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 Soeldner, 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.

FOOTNOTES:

[102] I.e., grotto painting, Ital. grottesca, "a kinde of rugged unpolished painters worke, anticke worke" (Florio).

[103] See p. 120. The aristocracy of the horse is still testified to by the use of sire and dam for his parents.

[104] Sometimes this name is for cheater, escheatour (p. 84).

[105] Cf. avoirdupois, earlier avers de pois (poids), goods sold by weight.

[106] It is possible that this is a case of early folk-etymology and that persona is an Etruscan word.

[107] This is the accepted etymology; but it is more probable that furnieren comes from Fr. vernir, to varnish.

[108] See Crowther, p. 176.

[109] But the early use of the word in the sense of middle-man points to contamination with some other word of different meaning.

[110] But the usual Italian past participle of dire is detto.

[111] Hooks used for stretching cloth.



CHAPTER XI

HOMONYMS

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—

"Go to! He was no fool who first called you leeches." (Cloister and Hearth, Ch. 26.)

he was unaware that both leeches represent Anglo-Sax. laece, 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—

"I saw young Harry, with his beaver on, His cuisses on his thigh, gallantly arm'd, Rise from the ground like feather'd Mercury." (1 Henry IV., iv. 1.)

has, of course, no connection with the animal whose fur has been used for some centuries for expensive hats. It comes from Old Fr. baviere, 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—

"My basnet to a prentice cap, Lord Surrey's o'er the Till." (Marmion, vi. 21.)

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—

"What is here? The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus, All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters of my faith! You shall no more Be stomachers to my heart." (Cymbeline, iii. 4.)

[Page Heading: COMPOUND—CHASE]

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—

"Will it please you to see the epilogue, or hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company?" (Midsummer Night's Dream, v. 1.)

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—

"But the colonel said he must go, and he (the drum horse) was cast in due form and replaced by a washy, bay beast, as ugly as a mule." (KIPLING, The Rout of the White Hussars.)

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. enchasser, "to enchace, or set, in gold, etc." (Cotgrave), from chasse, 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 (hote), Lat. hospes, hospit-, guest. These two hosts are, however, ultimately related. It is curious that, while modern Fr. hote (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—

"Go, hop me over every kennel home." (Taming of the Shrew, iv. 3.)

is a doublet of channel and canal.

[Page Heading: MAN[OE]UVRE—MYSTERY]

"Oh villain! thou stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago, and wert taken with the manner." (1 Henry IV., ii. 4.)

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

"The manuring hand of the tiller shall root up all that burdens the soil." (MILTON, Reason of Church Government.)

Inure is similarly formed from Old Fr. en[oe]uvrer, literally "to work in," hence to accustom to toil.

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

"'A one-eyed calender, I think, sir,' faltered Tom.

"'They are pretty nearly the same thing, I believe,' said Mr Pecksniff, smiling compassionately; 'or they used to be in my time.'" (Martin Chuzzlewit, Ch. 6.)

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

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

"Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine." (Measure for Measure, iv. 2.)

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

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

"At last he put down a right bower[115] Which the same Nye had dealt unto me." (BRET HARTE, The Heathen Chinee.)

[Page Heading: QUARRY—QUARREL]

When Jack Bunce says—

"If they hurt but one hair of Cleveland's head, there will be the devil to pay, and no pitch hot." (Pirate, Ch. 36.)

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

"Would the nobility lay aside their ruth, And let me use my sword, I'd make a quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my lance." (Coriolanus, i. 1.)

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

"It is reported by William Brito that the arcubalista or arbalist was first shewed to the French by our king Richard the First, who was shortly after slain by a quarrel thereof." (CAMDEN, Remains concerning Britain.[117])

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

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

"And there they fly, or die, like scaled sculls, Before the belching whale." (Troilus and Cressida, v. 5.)

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

"The sere, the yellow leaf." (Macbeth, v. 3.)

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

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

"If any-one shall bee found tiplinge or drinkinge in any taverne, inne, or alehouse after the houre of nyne of the clock at night, when the tap-too beates, he shall pay 2s. 6d." (1644.)

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

Tassel, in "tassel gentle"—

"O, for a falconer's voice, To lure this tassel-gentle back again." (Romeo and Juliet, ii. 2.)

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

"Of this last there's little comes over right, therefore the vintners make Tent (which is a name for all wines in Spain, except white) to supply the place of it." (Howell, Familiar Letters, 1634.)

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

The Shakesperian utterance—

"Rather than so, come, fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance." (Macbeth, iii. 1.)

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

[Page Heading: WRONG ASSOCIATION]

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

"Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy." (Richard III., iv. 4.)

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

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

"'Osses soon will all be in the circusses, And if you want an ostler, try the work'uses." (E. V. LUCAS.)

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

[Page Heading: WRONG ASSOCIATION]

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

"I am gaun to eat my dinner quietly in the spence." (Old Mortality, Ch. 3.)

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

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

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

"Before the crystal palace, where he dwells, The armed angels hold their carousels." (ANDREW MARVELL, Lachrymae Musarum.)

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

"The queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet." (Hamlet, v. 2.)

Rabelais says that he is not one of those—

"Qui, par force, par oultraige et violence, contraignent les compaignons trinquer voyre carous et alluz[119] qui pis est." (Pantagruel, iii., Prologue.)

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

[Page Heading: FOOTPAD—PESTER]

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

"'Ye crack-rope padder, born beggar, and bred thief!' replied the hag." (Heart of Midlothian, Ch. 29.)

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

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

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

"Confined and pestered in this pinfold here." (Comus, l. 7.)

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

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

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

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

FOOTNOTES:

[112] Kluge, Etymologisches Woerterbuch.

[113] Now abbreviated to miss in a special sense.

[114] The Bowery of New York was formerly a homestead.

[115] Knave of trumps.

[116] In modern French the lemon is called citron and the citron cedrat.

[117] In the chapter on "Artillery." So also, in the Authorised Version—"Jonathan gave his artillery (his bow and arrows) unto his lad, and said unto him, 'Go, carry them into the city.'" (1 Samuel, xx. 40.) It is curious that the words artillery and gun both belong to the pre-gunpowder period.

[118] Hence, or rather from Du. hals, the hawse-holes, the "throat" through which the cable runs.

[119] Ger. all aus, all out.

[120] Hence the Mall and Pall-Mall, where games like croquet were played.

[121] The g- represents the Old High German prefix gi-, ge-. Cf. Eng. luck and Ger. Glueck.



CHAPTER XII

FAMILY NAMES

In the study of family names we come across very much the same phenomena as in dealing with other words. They are subject to the same phonetic accidents and to the distortions of folk-etymology, being "altered strangely to significative words by the common sort, who desire to make all to be significative" (Camden, Remains concerning Britain). Doublets and homonyms are of frequent occurrence, and the origin of some names is obscured by the well-meaning efforts of early philologists. It might be expected that a family name would by its very nature tend to preserve its original form. This is, however, not the case. In old parish registers one often finds on one page two or three different spellings for the same name, and there are said to be a hundred and thirty variants of Mainwaring.[122] The telescoped pronunciation of long names such as Cholmondeley, Daventry, Marjoribanks, Strachan, is a familiar phenomenon, and very often the shorter form persists separately, e.g., Posnett and Poslett occur often in Westmoreland for Postlethwaite; Beecham exists by the side of Beauchamp; Saint Clair and Saint Maur are usually reduced to Sinclair and Seymour; Boon[123] and Moon disguise the aristocratic Bohun and Mohun. In a story by Mr Wells, Miss Winchelsea's Heart, the name Snooks is gradually improved to Sevenoaks, from which in all probability it originally came, via Senoaks; cf. sennight for seven-night, and such names as Fiveash, Twelvetrees, etc. Folk-etymology converts Arblaster, the cross-bowman, into Alabaster, Thurgod into Thoroughgood, and the Cornish Hannibal into Honeyball. Beaufoy is a grammatical monstrosity. Its older form is Beaufou, fine beech (see p. 129), with an ambiguous second syllable. Malthus looks like Latin, but is identical with Malthouse, just as Bellows is for Bellhouse, Loftus for Lofthouse, and Bacchus, fined for intoxication, Jan. 5, 1911, for Bakehouse. But many odd names which are often explained as corruptions may also have their face-value. The first Gotobed was a sluggard, Godbehere was fond of this pious form of greeting, and Goodbeer purveyed sound liquor. With Toogood, perhaps ironical, we may compare Fr. Troplong, and with Goodenough a lady named Belle-assez, often mentioned in the Pipe Rolls. Physick occurs as a medieval nickname.

