remains a mystery. Cervelas, earlier cervelat, comes through French from Ital. cervellato, "a kinde of dry sausage" (Florio), said to have been originally made from pig's brains. For hatchment we find in the 16th century achement, and even achievement. It is archaic Fr. hachement, the ornamental crest of a helmet, etc., probably derived from Old Fr. achemer, variant of acesmer, to adorn. Hence both the French and English forms have an unexplained h-, the earlier achement being nearer the original. French omelette has a bewildering history, but we can trace it almost to its present form. To begin with, an omelet, in spite of proverbs, is not necessarily associated with eggs. The origin is to be found in Lat. lamella, a thin plate,[101] which gave Old Fr. lamelle. Then la lamelle was taken as l'alamelle, and the new alamelle or alemelle became, with change of suffix, alemette. By metathesis (see p. 59) this gave amelette, still in dialect use, for which modern French has substituted omelette. The o then remains unexplained, unless we admit the influence of the old form œuf-mollet, a product of folk-etymology.

Counterpane represents Old Fr. coute-pointe, now corruptly courte-pointe, from Lat. culcita puncta, lit. "stitched quilt"; cf. Ger. Steppdecke, counterpane, from steppen, to stitch. In Old French we also find the corrupt form contrepointe which gave Eng. counterpoint—

in modern English replaced by counterpane. Mid. English has also the more correct form quilt-point, from the Old Norman cuilte (pur)pointe, which occurs in a 12th-century poem on St Thomas of Canterbury. The hooped petticoat called a farthingale was spelt by Shakespeare fardingale and by Cotgrave vardingall. This is Old Fr. verdugalle, of Spanish origin and derived from Span. verdugo, a (green) wand, because the circumference was stiffened with flexible switches before the application of whalebone or steel to this purpose. The crinoline, as its name implies, was originally strengthened with horse-hair, Lat. crinis, hair. To return to the farthingale, the insertion of an n before g is common in English (see p. 84, n. 2), but the change of the initial consonant is baffling. The modern Fr. vertugadin is also a corrupt form. Isinglass seems to be an arbitrary perversion of obsolete Du. huyzenblas (huisblad), sturgeon bladder; cf. the cognate Ger. Hausenblase.

Few words have suffered so many distortions as liquorice. The original is Greco-Lat. glycyrrhiza, lit. "sweet root," corrupted into late Lat. liquiritia, whence Fr. réglisse, Ital. legorizia, regolizia, and Ger. Lakritze. The Mid. English form licoris would appear to have been influenced by orris, a plant which also has a sweet root, while the modern spelling is perhaps due to liquor.

The largest class of doublets is formed by those words of Latin origin which have been introduced into the language in two forms, the popular form through Anglo-Saxon or Old French, and the learned through modern French or directly from Latin. Obvious examples are caitiff, captive; chieftain, captain; frail, fragile. Lat. discus, a plate, quoit, gave Anglo-Sax. disc, whence Eng. dish. In Old French it became deis (dais), Eng. dais, and in Ital. desco, "a deske, a table, a boord, a counting boord" (Florio), whence our desk. We have also the learned disc or disk, so that the one Latin word has supplied us with four vocables, differentiated in meaning, but each having the fundamental sense of a flat surface.

Dainty, from Old Fr. deintié, is a doublet of dignity. Ague is properly an adjective equivalent to acute, as in Fr. fièvre aigue. The paladins were the twelve peers of Charlemagne's palace, and a Count Palatine is a later name for something of the same kind. One of the most famous bearers of the title, Prince Rupert, is usually called in contemporary records the Palsgrave, from Ger. Pfalzgraf, lit. palace count, Ger. Pfalz being a very early loan from Lat. palatium. Trivet, Lat. tripes, triped-, dates back to Anglo-Saxon, its "rightness" being due to the fact that a three-legged stool stands firm on any surface. In the learned doublets tripod and tripos we have the Greek form. Spice, Old Fr. espice (épice), is a doublet of species. The medieval merchants recognised four "kinds" of spice, viz., saffron, cloves, cinnamon, nutmegs.

