A Book About Words

CHAPTER IX.

FLEXIBILITY, VARIETY, ETC. OF WORDS.

The history of English shows that it has been changed from a synthetical, to an analytical language, that in the course of time it has lost nearly all its inflections; and that for these endings have been substituted signs and prepositions. Whether this change has been for the better, or for the worse, may be a matter for speculation; but allowing that, in some respects, the language may have sustained a loss by this process, it is not difficult to show that for this we have some compensating advantages—and that the change has been favourable in at least two points: 1st. as regards variety of sound in the endings of words: and 2. flexibility in their use and application.

In Latin, the recurrence of the verb in the same person naturally produced a repetition of the same termination, which must have had a very disagreeable and monotonous effect. In Cicero’s second oration ‘in Catilinam,’ he has ‘Abiit, excessit, erupit, evasit.’ Four consecutive words ending in it! Another example of monotonous repetition, quoted by Cicero in his ‘De Naturâ Deorum’ is, ‘clamo, postulo, obsecro, oro, ploro, atque imploro fidem.’ Cæsar’s often-quoted letter, ‘Veni, vidi, vici’ is open to the same objection, as well as the ‘tædet harum quotidianarum formarum’ of Terence. In all these cases, the repetition of the endings must have produced a most harsh and disagreeable effect; and if these passages were translated into English, we should probably find that every word had a different termination.

But the flexibility of our language, which arises partly from the same cause, is another, and perhaps more important consideration. We can easily understand that the system of inflection, however useful in itself, prevents the possibility of one part of speech being used for another. In English, ‘love’ may be a noun or a verb; but in Latin or French, we must use ‘amare’ or ‘aimer’ for the verb, and ‘amor’ or ‘amour’ for the noun. This power of using one part of speech for another, exists to such an extent in English, that it may be almost said, that every word in the language may be applied in a variety of senses and grammatical constructions. That this is of incalculable advantage, every thoughtful English scholar will surely allow; and it may be observed that not one of the modern languages of Europe possesses this elastic power in the same degree as English. This may be seen in the following cases:—

1st. Almost all our verbs in common use may be used as nouns. We have ‘to walk,’ or to take ‘a walk;’ ‘to ride,’ or to enjoy ‘a ride;’ ‘to talk,’ or to have ‘a talk; ‘to offer,’ or to make ‘an offer;’ ‘to visit,’ or, to pay ‘a visit,’ &c.

2. Nouns may be used as verbs:—We may say ‘a telegraph;’ or ‘to telegraph’ a message; ‘butter,’ or ‘to butter’ bread; ‘sugar,’ or ‘to sugar’ tea; ‘a quarter,’ or ‘to quarter’ a regiment, &c.

3. Adjectives are used as nouns:—We may say ‘a round table,’ or, ‘a round’ of visits; a ‘green’ tree, or to play on ‘the green;’ a ‘beautiful’ prospect, or a love for ‘the beautiful.’ And not only can we use the adjective as a noun; we may even give it a plural form. We often speak of ‘eatables and drinkables.’ A man may have a fit of the ‘dismals,’ or the ‘blues;’ or he may be anxious about his ‘goods,’ ‘moveables,’ or ‘valuables,’ &c.

4. Adjectives are frequently used as verbs:—as, a ‘clear’ way, or to ‘clear’ the way; a ‘long’ distance, or to ‘long’ for something; a ‘still’ evening, or to ‘still’ the waves, &c.

5. Comparative adjectives are occasionally used as verbs; as ‘a better’ condition, or, ‘to better’ our condition; a ‘lower’ state, or to ‘lower’ a rope; ‘further’ remarks, or ‘to further’ a design; ‘utter’ nonsense, or ‘to utter’ opinions, &c.

6. Personal pronouns may be used as nouns: as, ‘A downright she‘—(Byron.) ‘Left to be finished by such a she.’—(Shakspere.)

7. Conjunctions are frequently used as nouns; as, ‘But me no buts’ How many ‘thats’ are there in the sentence? ‘Let us have no more ifs and ands,’ &c.