Family names fall into four great classes, which are, in descending order of size, local, baptismal, functional, and nicknames. But we have a great many homonyms, names capable of two or more explanations. Thus Bell may be for Fr. le bel or from a shop-sign, Collet a diminutive of Nicholas or an aphetic form of acolyte. Dennis is usually for Dionysius, but sometimes for le Danois, the Dane; Gillott, and all family names beginning with Gill-, may be from Gillian (see p. 46), or from Fr. Guillaume. A famous member of the latter family was Guillotin, the humanitarian doctor who urged the abolition of clumsy methods of decapitation. His name is a double diminutive, like Fr. diablotin, goblin. Leggatt is a variant of Lidgate, swing gate, and of Legate. Lovell is an affectionate diminutive or is for Old Fr. louvel, little wolf. It was also in Mid. English a dog's name, hence the force of the rime—

"The Rat (Ratcliffe), the Cat (Catesby), and Lovell, our dog, Rule all England under the Hog." (1484.)

It has a doublet Lowell. The name Turney, well known in Nottingham, is from the town of Tournay, or is aphetic for attorney. In the following paragraphs I generally give only one source for each name, but it should be understood that in many cases two or more are possible. The forms also vary.

[Page Heading: BAPTISMAL NAMES]

Baptismal names often give surnames without any suffix. Sometimes these are slightly disguised, e.g., Cobbett (Cuthbert), Garrett (Gerard), Hammond, Fr. Hamon (Hamo), Hibbert (Hubert), Jessop (Joseph), Neil (Nigel), Custance (Constance); or they preserve a name no longer given baptismally, e.g., Aldridge (Alderic), Bardell (Bardolph), Goodeve (Godiva), Goodlake (Guthlac), Goodrich (Goderic), Harvey[124] (Hervey, Fr. Herve), Mayhew (Old Fr. Mahieu, Matthew). With the help of diminutive suffixes we get Atkin (Adam), Bodkin (Baldwin), Larkin (Lawrence), Perkin, Parkin (Peter), Hackett (Haco), Huggin, Hutchin, Hewett, Hewlett, Howitt (Hugh), Philpot (Philip), Tibbet (Theobald or Isabella), Tillet (Matilda), Wilmot (William), Wyatt (Guy), Gilbey, Gibbon (Gilbert), etc., with numerous variants and further derivatives. The changes that can be rung on one favourite name are bewildering, e.g., from Robert we have Rob, Dob, Hob, and Bob; the first three with a numerous progeny, while Bob, now the favourite abbreviation, came into use too late to found a large dynasty. From Richard we have Richards and Richardson, and from its three abbreviations Rick, Dick, Hick, with their variants Rich, Digg, Hig, Hitch, one of the largest families of surnames in the language.[125] As the preceding examples show, family names are frequently derived from the mother. Other examples, which are not quite obvious, are Betts (Beatrice), Sisson (Cecilia), Moxon and Padgett (Margaret, Moggy, Madge, Padge), Parnell (Petronilla), Ibbotson (Ib, Isabella), Tillotson (Matilda). One group of surnames is derived from baptismal names given according to the season of the Church. Such are Pentecost, Pascal, whence Cornish Pascoe, Nowell, and Middlemas, a corruption of Michaelmas.[126] With these may be grouped Loveday, a day appointed for reconciliations.

[Page Heading: LOCAL NAMES]

Surnames derived from place of residence often contain a preposition, e.g., Atwood, Underhill, and sometimes the article as well, e.g., Atterbury, Bythesea. In Surtees, on the Tees, we have a French preposition and an English river name. Sometimes they preserve a word otherwise obsolete. Barton, a farmyard, originally a barley-field, has given its name to about thirty places in England, and thus, directly or indirectly, to many families. Bristow preserves what was once the regular pronunciation of Bristol. The famous north country name Peel means castle, as still in the Isle of Man. It is Old Fr. pel (pal), stake, and the name was originally given to a wooden hill-fort or stockade.

Many places which have given family names have themselves disappeared from the map, while others, now of great importance, are of too recent growth to have been used in this way. Many of our family names are taken from those of continental towns, especially French and Flemish. Camden says, "Neither is there any village in Normandy that gave not denomination to some family in England." Such are Bullen or Boleyn (Boulogne), Cullen (Cologne), Challis (Calais), Challen (Chalon), Chaworth (Cahors), Bridges[127] (Bruges), Druce (Dreux), Gaunt (Gand, Ghent), Lubbock (Luebeck), Luck (Luick, Liege), Mann (le Mans), Malins (Malines, Mechlin), Nugent (Nogent), Hawtrey (Hauterive), and Dampier (Dampierre). To decide which is the particular Hauterive or Dampierre in question is the work of the genealogist. Dampierre (Dominus Petrus) means Saint Peter. In some cases these names have been simplified, e.g., Camden notes that Conyers, from Coigniers, lit. quince-trees, becomes Quince.

French provinces have given us Burgoyne, Champain. Gascoyne or Gaskin, and Mayne, and adjectives formed from names of countries, provinces and towns survive in Allman (Allemand), Brabazon (le Brabancon, the Brabanter), Brett (le Bret or le Breton[128]), Pickard (le Picard), Poidevin[129] (le Poitevin), Mansell, Old Fr. Mancel (le Manceau, inhabitant of Maine or le Mans), Hanway and Hannay (le Hannuyer, the Hainaulter), Loring (le Lorrain), assimilated to Fleming, Champneys (le Champenois), with which we may compare Cornwallis, from the Old French adjective cornwaleis, man of Cornwall. To these may be added Pollock, which occasionally means the Pole, or Polack—

"Why then the Polack never will defend it." (Hamlet, iv. 4.)

Janaway, the Genoese, and Haunce, from the famous Hanse confederation. Morris means sometimes Moorish (see p. 49), and Norris, besides having the meaning seen in its contracted form nurse, Fr. nourrice, may stand for le Noreis, the Northerner. We still have a Norroy king-at-arms, lit. north king, who holds office north of the Trent.

In some cases the territorial de remains, e.g., Dolman is sometimes the same as Dalmain, d'Allemagne, Daubeney is d'Aubigne, Danvers is d'Anvers (Antwerp), Devereux is d'Evreux, a town which takes its name from the Eburovices, and Disney is d'Isigny. With these may be mentioned Dubberley, Fr. du Boulay, of the birch wood, and Dawnay, from Old Fr. aunai,[130] a grove of alders. The last governor of the Bastille was the Marquis de Launay (l'aunai). There is a large group of such words in French, coming from Latin collectives in -etum; d'Aubray is from Lat. arboretum, and has given also the dissimilated form Darblay, famous in English literature. Other examples are Chesney, Chaney, etc., the oak-grove,[131] Pomeroy, the apple-garden.

Names of French origin are particularly subject to corruption and folk-etymology. We have the classic example of Tess Durbeyfield.[132] Camden, in his Remains concerning Britain, gives, among other curious instances, Troublefield for Turberville. Greenfield is usually literal (cf. Whitfield, Whittaker, Greenacre, etc.), but occasionally for Grenville. Summerfield is for Somerville. The notorious Dangerfield was of Norman ancestry, from Angerville. Mullins looks a very English name, but it is from Fr. moulin, mill, as Musters is from Old Fr. moustier, monastery. Phillimore is a corruption of Finnemore, Fr. fin amour.