Coffin is the learned doublet of coffer, Fr. coffre, from Lat. cophinus. It was originally used of a basket or case of any kind, and even of a pie-crust—

Its present meaning is an attempt at avoiding the mention of the inevitable, a natural human weakness which has popularised in America the horrible word casket in this sense. The Greeks, fearing death less than do the moderns, called a coffin plainly σαρκοφάγος, flesh-eater, whence indirectly Fr. cercueil and Ger. Sarg.

The homely mangle, which comes to us from Dutch, is a doublet of the warlike engine called a mangonel—

which is Old French. The source is Greco-Lat. manganum, apparatus, whence Ital. mangano, with both meanings. The verb mangle, to mutilate, is unrelated.

Sullen, earlier soleyn, is a popular doublet of solemn, in its secondary meaning of glum or morose. In the early Latin-English dictionaries solemn, soleyn, and sullen are used indifferently to explain such words as acerbus, agelastus, vultuosus. Shakespeare speaks of "customary suits of solemn black" (Hamlet, i. 2), but makes Bolingbroke say—

while the "solemn curfew" (Tempest, v. 1) is described by Milton as "swinging slow with sullen roar" (Penseroso, l. 76). The meaning of antic, a doublet of antique, has changed considerably, but the process is easy to follow. From meaning simply ancient it acquired the sense of quaint or odd, and was applied to grotesque[102] work in art or to a fantastic disguise. Then it came to mean buffoon, in which sense Shakespeare applies it to grim death—

and lastly the meaning was transferred to the capers of the buffoon. From Old High Ger. faltan (falten), to fold, and stuol (Stuhl), chair, we get Fr. fauteuil. Medieval Latin constructed the compound faldestolium, whence our ecclesiastical faldstool, a litany desk. Revel is from Old Fr. reveler, Lat. rebellare, so that it is a doublet of rebel. Holyoak's Latin Dictionary (1612) has revells or routs, "concursus populi illegitimus." Its sense development, from a riotous concourse to a festive gathering, has perhaps been affected by Fr. réveiller, to wake, whence réveillon, a Christmas Eve supper, or "wake." Cf. Ital. vegghia, "a watch, a wake, a revelling a nights" (Florio).

The very important word money has acquired its meaning by one of those accidents which are so common in word-history. The Roman mint was attached to the temple of Juno Moneta, i.e., the admonisher, from monēre, and this name was transferred to the building. The Romans introduced moneta, in the course of their conquests, into French (monnaie), German (Münze), and English (mint). The French and German words still have three meanings, viz., mint, coin, change. We have borrowed the French word and given it the general sense represented in French by argent, lit. silver. The Ger. Geld, money, has no connection with gold, but is cognate with Eng. yield, as in "the yield of an investment," of which we preserve the old form in wergild, payment for having killed a man (Anglo-Sax. wer). To return to moneta, we have a third form of the word in moidore—

from Port. moeda de ouro, money of gold.

Sometimes the same word reaches us through different languages. Thus charge is French and cargo is Spanish, both belonging to a Vulgar Lat. *carricare from carrus, vehicle. In old commercial records we often find the Anglo-Norman form cark, a load, burden, which survives now only in a metaphorical sense, e.g. carking, i.e. burdensome, care. Lat. domina has given us through French both dame and dam,[103] and through Spanish duenna; while Ital. donna occurs in the compound madonna and the donah of the East End costermonger. Lat. datum, given, becomes Fr. dé and Eng. die (plural dice). Its Italian doublet is dado, originally cubical pedestal, hence part of wall representing continuous pedestal. Scrimmage and skirmish are variant spellings of Fr. escarmouche, from Ital. scaramuccia, of German origin (see p. 64, n.). But we have also, more immediately from Italian, the form scaramouch. Blount's Glossographia (1674) mentions Scaramoche, "a famous Italian Zani (see p. 45), or mimick, who acted here in England, 1673." Scaramouch was one of the stock characters of the old Italian comedy, which still exists as the harlequinade of the Christmas pantomime, and of which some traces survive in the Punch and Judy show. He was represented as a cowardly braggart dressed in black. The golfer's stance is a doublet of the poet's stanza, both of them belonging to Lat. stare, to stand. Stance is Old French and stanza is Italian, "a stance or staffe of verses or songs" (Florio). A stanza is then properly a pause or resting place, just as a verse, Lat. versus, is a "turning" to the beginning of the next line.