8. Prepositions may be used in like manner: as, The ins and outs of life. The ‘ups and downs’ of fortune, &c.

9. Even adverbs are sometimes constructed as nouns; as:—Which are in the majority; the ‘ayes,’ or the ‘noes?’

This extraordinary plasticity of English applies particularly to nouns signifying parts of the body. There is scarcely one of these which may not be turned into a verb. For example, we commonly hear that a man ‘faces’ his difficulties with courage. Hamlet says of Polonius, ‘You may nose him in the lobby.’ In Shakspere’s ‘Tempest’ we may read, ‘Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard.’

To jaw is sometimes used, though not very elegantly, in the sense of to chatter or scold. We often hear of a man ‘elbowing’ his way through a crowd, and Goldsmith’s ‘Deserted Village’ gives us ‘Shouldered his arms, and showed how fields were won.’

To ‘hand’ a plate, and to ‘finger’ a passage on the piano, are everyday expressions. We also frequently hear of a coachman ‘backing’ his horses, and Shakspere has ‘to foot it featly.’ Besides these, may be noticed ‘to thumb the leaves of a book’; to ‘breast the waves;’ ‘to palm off (for to cheat or deceive);’ to side with a party; and to head an expedition. To these may be added ‘to bone’ a fowl; ‘to skin’ a rabbit, and many others. It may be reasonably doubted whether this power exists to anything like the same extent in the continental languages.

But not only the names of parts of the body; also those of many articles of domestic use are employed in a similar way. We have to chair a member; we hear that people are boarded, and that the earth is carpeted with green. ‘Curtained’ sleep, and ‘imbedded’ in the earth, belong to the same class. One man is said to floor another in argument. To ‘picture to yourself;’ to table the contents of a book; to be closeted with a friend, to book a debt; to pen a letter; to ink a dress; to paper a room, and to shelve a subject are all common and daily expressions. They are, in every sense of the term, household words.

In English, names of domestic animals are all Saxon; whereas wild beasts for the most part retain their Latin or French names. Thus ‘cat,’ ‘hound,’ ‘horse,’ ‘sheep,’ ‘cow,’ ‘swine,’ &c., are of Germanic origin; whilst ‘lion,’ ‘tiger,’ ‘elephant,’ ‘leopard,’ ‘panther,’ &c., come to us from Greek through Latin. The power we have to use these names of animals as verbs is another instance of the elasticity of our language. This can be done with some of the above Saxon names, though not with those of wild beasts. The noun ‘horse’ is often used as a verb: a stable-keeper is said to horse a coach; i.e. to supply it with horses. We have also to dodge; i.e. to follow a scent in and out like a dog. A man is hounded on to do such and such work; while to rat is to desert your party. Every one knows that to duck is to dive in the water like a duck. People are also said to be gulled when they are easily deceived; and to drone when they read or speak monotonously.

It is remarkable how often, colloquially, we use the names of animals as types of temper or character. True, this is not peculiar to the English language: though the practice is perhaps here more extended. People continually employ the word ‘ass’ or ‘donkey’ in the sense of a stupid loutish fellow. They also often stigmatise a cunning man as a ‘fox;’ or a scolding shrew as a ‘vixen.’ A proud little strut is called ‘a cock of the walk;’ and a reckless spendthrift is a ‘sad dog;’ or sometimes a ‘jolly dog.’ ‘Puppy’ is suggestive of conceit and self-sufficiency; and a slothful, indolent man is spoken of as a lazy ‘hound.’ A ‘hog’ is sometimes used as a metaphor for a glutton; and a ‘pig’ for a dirty fellow. ‘Pig-headed’ is also applied to one of stubborn temper; a ‘mule’ is a type of obstinacy; and a ‘horse,’ in the sense of a beast of burden, is found in ‘towel-horse,’ or ‘clothes-horse.’ Men of rude manners are spoken of as ‘bears,’ and the weak or timid in disposition are called ‘chicken’-hearted. A fond mother speaks of her child as her pet ‘lamb,’ or little ‘duck.’ Silliness is typified by ‘goose,’ and mischief by ‘monkey,’ &c. Here it will be found that these words are, with one or two exceptions, used in a disparaging, and not in a favourable, sense. They are, most of them, terms of reproach, not of praise.