[Page Heading: OCCUPATIVE NAMES]

When we come to names which indicate office or trade, we have to distinguish between those that are practically nicknames, such as King, Duke, Bishop, Caesar[133] (Julius Caesar was a famous cricketer of the old school), and those that are to be taken literally. Many callings now obsolete have left traces in our surnames. The very common name Chapman reminds us that this was once the general term for a dealer (see p. 67), one who spends his time in chaffering or "chopping and changing." The grocer, or engrosser, i.e., the man who bought wholesale, Fr. en gros,[134] came too late to supplant the family name Spicer. Bailey, Old Fr. bailif (bailli), represents all sorts of officials from a Scotch magistrate to a man in possession. Bayliss seems to be formed from it like Williams from William. Chaucer, Old Fr. chaucier, now replaced by chaussetier, "a hosier, or hose-maker" (Cotgrave), is probably obsolete as an English surname. Mr Homer's ancestors made helmets, Fr. heaume. Jenner is for engenour, engineer (see gin, p. 65). In Ferrier traditional spelling seems to have triumphed over popular pronunciation (farrier), but the latter appears in Farrar. Chaucer's somonour survives as Sumner. Ark was once a general name for a bin, hence the name Arkwright. Nottingham still has a Fletcher Gate, Lister Gate, and Pilcher Gate. It is not surprising that the trade of fletcher, Old Fr. fleschier (Flechier), arrow-maker, should be obsolete. The Fletchers have absorbed also the fleshers, i.e. butchers, which explains why they so greatly outnumber the Bowyers (see p. 178), Boyers, etc. Lister, earlier littester, gave way to dighester, whence the name Dexter, well known in Nottingham, and this is now replaced by dyer. A Pilcher made pilches, or mantles; cf. the cognate Fr. name Pelissier, a maker of pelisses.[135] Kiddier was once equivalent to pedlar, from kid, a basket. Sailors still speak of the bread-kid. For the name Wait, see p. 76. The ancestor of the Poyser family made scales (poises), or was in charge of a public balance. Faulkner, falconer, Foster, Forster, forester, and Warner, warrener, go together. With the contraction of Warner we may compare Marner, mariner. Crowther means fiddler. The obsolete crowd, a fiddle, is of Celtic origin. It gave Old Fr. rote, the name of the instrument played by the medieval minstrels—

"Saxon minstrels and Welsh bards were extracting mistuned dirges from their harps, crowds, and rotes." (Ivanhoe, Ch. 41.)

Kemp is an old English word for warrior, champion. It represents, like Ger. kaempfen, to fight, a very early loan from Lat. campus, in the sense of battle-field.

[Page Heading: OBSOLETE CALLINGS]

Pinder, the man in charge of the pound or pinfold, was the name of a famous wicket-keeper of the last century. The still more famous cricketing name of Trumper means one who blows the trump. Cf. Horner and Corner, which have, however, alternative origins, a maker of horn cups and a coroner[136] respectively. A dealer in shalloon (see p. 47) was a Chaloner or Chawner. Parminter, a tailor, is as obsolete as its Old French original parmentier, a maker of parements, deckings, from parer, Lat. parare, to prepare. A member of the Parmentier family popularised the cultivation of the potato in France just before the Revolution, hence potage Parmentier, potato soup. The white tawer still plies his trade, but is hardly recognisable in Whittier. Massinger is a corruption of messenger. The Todhunter, or fox-hunter, used to get twelve pence per fox-head from the parish warden. Coltman is simple, but Runciman, the man in charge of the runcies or rouncies, is less obvious. Rouncy, a nag, is a common word in Mid. English. It comes from Old Fr. roncin (roussin), and is probably a derivative of Ger. Ross, horse. The Spanish form is rocin, "a horse or jade" (Minsheu, 1623), whence Don Quixote's charger Rocin-ante, "a jade formerly."

A park keeper is no longer called a Parker, nor a maker of palings and palisades a Palliser. An English sea-king has immortalised the trade of the Frobisher, or furbisher, and a famous bishop bore the appropriate name of Latimer, for Latiner. With this we may compare Lorimer, for loriner, harness-maker, a derivative, through Old French, of Lat. lorum, "a thong of leather; a coller or other thing, wherewith beastes are bounden or tyed; the reyne of a brydle" (Cooper). The Loriners still figure among the London City Livery Companies, as do also the Bowyers, Broderers, Fletchers (see p. 176), Horners (see p. 177), Pattenmakers, Poulters and Upholders (see p. 63). Scriven, Old Fr. escrivain (ecrivain), is now usually extended to Scrivener. For Cator see p. 63. In some of the above cases the name may have descended from a female, as we have not usually a separate word for women carrying on trades generally practised by men. In French there is a feminine form for nearly every occupation, hence such names as Labouchere, the lady butcher, or the butcher's wife.

The meaning of occupative names is not always on the surface. It would, for instance, be rash to form hasty conclusions as to the pursuits of Richard Kisser, whose name occurs in medieval London records. He probably made cuisses,[137] thigh armour, Fr. cuisse, thigh, Lat. coxa. A Barker employed bark for tanning purposes. Booker is a doublet of Butcher. A Cleaver was, in most cases, a mace-bearer, Old Fr. clavier (Clavier is a common family name in France) from Lat. clava, a club. He may, however, have sometimes been a porter, as Old Fr. clavier also means key-bearer, Lat. clavis, a key. A Croker, or Crocker, sold crocks, i.e., pottery. A Lander, or Launder, was a washer-man, Fr. lavandier. A Sloper made "slops," i.e., loose upper garments, overalls. A Reeder or Reader thatched with reeds. A Walker walked, but within a circumscribed space. He was also called a Fuller, Fr. fouler, to trample, or a Tucker, from a verb which perhaps meant once to "tug" or "twitch." In the following passage some manuscripts have toukere for walkere—

"And his clothis ben maad schyninge and white ful moche as snow, and which maner clothis a fullere, or walkere of cloth, may not make white on erthe." (WYCLIF, Mark, ix. 2.)

The fuller is still called Walker in Germany. Banister is a corruption of balestier, a cross-bow man; cf. banister for baluster (p. 60).

Some of the occupative names in -ward and -herd are rather deceptive. Hayward means hedge[138] guard. Howard is phonetically the Old French name Huard, but also often represents Hayward, Hereward, and the local Haworth, Howarth. For the social elevation of the sty-ward, see p. 90. Durward is door-ward. The simple Ward, replaced in its general sense by warden, warder, etc., is one of our commonest surnames. Similarly Herd, replaced by herdsman, is borne as a surname by one who, if he attains not to the first three, is usually held more honourable than the thirty. The hog-herd survives as Hoggart; Seward is sometimes for sow-herd; Calvert represents calf-herd, and Stoddart stot-herd, i.e., bullock-herd:—

"'Shentlemans!' cried Andie, 'Shentlemans, ye hielant stot! If God would give ye the grace to see yersel' the way that ithers see ye, ye would throw your denner up.'" (Catriona, Ch. 15.)

Lambert is in some cases lamb-herd, and Nutter is in all probability a perversion of neat-herd, through the North Country and Scot. nowt-herd. It is a common surname in Lancashire, and Alice Nutter was one of the Lancashire Witches.

[Page Heading: NICKNAMES]

In a sense all personal names are nicknames (see p. 114), since they all give that additional information which enables us to distinguish one person from another. The practice of giving nicknames suggested by appearance, physique, or habits is common to the European languages; but, on the whole, our nicknames compare very unfavourably with those of savage nations. We cannot imagine an English swain calling his lady-love "Laughing Water." From Roman times onward, European nicknames are in their general character obvious and prosaic, and very many of them are the reverse of complimentary. The most objectionable have either disappeared,[139] or the original meaning has become so obscured as to cease to give offence to the possessor. When a man had any choice in the matter, he naturally preferred not to perpetuate a grotesque name conferred on some ancestor. Medieval names were conferred on the individual, and did not become definitely hereditary till the Reformation. In later times names could only be changed by form of law. It is thus that Bugg became Norfolk Howard, a considerable transformation inspired by a natural instinct to "avoid the opinion of baseness," as Camden puts it. We no longer connect Gosse with goose, nor Pennefather with a miser. Cotgrave has pinse-maille (pince-maille), "a pinch peny, scrape-good, nigard, miser, penie-father." In Purcell we lose Old Fr. pourcel (pourceau), little pig, Fitch no longer means a pole-cat, nor Brock a badger. On the other hand, we generally regard Gosling as a nickname, while it is more often a variant of Jocelyn.

Names descriptive of appearance or habits often correspond pretty closely with those that are found in French. In some cases they are probably mere translations. Examples are: Merryweather (Bontemps), Drinkwater (Boileau[140]), Armstrong (Fortinbras), Lilywhite (Blanchefleur). Among colour names we have Black, Brown, White, and Grey, but seem to miss red. The explanation is that for this colour we have adopted the Northern form Reid (Read, Reed), or such French names as Rudge (rouge), Rouse (roux), Russell (Rousseau). With the last of these, Old Fr. roussel, cf. Brunel and Morel. Fr. blond has given Blount, Blunt, and the diminutive Blundell, which exist by the side of the fine old English name Fairfax, from Mid. Eng. fax, hair. Several other French adjectives has given us surnames, e.g., Boon (bon), Bonner (debonnaire), Grant (grand), Curtis (courtois), Power (pauvre), etc. Payn is the French adjective paien, pagan, Lat. paganus, in early use as a personal name.