Different French dialects have supplied us with many doublets. Old Fr. chacier (chasser), Vulgar Lat. *captiare, for captare, a frequentative of capere, to take, was in Picard cachier. This has given Eng. catch, which is thus a doublet of chase. In cater (see p. 63) we have the Picard form of Fr. acheter, but the true French form survives in the family name Chater.[104] In late Latin the neuter adjective capitale, capital, was used of property. This has given, through Old Fr. chatel, our chattel, while the doublet catel has given cattle, now limited to what was once the most important form of property. Fr. cheptel is still used of cattle farmed out on a kind of profit-sharing system. This restriction of the meaning of cattle is paralleled by Scot. avers, farm beasts, from Old Fr. aver[105] (avoir), property, goods. The history of the word fee, Anglo-Sax. feoh, cattle, cognate with Lat. pecus, whence pecunia, money, also takes us back to the times when a man's wealth was estimated by his flocks and herds; but, in this case, the sense development is exactly reversed.

Fr. jumeau, twin, was earlier gemeau, still used by Corneille, and earlier still gemel, Lat. gemellus, diminutive of geminus, twin. From one form we have the gimbals, or twin pivots, which keep the compass horizontal. Shakespeare uses it of clockwork—

and also speaks of a gimmal bit (Henry V., iv. 2). In the 17th century we find numerous allusions to gimmal rings (variously spelt). The toothsome jumble, known to the Midlands as "brandy-snap," is the same word, this delicacy having apparently at one time been made in links. We may compare the obsolete Ital. stortelli, lit. "little twists," explained by Torriano as "winding simnels, wreathed jumbals."

An accident of spelling may disguise the origin and meaning of a word. Tret is Fr. trait, in Old French also tret, Lat. tractus, pull (of the scale). It was usually an allowance of four pounds in a hundred and four, which was supposed to be equal to the sum of the "turns of the scale" which would be in the purchaser's favour if the goods were weighed in small quantities. Trait is still so used in modern French.

A difference in spelling, originally accidental, but perpetuated by an apparent difference of meaning, is seen in flour, flower; metal, mettle. Flour is the flower, i.e. the finest part, of meal, Fr. fleur de farine, "flower, or the finest meale" (Cotgrave). In the Nottingham Guardian (29th Aug. 1911) I read that—

It might be added that this author is in the excellent company of Shakespeare—

There is no more etymological difference between metal and mettle than between the "temper" of a cook and that of a sword-blade.

Parson is a doublet of person, the priest perhaps being taken as "representing" the Church, for Lat. persona, an actor's mask, from per, through, and sonare, to sound,[106] was also used of a costumed character or dramatis persona. Mask, which ultimately belongs to an Arabic word meaning buffoon, has had a sense development exactly opposite to that of person, its modern meaning corresponding to the Lat. persona from which the latter started. Parson shows the popular pronunciation of er, now modified by the influence of traditional spelling. We still have it in Berkeley, clerk, Derby, sergeant, as we formerly did in merchant. Proper names, in which the orthography depends on the "taste and fancy of the speller," or the phonetic theories of the old parish clerk, are often more in accordance with the pronunciation, e.g., Barclay, Clark, Darby, Sargent, Marchant. Posy, in both its senses, is a contraction of poesy, the flowers of a nosegay expressing by their arrangement a sentiment like that engraved on a ring. The latter use is perhaps obsolete—

The poetic word glamour is the same as grammar, which had in the Middle Ages the sense of mysterious learning. From the same source we have the French corruption grimoire, "a booke of conjuring" (Cotgrave). Glamour and gramarye were both revived by Scott—

For the change of r to l we have the parallel of flounce for older frounce (p. 60). Quire is the same word as quair, in the "King's Quair" i.e. book. Its Mid. English form is quayer, Old Fr. quaer, caer (cahier), Vulgar Lat. *quaternum, for quaternio, "a quier with foure sheetes" (Cooper).