[Page Heading: FOLK-ETYMOLOGY]

But many apparent nicknames are products of folk-etymology. Coward is for cowherd, Salmon for Salomon, Bone for Boon (v.s.), Dedman is a corruption of Debenham. Playfair means play-fellow, from an old word connected with the verb to fare, to journey. Patch may sometimes have meant a jester, from his parti-coloured garments, but is more often a variant of Pash, Pask, a baptismal name given to children christened at Easter, Old Fr. Pasque (Paque). Easter eggs are still called pash, pace, or paste eggs in the north of England. Blood is a Welsh name, son of Lud; cf. Bevan, Bowen, etc. Coffin is Fr. Chauvin, a derivative of Lat. calvus, bald. It has a variant Caffyn, the name of a famous cricketer. Dance, for Dans, is related to Daniel as Wills is to William. In the same way Pearce comes from Peter or Pierre. The older form of the name Pearce was borne by the most famous of ploughmen, as it still is by the most famous of soapmakers. Names such as Bull, Peacock, Greenman, are sometimes from shop or tavern signs. It is noteworthy that, as a surname, we often find the old form Pocock. The Green Man, still a common tavern sign, represented a kind of "wild man of the woods"; cf. the Ger. sign Zum wilden Mann.

In these remarks on surnames I have only tried to show in general terms how they come into existence, "hoping to incur no offence herein with any person, when I protest in all sincerity, that I purpose nothing less than to wrong any whosoever" (Camden). Many names are susceptible of alternative explanations, and it requires a genealogist, and generally some imagination, to decide to which particular source a given family can be traced. The two arguments sometimes drawn from armorial bearings and medieval Latin forms are worthless. Names existed before escutcheons and devices, and these are often mere puns, e.g., the Onslow family, of local origin, from Onslow in Shropshire, has adopted the excellent motto festina lente, "on slow." The famous name Sacheverell is latinised as De Saltu Capellae, of the kid's leap. This agrees with the oldest form Sau-cheverell, which is probably from a French place called Sault-Chevreuil du Tronchet (Manche). The fact that Napier of Merchiston had for his device n'a pier, no equal, does not make it any the less true that his ancestors were, like Perkin Warbeck's parents, "really, respectable people" (see p. 57).

Dr Brewer, in his Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, says of his own name—

"This name, which exists in France as Bruhiere and Brugiere, is not derived from the Saxon briwan (to brew), but the French bruyere (heath), and is about tantamount to the German Plantagenet (broom plant)."

A "German" Plantagenet should overawe even a Norfolk Howard. A more interesting identification, and a true one, is that of the name of the great engineer Telford, a corruption of Telfer, with Taillefer, the "iron cleaver."

[Page Heading: DAFT]

A curious feature in nomenclature is the local character of some nicknames. We have an instance of this in the Notts name Daft[141]—

"A Daft might have played in the Notts County Eleven in 1273 as well as in 1886." (BARDSLEY.)

The only occurrence of the name in the Hundred Rolls for the year 1273 is in the county of Notts.

FOOTNOTES:

[122] This is probably the record for a proper name, but does not by any means equal that of the word cushion, of the plural of which about four hundred variants are found in old wills and inventories.

[123] Another origin of this name is Fr. le bon.

[124] "The last two centuries have seen the practice made popular of using surnames for baptismal names. Thus the late Bishop of Carlisle was Harvey Goodwin, although for several centuries Harvey has been obsolete as a personal name" (Bardsley). Camden already complains that "surnames of honourable and worshipful families are given now to mean men's children for christian names." Forty years ago there was hardly a more popular name than Percy, while at the present day the admonition, "Be'ave yerself, 'Oward," is familiar to the attentive ear.

[125] It is even possible that Hood, Hudson, sometimes belong here, as Hud appears to have been used as a North Country alternative for Richard, though it is hard to see why. For proofs see BARDSLEY, Dict. of English Surnames, s.v. Hudd.

[126] Such a corruption, though difficult to explain phonetically, is not without example in uneducated or childish speech. Cf. tiddlebat or tittlebat, for stickleback. In stickler (p. 76) we have the opposite change.

[127] Of course also of English origin.

[128] Hence also the name Britton.

[129] Whence the perversion Portwine, examples of which occur in the London Directory.

[130] Old Fr. vernai, whence our Verney, Varney, has the same meaning; cf. Duverney, the name of a famous dancer. Old Fr. verne, alder, is of Celtic origin.

[131] Cf. Chenevix, old oak, a name introduced by the Huguenots.

[132] Other examples quoted by Mr Hardy are Priddle, from Paridelle, and Debbyhouse—"The Debbyhouses who now be carters were once the de Bayeux family" (Tess of the d'Urbervilles, v. 35).

[133] These names are supposed to have been generally conferred in consequence of characters represented in public performances and processions. In some cases they imply that the bearer was in the employment of the dignitary. We find them in other languages, e.g., Fr. Leroy, Leduc, Leveque; Ger. Koenig, Herzog, Bischof. Leveque has given Eng. Levick, Vick, and (Trotty) Veck.

[134] Gross, twelve dozen, seems to be of Germanic origin, the duodecimal hundred, Ger. Grosshundert, being Norse or Gothic. But Ger. Grosshundert means 120 only.

[135] Surplice, Old Fr. surpelis, is a compound of the same word. It was worn "over fur" in unheated medieval churches.

[136] Another, and commoner, source of the name is from residence at a "corner."

[137] See quotation from Henry IV. (p. 155).

[138] The obsolete hay, hedge, is also a common surname, Hay, Haig, Haigh, etc.

[139] The following occur in the index to Bardsley's English Surnames:—Blackinthemouth, Blubber, Calvesmawe, Cleanhog, Crookbone, Damned-Barebones, Drunkard, Felon, Greenhorn, Halfpenny, Hatechrist, Hogsflesh, Killhog, Leper, Mad, Measle, Milksop, Outlaw, Peckcheese, Peppercorn, Poorfish, Pudding, Ragman, Scorchbeef, Sourale, Sparewater, Sweatinbed, Twopenny, Widehose. Some of these are still found.

[140] Cf. also Ital. Bevilacqua.

[141] This word has degenerated. It is a doublet of deft.



CHAPTER XIII

ETYMOLOGICAL FACT AND FICTION

Romance and Germanic etymology dates from the middle of the 19th century, and is associated especially with the names of two great Germans, Friedrich Diez, who published his Woerterbuch der romanischen Sprachen in 1853, and Jakob Grimm, whose Deutsches Woerterbuch dates from 1852. These two men applied in their respective fields of investigation the principles of comparative philology, and reduced to a science what had previously been an amusement for the learned or the ignorant.

[Page Heading: EARLY ETYMOLOGISTS]

Men have always been fascinated by word-lore. The Greeks and Romans played with etymology in a somewhat metaphysical fashion, a famous example of which is the derivation of lucus a non lucendo. Medieval writers delight in giving amazing information as to the origin of the words they use. Their method, which may be called learned folk-etymology, consists in attempting to resolve an unfamiliar word into elements which give a possible interpretation of its meaning. Thus Philippe de Thauen, who wrote a kind of verse encyclopedia at the beginning of the 12th century, derives the French names of the days of the week as follows: lundi, day of light (lumiere), mardi, day of toil or martyrdom (martyre), mercredi, day of market (marche), jeudi, day of joy (joie), vendredi, day of truth (verite), samedi, day of sowing (semence). Here we perhaps have, not so much complete ignorance, as the desire to be edifying, which is characteristic of the medieval etymologists.

Playful or punning etymology also appears very early. Wace, whose Roman de Rou dates from about the middle of the 12th century, gives the correct origin of the word Norman—

"Justez (put) ensemble north et man Et ensemble dites northman."

But he also records the libellous theory that Normendie comes from north mendie (begs). We cannot always say whether an early etymology is serious or not, but many theories which were undoubtedly meant for jokes have been quite innocently accepted by comparatively modern writers.[142]

The philologists of the Renaissance period were often very learned men, but they had no knowledge of the phonetic laws by which sound change is governed. Nor were they aware of the existence of Vulgar Latin, which is, to a much greater extent than classical Latin, the parent of the Romance languages. Sometimes a philologist had a pet theory which the facts were made to fit. Hellenists like Henri Estienne believed in the Greek origin of the French language, and Perion even derived maison from the Gk. {oikon} ({oikos}, a house) by the simple method of prefixing an m. At other periods there have been Celtomaniacs, i.e., scholars who insisted on the Celtic origin of French.

The first English etymological dictionary which aims at something like completeness is the Guide into the Tongues of John Minsheu, published in 1617. This attempts to deal not only with English, but with ten other languages. It contains a great deal of learning, much valuable information for the student of Tudor literature, and some amazing etymologies. "To purloine,[143] or get privily away," is, says Minsheu, "a metaphor from those that picke the fat of the loines." Parmaceti, a corruption of spermaceti—

"And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth Was parmaceti for an inward bruise." (1 Henry IV., i. 3.)

he derives from Parma, which has given its name to parmesan cheese. On the word cockney[144] he waxes anecdotic, always a fatal thing in an etymologist—

"Cockney, or cockny, applied only to one borne within the sound of Bow-bell, that is, within the City of London, which tearme came first out of this tale: That a cittizens sonne riding with his father out of London into the country, and being a novice and meerely ignorant how corne or cattell increased, asked, when he heard a horse neigh, what the horse did; his father answered, the horse doth neigh; riding farther he heard a cocke crow, and said, doth the cocke neigh too?"

[Page Heading: EARLY ETYMOLOGISTS]

Moliere often makes fun of the etymologists of his time and has rather unfairly caricatured, as Vadius in Les Femmes savantes, the great scholar Gilles Menage, whose Dictionnaire etymologique, published in 1650, was long a standard work. Moliere's mockery and the fantastic nature of some of Menage's etymologies have combined to make him a butt for the ignorant, but it may be doubted whether any modern scholar, using the same implements, could have done better work. For Menage the one source of the Romance languages was classical Latin, and every word had to be traced to a Latin word of suitable form or sense. Thus Fr. haricot[145] is connected by him with Lat. faba, a bean, via the conjectural "forms" *fabarius, *fabaricus, *fabaricotus, *faricotus, *haricotus, a method to which no problem is insoluble.[146] He suggests that Fr. geindre, or gindre,[147] baker's man, comes from Lat. gener, son-in-law, because the baker's man always marries the baker's daughter; but this practice, common though it may be, is not of sufficiently unfailing regularity to constitute a philological law. Perhaps his greatest achievement was the derivation of Span. alfana,[148] a mare, from Lat. equus, a horse, which inspired a well-known epigram—

"Alfana vient d'equus, sans doute, Mais il faut avouer aussi Qu'en venant de la jusqu'ici Il a bien change sur la route."

These examples show that respect for Menage need not prevent his work from being a source of innocent merriment. But the above epigram loses some of its point for modern philologists, to whom equations that look equally fantastic, e.g. Eng. wheel and Gk. {kyklos},[149] are matters of elementary knowledge. On the other hand, a close resemblance between words of languages that are not nearly related is proof presumptive, and almost positive, that the words are quite unconnected. The resemblance between Eng. nut and Ger. Nuss is the resemblance of first cousins, but the resemblance of both to Lat. nux is accidental. Even in the case of languages that are near akin, it is not safe to jump to conclusions. The Greek cousin of Lat. deus is not {theos}, God, but {Zeus}, Jupiter.

[Page Heading: ANECDOTIC ETYMOLOGY]

An etymology that has anything to do with a person or an anecdote is to be regarded with suspicion. For both we want contemporary evidence, and, in the case of an anecdote, we never, to the best of my knowledge, get it. In Chapter III. are a number of instances of words formed according to authentic evidence from names of persons. But the old-fashioned etymologist will not be denied his little story. Thus, in explanation of spencer (p. 40), I find in a manual of popular information of the last century,[150] that—

"His Lordship, when Lord-lieutenant of Ireland, being out a-hunting, had, in the act of leaping a fence, the misfortune to have one of the skirts of his coat torn off; upon which his lordship tore off the other, observing, that to have but one left was like a pig with one ear! Some inventive genius took the hint, and having made some of these half-coats, out of compliment to his lordship, gave them the significant cognomen of Spencer!"

This is what Pooh-Bah calls "corroborative detail intended to give artistic verisimilitude to a bald and unconvincing narrative." From the same authority we learn that—

"Hurly-burly[151] is said to owe its origin to Hurleigh and Burleigh, two neighbouring families, that filled the country around them with contest and violence."

and that—

"The word boh! used to frighten children, was the name of Boh, a great general, the son of Odin, whose very appellation struck immediate panic in his enemies."[152]

The history of chouse exemplifies the same tendency. There is no doubt that it comes from a Turkish word meaning interpreter, spelt chaus in Hakluyt and chiaus by Ben Jonson. The borrowing is parallel to that of cozen (p. 110), interpreters having a reputation little superior to that of horse-dealers. But a century and a half after the introduction of the word we come across a circumstantial story of a Turkish chiaus who swindled some London merchants of a large sum in 1609, the year before Jonson used the word in the Alchemist. "Corroborative detail" again. The story may be true, but there is not an atom of evidence for it, and Skinner, who suggests the correct derivation in his Etymologicon (1671), does not mention it. Until contemporary evidence is adduced, the story must be regarded as one of those fables which have been invented in dozens by early etymologists, and which are perpetuated in popular works of reference. It is an article of faith in Yorkshire that the coarse material called mungo owes its name to the inventor of the machine used in its fabrication, who, when it stuck at a first trial, exclaimed with resolution, "It mun go."

Many stories have been composed apres coup to explain the American hoodlum and the Australian larrikin, which are both older than our hooligan (see p. 12). The origin of hoodlum is quite obscure. The story believed in Australia with regard to larrikin is that an Irish policeman, giving evidence of the arrest of a rough, explained that the accused was a-larrikin' (larking) in the street, and this was misunderstood by a reporter. But there appears to be not the slightest foundation for this story. The word is perhaps a diminutive of the common Irish name Larry, also immortalised in the stirring ballad—

"The night before Larry was stretched."

As I write, there is a correspondence going on in the Nottingham papers as to the origin of the nickname Bendigo, borne by a local bruiser and evangelist. According to one account, he was one of triplets, whom a jocular friend of the family nicknamed Shadrach, Meschach, and Abed-Nego, the last of which was the future celebrity. It is at any rate certain that his first challenge (Bell's Life, 1835) was signed "Abed-Nego of Nottingham." The rival theory is that, when he was playing in the streets and his father appeared in the offing, his companions used to warn him by crying "Bendy go!" This theory disregards the assertion of the "oldest inhabitant" that the great man was never called Bendy, and the fact, familiar to any observer of the local dialect, that, even if he had been so called, the form of warning would have been, "Look aht, Bendy, yer daddy's a-coomen."

In the Supplement to Littre there is an article on domino, in which he points out that investigation must start from the phrase faire domino (see p. 102). He also quotes an absurd anecdote from a local magazine, which professes to come from a "vieille chronique." Littre naturally wants to know what chronicle. In Scheler's Dictionnaire etymologique (Brussels, 1888), it is "proved," by means of the same story elaborated, "que c'est la la veritable origine du mot dont nous parlons."

[Page Heading: ANECDOTIC ETYMOLOGY]

In Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, s.v. sirloin, we read that "it is generally said that James I. or Charles II. knighted the loin of beef, but Henry VIII. had done so already." This sounds like a determination to get at the root of things, but does not go far enough. The word is found in the 15th century, and Fr. surlonge, from which it comes, in the 14th. It is compounded of sur, over, and longe, a derivative of Lat. lumbus, loin. The belief in the knightly origin of the sirloin was so strong that we find it playfully called the baronet (Tom Jones, iv. 10). Hence, no doubt, the name baron of beef for the double sirloin. Tram is persistently connected with a Mr Outram, who flourished about 1800. This is another case of intelligent anticipation, for the word is found in 1555. It means log or beam, and was probably first applied to a log-road laid across bad ground, what is called in America a "corduroy" road. On the other hand, the obvious and simple derivation of beef-eater, i.e. a man who is in the enviable position of being sure of his daily allowance,[153] has been obscured by the invention of an imaginary Fr. *beaufetier, waiter at the side-board. Professor Skeat attributes the success of this myth to its inclusion in Mrs Markham's History of England. But the most indestructible of all these superstitions is connected with the word cabal. It comes from a Hebrew word meaning hidden mystery, and is found in the chief Romance languages. The word is of frequent occurrence in English long before the date of Charles II.'s acrostic ministry,[154] though its modern meaning has naturally been affected by this historic connection.