Oriental words have sometimes come into the language by very diverse routes. Sirup, or syrup, sherbet, and (rum)-shrub are of identical origin, ultimately Arabic. Sirup, which comes through Spanish and French, was once used, like treacle (p. 75), of medicinal compounds—

Sherbet and shrub are directly borrowed through the medium of travellers—

Sepoy, used of Indian soldiers in the English service, is the same as spahi, the French name for the Algerian cavalry. Both come ultimately from a Persian adjective meaning "military," and the French form was at one time used also in English in speaking of Oriental soldiery—

Tulip is from Fr. tulipe, formerly tulipan, "the delicate flower called a tulipa, tulipie, or Dalmatian cap" (Cotgrave). It is a doublet of turban. The German Tulpe was also earlier Tulipan.

The humblest of medieval coins was the maravedi, which came from Spain at an early date, though not early enough for Robin Hood to have said to Isaac of York—

The name is due to the Moorish dynasty of the Almaravides or Marabouts. This Arabic name, which means hermit, was given also to a kind of stork, the marabout, on account of the solitary and sober habits which have earned in India for a somewhat similar bird the name adjutant (p. 34).

Cipher and zero do not look like doublets, but both of them come from the same Arabic word. The medieval Lat. zephyrum connects the two forms. Crimson and carmine, both of them ultimately from Old Spanish, are not quite doublets, but both belong to kermes, the cochineal insect, of Arabic origin.

The relationship between cipher and zero is perhaps better disguised than that between furnish and veneer, though this is by no means obvious. Veneer, spelt fineer by Smollett, is Ger. fournieren, borrowed from Fr. fournir[107] and specialised in meaning. Ebers' German Dict. (1796) has furnieren, "to inlay with several sorts of wood, to veneer."

The doublets selected for discussion among the hundreds which exist in the language reveal many etymological relationships which would hardly be suspected at first sight. Many other words might be quoted which are almost doublets. Thus sergeant, Fr. sergent, Lat. serviens, servient-, is almost a doublet of servant, the present participle of Fr. servir. The fabric called drill or drilling is from Ger. Drillich, "tick, linnen-cloth woven of three threads" (Ludwig). This is an adaptation of Lat. trilix, trilic-, which, through Fr. treillis, has given Eng. trellis. We may compare the older twill, of Anglo-Saxon origin, cognate with Ger. Zwilch or Zwillich, "linnen woven with a double thread" (Ludwig). Robe, from French, is cognate with rob, and with Ger. Raub, booty, the conqueror decking himself in the spoils of the conquered. Musk is a doublet of meg in nutmeg, Fr. noix muscade. In Mid. English we find note-mugge, and Cotgrave has the diminutive muguette, "a nutmeg"; cf. modern Fr. muguet, the lily of the valley. Fr. dîner and déjeuner both represent Vulgar Lat. *dis-junare, to break fast, from jejunus, fasting. The difference of form is due to the shifting of the accent in the Latin conjugation, e.g., dis-junáre gives Old Fr. disner (dîner), while dis-júnat gives Old Fr. desjune (déjeune).

Admiral, earlier amiral, comes through French from the Arab. amir, an emir. Its Old French forms are numerous, and the one which has survived in English may be taken as an abbreviation of Arab. amir al bahr emir on the sea. Greco-Lat. pandura, a stringed instrument, has produced an extraordinary number of corruptions, among which some philologists rank mandoline. Eng. bandore, now obsolete, was once a fairly common word, and from it, or from some cognate Romance form, comes the negro corruption banjo—

Florio has pandora, pandura, "a musical instrument with three strings, a kit, a croude,[108] a rebecke." Kit, used by Dickens—

seems to be a clipped form from Old French dialect quiterne, for guiterne, Greco-Lat. cithara. Cotgrave explains mandore as a "kitt, small gitterne." The doublet guitar is from Spanish.

The two pretty words dimity and samite—

are both connected with Gk. μίτος, thread. Dimity is the plural, dimiti, of Ital. dimito, "a kind of course cotton or flanell" (Florio), from Greco-Lat. dimitus, double thread (cf. twill, p. 148). Samite, Old Fr. samit, whence Ger. Samt, velvet, is in medieval Latin hexamitus, six-thread; this is Byzantine Gk. ἑξάμιτον, whence also Old Slavonic aksamitu. The Italian form is sciamito, "a kind of sleave, feret, or filosello silke" (Florio). The word feret used here by Florio is from Ital. fioretto, little flower. It was also called floret silk. Florio explains the plural fioretti as "a kind of course silke called f[l]oret or ferret silke," and Cotgrave has fleuret, "course silke, floret silke." This doublet of floweret is not obsolete in the sense of tape—

Parish and diocese are closely related, parish, Fr. paroisse, representing Greco-Lat. par-oikia (οἶκος, a house), and diocese coming through Old French from Greco-Lat. di-oikesis. Skirt is the Scandinavian doublet of shirt from Vulgar Lat. ex-curtus, which has also given us short. The form without the prefix appears in Fr. court, Ger. kurz, and the English diminutive kirtle—

These are all very early loan words.

A new drawing-room game for amateur philologists would be to trace relationships between words which have no apparent connection. In discussing, a few years ago, a lurid book on the "Mysteries of Modern London," Punch remarked that the existence of a villa seemed to be proof presumptive of that of a villain. This is etymologically true. An Old French vilain, "a villaine, slave, bondman, servile tenant" (Cotgrave), was a peasant attached to his lord's ville or domain, Lat. villa. For the degeneration in meaning we may compare Eng. boor and churl (p. 84), and Fr. manant, a clodhopper, lit. a dweller (see manor, p. 9). A butcher, Fr. boucher, must originally have dealt in goat's flesh, Fr. bouc, goat; cf. Ital. beccaio, butcher, and becco, goat. Hence butcher and buck are related. The extension of meaning of broker, an Anglo-Norman form of brocheur, shows the importance of the wine trade in the Middle Ages. A broker was at first[109] one who "broached" casks with a broche, which means in modern French both brooch and spit. The essential part of a brooch is the pin or spike.

When Kent says that Cornwall and Regan—

he is using a common Mid. English and Tudor word which comes, through Old Fr. maisniee, from Vulgar Lat. *mansionata, a houseful. A menial is a member of such a body. An Italian cognate is masnadiere, "a ruffler, a swashbuckler, a swaggerer, a high way theefe, a hackster" (Florio). Those inclined to moralise may see in these words a proof that the arrogance of the great man's flunkey was curbed in England earlier than in Italy. Old Fr. maisniee is now replaced by ménage, Vulgar Lat. *mansionaticum. A derivative of this word is ménagerie, first applied to the collection of household animals, but now to a "wild beast show."

A bonfire was formerly a bone-fire. We find bane-fire, "ignis ossium," in a Latin dictionary of 1483, and Cooper explains pyra by "bone-fire, wherein men's bodyes were burned." Apparently the word is due to the practice of burning the dead after a victory. Hexham has bone-fire, "een been-vier, dat is, als men victorie brandt." Walnut is related to Wales, Cornwall, the Walloons, Wallachia and Sir William Wallace. It means "foreign" nut. This very wide spread wal is supposed to represent the Celtic tribal name Volcæ. It was applied by the English to the Celts, and by the Germans to the French and Italians, especially the latter, whence the earlier Ger. welsche Nuss, for Walnuss. The German Swiss use it of the French Swiss, hence the canton Wallis or Valais. The Old French name for the walnut is noix gauge, Lat. Gallica. The relation of umbrella to umber is pretty obvious. The former is Italian—

Umber is Fr. terre d'ombre, shadow earth—

Ballad, originally a dancing song, Prov. ballada, is a doublet of ballet, and thus related to ball. We find a late Lat. ballare, to dance, in Saint Augustine, but the history of this group of words is obscure. The sense development of carol is very like that of ballad. It is from Old Fr. carolle, "a kinde of dance wherein many may dance together; also, a carroll, or Christmas song" (Cotgrave). The form corolla is found in Provençal, and carolle in Old French is commonly used, like Ger. Kranz, garland, and Lat. corona, of a social or festive ring of people. Hence it seems a reasonable conjecture that the origin of the word is Lat. corolla, a little garland.