Even anecdotic etymologies accepted by the most cautious modern authorities do not always inspire complete confidence. Martinet is supposed to come from the name of a well-known French officer who re-organised the French infantry about 1670. But we find it used by Wycherley in 1676, about forty years before Martinet's death. Moreover this application of the name is unknown in French, which has, however, a word martinet meaning a kind of cat-o'-nine-tails. In English martinet means the leech-line of a sail, hence, possibly, rope's end, and Wycherley applies the term to a brutal sea-captain. The most renowned of carriers is probably Hobson, of Cambridge. He was sung by Milton, and bequeathed to the town Hobson's conduit which cleanses the Cambridge gutters. To him is also ascribed the phrase Hobson's choice, from his custom of refusing to let out his horses except in strict rotation. But we find a merchant venturer, living in Japan, using "Hodgson's choice" fourteen years before the carrier left this world and became a legendary figure—

"We are put to Hodgson's choise to take such previlegese as they will geve us, or else goe without." (Correspondence of Richard Cocks, Oct. 1617.)

[Page Heading: BACK-FORMATIONS]

The most obvious etymology needs to be proved up to the hilt, and the process is rich in surprises. Cambridge appears to be the bridge over the Cam. But the river's older name, which it preserves above the town, is the Granta, and Bede calls the town itself Grantacester. Camden, in his Britannia (trad. Holland, 1637), notes that the county was called "in the English Saxon" Grentbrigseyre, and comments on the double name of the river. Nor can he "easily beleeve that Grant was turned into Cam; for this might seeme a deflexion some what too hardly streined, wherein all the letters but one are quite swallowed up." Grantabrigge became, by dissimilation (see p. 57), Gantabrigge, Cantabrigge (cf. Cantab), Cantbrigge, and, by assimilation (see p. 56), Cambridge, the river being rechristened from the name of the town.

A beggar is not etymologically one who begs, or a cadger one who cadges. In each case the verb is evolved from the noun. About the year 1200 Lambert le Begue, the Stammerer, is said to have founded a religious order in Belgium. The monks were called after him in medieval Latin beghardi and the nuns beghinae. The Old Fr. begard passed into Anglo-French with the meaning of mendicant and gave our beggar. From beguine we get biggin, a sort of cap—

"Sleep with it (the crown) now! Yet not so sound, and half so deeply sweet, As he, whose brow with homely biggin bound, Snores out the watch of night." (2 Henry IV., iv. 4.)

Cadger, or rather its Scottish form cadgear, a pedlar, occurs about one hundred and fifty years earlier than the verb to cadge. We find, noted as foreign words, in 16th-century Dutch, the words cagie, a basket carried on the back, and cagiaerd, one who carries such a basket. These must be of French origin, and come, like the obsolete Eng. cadge,[155] a panier, from cage, for the history of which see p. 109. Cadger is used in Scottish of an itinerant fish merchant with his goods carried in paniers by a pony—

"Or die a cadger pownie's death, At some dyke-back." (BURNS, Epistle to J. Lapraik.)

Tobacco does not take its name from the island of Tobago, but from the native name of the tube through which the Caribs smoked it.

The traditional derivation of vaunt is from Fr. vanter, and this from a late Lat. vanitare, to talk emptily, used by St Augustine. This looks very simple, but the real history of these words is most complicated. In Mid. English we regularly find avaunt, which comes from Old Fr. avanter, to put forward, from avant, before. This gets mixed up during the Tudor period with another vaunt from Fr. vanter, to extol, the derivation of which can only be settled when its earliest form is ascertained. At present we find venter as early as vanter, and this would represent Lat. venditare (frequentative of vendere, to sell), to push one's goods, "to do anything before men to set forth himselfe and have a prayse; to vaunt; to crake; to brag" (Cooper).

[Page Heading: ETYMOLOGICAL TESTS]

A sound etymology must fulfil three conditions. It must not violate the recognised laws of sound change. The development of meaning must be clearly traced. This must start from the earliest or fundamental sense of the word. It goes without saying that in modern corruptions we are sometimes faced by cases which it would be difficult to explain phonetically (see p. 136). There are, in fact, besides the general phonetic and semantic laws, a number of obscure and accidental influences at work which are not yet codified. As we have seen (p. 188), complete apparent dissimilarity of sound and sense need not prevent two words from being originally one[156]; but we have to trace them both back until dissimilarity becomes first similarity and then identity.

The word peruse meant originally to wear out, Old Fr. par-user. In the 16th century it means to sort or sift, especially herbs, and hence to scrutinise a document, etc. But between the earliest meaning and that of sifting there is a gap which no ingenuity can bridge, and, until this is done, we are not justified in regarding the modern peruse as identical with the earlier.[157]

The maxim of Jakob Grimm, "von den Woertern zu den Sachen," is too often neglected. In dealing with the etymology of a word which is the name of an object or of an action, we must first find out exactly what the original object looked like or how the original action was performed. The etymologist must either be an antiquary or must know where to go for sound antiquarian information. I will illustrate this by three words denoting objects used by medieval or Elizabethan fighting men.

A fencing foil is sometimes vaguely referred to the verb foil, to baffle, with which it has no connection. The Fr. feuille, leaf, is also invoked, and compared with Fr. fleuret, a foil, the idea being that the name was given to the "button" at the point. Now the earliest foils and fleurets were not buttoned; first, because they were pointless, and secondly, because the point was not used in early fencing. It was not until gunpowder began to bring about the disuse of heavy armour that anybody ever dreamt of thrusting. The earliest fencing was hacking with sword and buckler, and the early foil was a rough sword-blade quite unlike the implement we now use. Fleuret meant in Old French a sword-blade not yet polished and hilted, and we find it used, as we do Eng. foil, of an apology for a sword carried by a gallant very much down at heel. As late as Cotgrave we find floret, "a foile; a sword with the edge rebated." Therefore foil is the same as Fr. feuille,[158] which in Old French meant sword-blade, and is still used for the blade of a saw; but the name has nothing to do with what did not adorn the tip. It is natural that Fr. feuille should be applied, like Eng. leaf, blade, to anything flat (cf. Ger. Blatt, leaf), and we find in 16th-century Dutch the borrowed word folie, used in the three senses of leaf, metal plate, broadsword, which is conclusive.

[Page Heading: PETRONEL]

We find frequent allusions in the 16th and 17th centuries to a weapon called a petronel, a flint-lock fire-arm intermediate in size between an arquebus and a pistol. It occurs several times in Scott—

"'Twas then I fired my petronel, And Mortham, steed and rider, fell." (Rokeby, i. 19.)

On the strength of a French form, poitrinal, it has been connected with Fr. poitrine, chest, and various explanations are given. The earliest is that of the famous Huguenot surgeon Ambroise Pare, who speaks of the "mousquets poitrinals, que l'on ne couche en joue, a cause de leur calibre gros et court, mais qui se tirent de la poitrine." I cannot help thinking that, if the learned author had attempted this method of discharging an early fire-arm, his anatomical experience, wide as it was, would have been considerably enlarged. Minsheu (1617) describes a petronell as "a horseman's peece first used in the Pyrenean mountaines, which hanged them alwayes at their breast, readie to shoote, as they doe now at the horse's breast." This information is derived from Claude Fauchet, whose interesting Antiquites francoises et gauloises was published in 1579. Phillips, in his New World of Words (1678) tells us that this "kind of harquebuse, or horseman's piece, is so called, because it is to aim at a horse's brest, as it were poictronel." When we turn from fiction to fact, we find that the oldest French name was petrinal, explained by Cotgrave as "a petronell, or horse-man's peece." It was occasionally corrupted, perhaps owing to the way in which the weapon was slung, into poitrinal. This corruption would be facilitated by the 16th-century pronunciation of oi (peitrine). The French word is borrowed either from Ital. petronello, pietronello, "a petronell" (Florio), or from Span. pedrenal, "a petronall, a horse-man's peece, ita dict. quod silice petra incenditur" (Minsheu, Spanish Dictionary, 1623). Thus Minsheu knew the origin of the word, though he had put the fiction in his earlier work. We find other forms in Italian and Spanish, but they all go back to Ital. pietra, petra, or Span. piedra, pedra, stone, flint. The usual Spanish word for flint is pedernal. Our word, as its form shows, came direct from Italian.[159] The new weapon was named from its chief feature; cf. Ger. Flinte, "a light gun, a hand-gun, pop-gun, arquebuss, fire-arm, fusil or fusee"[160] (Ludwig). The substitution of the flint-lock for the old match-lock brought about a re-naming of European fire-arms, and, as this substitution was first effected in the cavalry, petronel acquired the special meaning of horse-pistol. It is curious that, while we find practically all the French and Italian fire-arm names in 17th-century German, a natural result of the Thirty Years' War, petronel does not appear to be recorded. The reason is probably that the Germans had their own name, viz., Schnapphahn, snap-cock, the English form of which, snaphaunce, seems also to have prevailed over petronel. Cotgrave has arquebuse a fusil, "a snaphaunce," and explains fusil as "a fire-steele for a tinder-box." This is medieval Lat. focile, from focus, fire, etc.