Many "chapel" people would be shocked to know that chapel means properly the sanctuary in which a saint's relics are deposited. The name was first applied to the chapel in which was preserved the cape or cloak of St Martin of Tours. The doublet capel survives in Capel Court, near the Exchange. Ger. Kapelle also means orchestra or military band. Tocsin is literally "touch sign." Fr. toquer, to tap, beat, cognate with touch, survives in "tuck of drum" and tucket—

while sinet, the diminutive of Old Fr. sin, sign, has given sennet, common in the stage directions of Elizabethan plays in a sense very similar to that of tucket.

Junket is from Old Fr. joncade, "a certaine spoone-meat, made of creame, rose-water, and sugar" (Cotgrave), Ital. giuncata, "a kinde of fresh cheese and creame, so called bicause it is brought to market upon rushes; also a junket" (Florio). It is thus related to jonquil, which comes, through French, from Span. junquillo, a diminutive from Lat. juncus, rush. The plant is named from its rush-like leaves. Ditto, Italian, lit. "said," and ditty, Old Fr. dité, are both past participles,[110] from the Latin verbs dico and dicto respectively. The nave of a church is from Fr. nef, still occasionally used in poetry in its original sense of ship, Lat. navis. It is thus related to navy, Old Fr. navie, a derivative of navis. Similarly Ger. Schiff is used in the sense of nave, though the metaphor is variously explained.

The old word cole, cabbage, its north country and Scottish equivalent kail, Fr. chou (Old Fr. chol), and Ger. Kohl, are all from Lat. caulis, cabbage; cf. cauliflower. We have the Dutch form in colza, which comes, through French, from Du. kool-zaad, cabbage seed. Cabbage itself is Fr. caboche, a Picard derivative of Lat. caput, head. In modern French caboche corresponds to our vulgar "chump." A goshawk is a goose hawk, so called from its preying on poultry. Merino is related to mayor, which comes, through French, from Lat. maior, greater. Span. merino, Vulgar Lat. *majorinus, means both a magistrate and a superintendent of sheep-walks. From the latter meaning comes that of "sheepe driven from the winter pastures to the sommer pastures, or the wooll of those sheepe" (Percyvall). Portcullis is from Old Fr. porte coulisse, sliding door. Fr. coulisse is still used of many sliding contrivances, especially in connection with stage scenery, but in the portcullis sense it is replaced by herse (see p. 75), except in the language of heraldry. The masculine form coulis means a clear broth, or cullis, as it was called in English up to the 18th century. This suggests colander, which, like portcullis, belongs to Lat. colare, "to streine" (Cooper), whence Fr. couler, to flow.

Solder, formerly spelt sowder or sodder, and still so pronounced by the plumber, represents Fr. soudure, from the verb souder; cf. batter from Old Fr. batture, fritter from Fr. friture, and tenter (hooks)[111] from Fr. tenture. Fr. souder is from Lat. solidare, to consolidate. Fr. sou, formerly sol, a halfpenny, comes, like Ital. soldo, from Lat. solidus, the meaning of which appears also in the Italian participle soldato, a soldier, lit. a paid man. This Italian word has passed into French and German, displacing the older cognates soudard and Söldner, which now have a depreciatory sense. Eng. soldier is of Old French origin. It is represented in medieval Latin by sol[i]darius, glossed sowdeor in a vocabulary of the 15th century. As in solder, the l has been re-introduced by learned influence, but the vulgar sodger is nearer the original pronunciation.

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—