[Page Heading: HELMETS]

The most general name for a helmet up to about 1450 was basnet, or bacinet. This, as its name implies (see p. 156), was a basin-shaped steel cap worn by fighting men of all ranks. The knights and nobles wore it under their great ornamental helms.[161] The basnet itself was perfectly plain. About the end of the 16th century the usual English helmets were the burgonet and morion.[162] These were often very decorative, as may be seen by a visit to any collection of old armour. Spenser speaks of a "guilt engraven morion" (Faerie Queene, vii. 7). Between the basnet and these reigned the salet or salade, on which Jack Cade puns execrably—

"Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climbed into this garden, to see if I can eat grass, or pick a sallet another while, which is not amiss to cool a man's stomach this hot weather. And I think this word sallet was born to do me good, for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown-bill." (2 Henry VI., iv. 10.)

It comes, through Fr. salade, from Ital. celata, "a scull, a helmet, a morion, a sallat, a headpiece" (Florio). The etymologists of the 17th century, familiar with the appearance of "guilt engraven morions," connected it with Lat. caelare, to engrave, and this derivation has been repeated ever since without examination. Now in the Tower of London Armoury is a large collection of salets, and these, with the exception of one or two late German specimens from the ornate period, are plain steel caps of the simplest form and design. The salet was, in fact, the basnet slightly modified, worn by the rank and file of 15th-century armies, and probably, like the basnet, worn under the knight's tilting helm. There is no Italian verb celare, to engrave, but there is a very common verb celare, to conceal. A steel cap was also called in Italian secreta, "a thinne steele cap, or close skull, worne under a hat" (Florio), and in Old French segrette, "an yron skull, or cap of fence" (Cotgrave). Both words are confirmed by Duez, who, in his Italian-French Dictionary (1660), has secreta, "une secrette, ou segrette, un morion, une bourguignotte, armure de teste pour les picquiers." Ergo, the salet belongs to Lat. celare, to hide, secrete.

We now caulk a ship by forcing oakum into the seams. Hence the verb to caulk is explained as coming from Mid. Eng. cauken, to tread, Old Fr. cauquer, caucher, Lat. calcare, from calx, heel. This makes the process somewhat acrobatic, although this is not, philologically, a very serious objection. But we caulk the ship or the seams, not the oakum. Primitive caulking consisted in plastering a wicker coracle with clay. The earliest caulker on record is Noah, who pitched[163] his ark within and without with pitch. In the Vulgate (Genesis, vi. 14), the pitch is called bitumen and the verb is linere, "to daub, besmear, etc." Next in chronological order comes the mother of Moses, who "took for him an ark of bulrushes, and daubed it with slime and with pitch" (Exodus, ii. 3), bitumine ac pice in the Vulgate. Bitumen, or mineral pitch, was regularly applied to this purpose, even by Elizabethan seamen. Failing this, anything sticky and unctuous was used, e.g., clay or lime. Lime now means usually calcium oxide, but its original sense is anything viscous; cf. Ger. Leim, glue, and our bird-lime. The oldest example of the verb to caulk is about 1500. In Mid. English we find to lime used instead, e.g., in reference to the ark—

"Set and limed agen the flood" (c. 1250),

and—

"Lyme it with cleye and pitche within and without." (Caxton, 1483.)

Our caulk is in medieval Latin calcare, and this represents a rare Latin verb calicare, to plaster with lime, from calx, lime. Almost every language which has a nautical vocabulary uses for our caulk a verb related to Fr. calfater. This is of Spanish or Portuguese origin. The Portuguese word is calafetar, from cal, lime, and afeitar, to put in order, trim, etc.

[Page Heading: GHOST-WORDS]

The readiness of lexicographers to copy from each other sometimes leads to ludicrous results. The origin of the word curmudgeon is quite unknown; but, when Dr Johnson was at work on his dictionary, he received from an unknown correspondent the suggestion that it was a corruption of Fr. c[oe]ur mechant, wicked heart. Accordingly we find in his dictionary, "It is a vitious manner of pronouncing c[oe]ur mechant, Fr. an unknown correspondent." John Ash, LL.D., who published a very complete dictionary in 1775, gives the derivation "from the French c[oe]ur, unknown, and mechant, a correspondent," an achievement which, says Todd, "will always excite both in foreigners and natives a harmless smile!"

It is thus that "ghost-words" come into existence. Every considerable English dictionary, from Spelman's Glossarium (1664) onward, has the entry abacot, "a cap of state, wrought up into the shape of two crowns, worn formerly by English kings." This "word" will no longer appear in dictionaries, the editor of the New English Dictionary having laid this particular ghost.[164] Abacot seems to be a misprint or misunderstanding for a bicocket, a kind of horned head-dress. It corresponds to an Old Fr. bicoquet and Span. bicoquete, cap, the derivation of which is uncertain. Of somewhat later date is brooch, "a painting all in one colour," which likewise occurs in all dictionaries of the 18th and 19th centuries. This is due to Miege (French Dict. 1688) misunderstanding Cotgrave. There is a Fr. camaieu, a derivative of cameo, which has two meanings, viz., a cameo brooch, and a monochrome painting with a cameo effect. Miege appears to have taken the second meaning to be explanatory of the first, hence his entry—brooch, "camayeu, ouvrage de peinture qui n'est que d'une couleur." In Manwayring's Seaman's Dictionary (1644), the old word carvel, applied to a special build of ship, is misprinted carnell, and this we find persisting, not only in the compilations of such writers as Bailey, Ash, etc., but even in technical dictionaries of the 18th century "by officers who serv'd several years at sea and land." The Anglo-Saxon name for the kestrel (see p. 100) was stangella, stone-yeller (cf. nightingale), which appears later as stonegall and staniel. In the 16th century we find the curious spelling steingall, e.g., Cooper explains tinnunculus as "a kistrel, or a kastrell; a steyngall." In Cotgrave we find it printed fleingall, a form which recurs in several later dictionaries of the 17th century. Hence, somewhere between Cooper and Cotgrave, an ornithologist or lexicographer must have misprinted fleingall for steingall by the common mistake of fl for st, and the ghost-word persists into the 18th century.

The difficulty of the etymologist's task is exemplified by the complete mystery which often enshrouds a word of comparatively recent appearance. A well-known example is the word Huguenot, for which fifteen different etymologies have been proposed. We first find it used in 1550, and by 1572 the French word-hunter Tabourot, generally known as des Accords, has quite a number of theories on the subject. He is worth quoting in full—

"De nostre temps ce mot de Huguenots, ou Hucnots s'est ainsi intronise: quelque chose qu'ayent escrit quelques-uns, que ce mot vient Gnosticis haereticis qui luminibus extinctis sacra faciebant, selon Crinit: ou bien du Roy Hugues Capet, ou de la porte de Hugon a Tours par laquelle ils sortoient pour aller a leur presche. Lors que les pretendus Reformez implorerent l'ayde des voix des Allemans, aussi bien que de leurs armees: les Protestans estans venus parler en leur faveur, devant Monsieur le Chancelier, en grande assemblee, le premier mot que profera celuy qui portoit le propos, fut, Huc nos venimus: Et apres estant presse d'un reuthme (rhume, cold) il ne peut passer outre; tellement que le second dit le mesme, Huc nos venimus. Et les courtisans presents qui n'entendoient pas telle prolation; car selon la nostre ils prononcent Houc nos venimous, estimerent que ce fussent quelques gens ainsi nommez: et depuis surnommerent ceux de la Religion pretendue reformee, Hucnos: en apres changeant C en G, Hugnots, et avec le temps on a allonge ce mot, et dit Huguenots. Et voyla la vraye source du mot, s'il n'y en a autre meilleure."[165]

The only serious etymology is Ger. Eidgenoss, oath companion, which agrees pretty well with the earliest recorded Swiss-French form, eiguenot, in Bonivard's Chronique de Geneve.

[Page Heading: UNSOLVED PROBLEMS]

The engineering term culvert first appears about 1800, and there is not the slightest clue to its origin. The victorious march of the ugly word swank has been one of the linguistic phenomena of recent years. There is a dialect word swank, to strut, which may be related to the common Scottish word swankie, a strapping youth—

"I am told, young swankie, that you are roaming the world to seek your fortune." (Monastery, Ch. 24.)

But, in spite of the many conjectures, plausible or otherwise, which have been made, neither the etymology of swank nor its sudden inroad into the modern language are at present explained. The word ogre, first used by Perrault in his Contes de Fees (1697), has occasioned much grave and learned speculation. Perhaps the philologists of the future may theorise as sapiently as to the origin of jabberwock and bandersnatch.

FOOTNOTES:

[142] The following "etymologies" occur, in the same list with a number which are quite correct, in a 16th-century French author, Tabourot des Accords:—

Bonnet, de bon et net, pource que l'ornement de la teste doit estre tel.

Chapeau, quasi, eschappe eau; aussi anciennement ne le souloit on porter que par les champs en temps de pluye.

Chemise, quasi, sur chair mise.

Velours, quasi, velu ours.

Galant, quasi, gay allant.

Menestrier, quasi, meine estrier des espousees.

Orgueil, quasi, orde gueule.

Noise, vient de nois (noix), qui font noise et bruit portees ensemble.

Parlement, pource qu'on y parle et ment!

[143] Old Fr. pourloignier, to remove; cf. eloigner.

[144] A very difficult word. Before it was applied to a Londoner it meant a milksop. It is thus used by Chaucer. Cooper renders delicias facere, "to play the wanton, to dally, to play the cockney." In this sense it corresponds to Fr. acoquine, made into a coquin, "made tame, inward, familiar; also, growne as lazy, sloathful, idle, as a beggar" (Cotgrave).

[145] Thought to be a Mexican word.

[146] "Sache que le mot galant homme vient d'elegant; prenant le g et l'a de la derniere syllabe, cela fait ga, et puis prenant l, ajoutant un a et les deux dernieres lettres, cela fait galant, et puis ajoutant homme, cela fait galant homme." (Moliere, Jalousie du Barbouille, scene 2.)

[147] Old Fr. joindre, Lat. junior.

[148] Of Arabic origin.

[149] That is, they are both descended from the same Indo-Germanic original. Voltaire was thus, superficially, right when he described etymology as a science in which the vowels do not count at all and the consonants very little.

[150] Pulleyn's Etymological Compendium, 3rd ed., revised and improved by M. A. Thoms (Tegg & Co., 1853).

[151] Cf. Fr. hurluberlu, which occurs in Rabelais, and in Rostand's Cyrano de Bergerac.

[152] Tit-Bits, which honoured the Romance of Words with a notice (8th June 1912), approvingly quoted these three "etymologies" as being seriously propounded by the author. This is dramatic justice.

[153] The following explanation, given in Miege's French Dictionary (1688), is perhaps not far wrong: "C'est ainsi qu'on appelle par derision les Yeomen of the Guard dans la cour d'Angleterre, qui sont des gardes a peu pres comme les cent Suisses en France. Et on leur donne ce nom-la, parce qu' a la cour ils ne vivent que de b[oe]uf: par opposition a ces colleges d'Angleterre, ou les ecoliers ne mangent que du mouton."

[154] An acrostic of this kind would have no point if it resulted in a meaningless word. In the same way the Old Fr. Fauvel, whence our curry favour (see p. 131), has a medieval explanation of the acrostic kind. It is supposed to be formed from the initial letters of the vices Flatterie, Avarice, Vilenie, Variete, Envie, Lachete.

[155] There is also a word cadge, explained in the glossary to a book on falconry (1615) as a kind of frame on which an itinerant vendor of hawks carried his birds. But it is unrecorded in literature and labours under the suspicion of being a ghost-word. Its first occurrence, outside the dictionaries, is, I believe, in Mr Maurice Hewlett's Song of Renny—"the nominal service of a pair of gerfalcons yearly, in golden hoods, upon a golden cadge" (Ch. 1).

[156] This seems to have been realised by the author of the Etymological Compendium (see p. 188, n. 2), who tells us that the "term swallow is derived from the French hirondelle, signifying indiscriminately voracious, literally a marshy place, that absorbs or swallows what comes within its vortex."

[157] It is much more likely that it originated as a misunderstanding of pervise, to survey, look through, earlier printed peruise. We have a similar misunderstanding in the name Alured, for Alvred, i.e. Alfred. The influence of spelling upon sound is, especially in the case of words which are more often read than heard, greater than is generally realized. Most English people pronounce a z in names like Dalziel, Mackenzie, Menzies, etc., whereas this z is really a modern printer's substitution for an old symbol which had nearly the sound y (Dalyell, etc.).

[158] And therefore identical with the foil of tinfoil, counterfoil, etc.

[159] It is a diminutive of some word which appears to be unrecorded (cf. Fr. pistolet for the obsolete pistole). Charles Reade, whose archaeology is very sound, makes Denys of Burgundy say, "Petrone nor harquebuss shall ever put down Sir Arbalest" (Cloister and Hearth, Ch. 24); but I can find no other authority for the word.

[160] Fusee, in this sense, occurs in Robinson Crusoe.

[161] Over the tomb of the Black Prince in Canterbury Cathedral hangs his cumbrous tilting helmet. But the magnificent recumbent bronze effigy below represents him in his fighting kit, basnet on head.

[162] Burgonet, Fr. bourguignotte, is supposed to mean Burgundian helmet. The origin of morion is unknown, but its use by Scott in Ivanhoe—"I have twice or thrice noticed the glance of a morrion from amongst the green leaves." (Ch. 40)—is an anachronism by four centuries. Both words are used vaguely as general names for helmet.

[163] See pay (p. 160). It will be found that all verbs of this nature are formed from the name of the substance applied.

[164] See letter by Dr Murray, afterwards Sir James Murray, in the Athenaeum, Feb. 4, 1884.

[165] The Encyclopaedia Britannica does not imitate the wise reticence of Tabourot's saving clause, but pronounces authoritatively for the porte de Hugon fable.



INDEX

abacot, 201

abet, 77, n.

abeyance, 108

abominable, 3, n.

abominate, 3

abracadabra, 15, n. 2

accomplice, 128, n.

acquaint, 78

acton, 115

adder, 113

adjutant, 34, 147

admiral, 148

affidavit, 4

ague, 139

aitch-bone, 113

akimbo, 100

Alabaster, 170

alarm, 115

alarum, 115

albert chain, 39

alcade, 115

alderman, 92

Aldridge, 171

Alec, 70

alert, 115

alfana, 187

Alfred David, 125

alguazil, 115

alibi, 4

alley, 69

alligator, 115

Allman, 173

allure, 110

alone, 62

Alured, 195, n. 2

A.M., 4

ampersand, 57

analysis, 6

ananas, 32, n. 1

ancient, 128

andiron, 115

Andrea Ferrara, 50

anecdotage, 132

animal, 4

anlace, 59

Annabel, 58

ansatus, 100

antic, 141

antlers, 99

ant-lion, 32

apache, 12

Apfelsine, 31

appeach, 62

appendicitis, 11

apprentice, 118

apricot, 20

apron, 57, 113

Arabella, 58

arbour, 133

arch, 83

argosy, 50

aringo, 21

Arkwright, 176

arles, 119

armada, 2

armee, 2

Armitage, 5

Armstrong, 180

aroma, 6

arquebus, 127

arrant, 83

arras, 47

array, 95, n.

arriere-ban, 72

artillery, 161, n.

assassin, 22