Words have not only degenerated in sense; their outward form has also suffered. One principle—contraction—has affected both the pronunciation and spelling of many words. It may be taken as a general rule that words, as they grow older, become softer and shorter. They seldom expand, but almost always contract. This probably originated in a loose careless way of speaking, which afterwards affected the written language. Contractions appear in a great variety of forms. 1st. They are made by cutting off an initial syllable, as ‘‘prentice,’ for ‘apprentice;’ ‘‘peach,’ for ‘impeach;’ ‘‘gin,’ for ‘engine;’ ‘‘suage,’ for ‘assuage;’ ‘‘cyclopædia,’ for ‘encyclopædia;’ &c. Among the words which have lost their initial letters, three are to be especially noticed: viz. ‘luck,’ ‘irksome,’ and ‘orchard.’ The first of these was originally ‘Glück,’ and is still so spelled in German, whence it comes. ‘Irksome’ was in Anglo-Saxon written ‘(w)eorcsam,’ i.e. full of work, and therefore troublesome; and ‘orchard’ is a corruption of ‘(w)ort-yard,’ that is, a yard in which (worts) plants or vegetables were grown. 2nd. By cutting off a final syllable; as in ‘pro and con,’ for ‘contra;’ ‘cit,’ for ‘citizen;’ ‘without,’ formerly ‘withouten;’ ‘incog,’ for ‘incognito;’ ‘hyp,’ for ‘hypochondria;’ ‘consols,’ for ‘consolidated annuities,’ &c. 3rd. By taking a letter, or letters, from the middle of a word; as ‘else,’ for ‘elles;’ ‘lark,’ for ‘laverock;’ ‘last,’ for ‘latest;’ ‘lord,’ for ‘hlaford;’ ‘since,’ for ‘sithence;’ ‘parrot,’ for ‘perroquet;’ and ‘fortnight,’ for ‘fourteen nights;’ ‘cheer up’ is contracted into ‘chirrup,’ and then into ‘chirp;’ ‘speak’ comes from ‘sprecan;’ and the Anglo-Saxon ‘wifman’ appears as ‘woman.’ By the same law are formed many proper names. ‘Twell,’ for ‘at the well;’ ‘Thill,’ for ‘at the hill;’ ‘Oxford,’ for ‘Oxenford;’ ‘Cambridge,’ for ‘Cantebrigge,’ &c.

Many other cases may be cited as examples of this law. The word ‘(E)piscop(us)’ has suffered a mutilation at both the beginning and the end; and appears in English as ‘Bishop.’ The prefix ‘ge,’ commonly used in Saxon, and still retained in German participles, lingered for some time in English in the softened form of y; as in ‘yclept,’ ‘yclothed,’ &c.; but it has now vanished from the language. Another instance of the same tendency may be seen in the present pronunciation of participles ending in ‘ed.’ Formerly, the word ‘used’ was always pronounced as a dissyllable—‘usèd;’ now it is universally pronounced as a monosyllable. Indeed, this final ‘ed,’ as a distinct syllable though still occasionally heard in the pulpit, is fast disappearing from our language.

Contraction was the main principle on which the ancient Latin was transformed into French. It is curious to observe that though this contracting power did operate in Italian, it was not there carried out to the same degree as in French; that is, though Italian words are, in most cases, shorter than their Latin equivalents, they are not so contracted as the French words of the same meaning. This may be easily shown by comparison:—

and many others.

Expansion.

On the other hand, there are some few cases where words are expanded or widened by the insertion of a letter. 1st. Of a vowel. We have ‘alarum,’ for ‘alarm;’ ‘lawyer,’ for ‘lawer;’ ‘clothier,’ for ‘clother.’ The i is also inserted in ‘parliament,’ ‘Saviour,’ ‘handicraft,’ ‘handiwork,’ ‘periwinkle,’ and a few others.

2nd. Sometimes, l or r is inserted; as in ‘principle,’ from ‘principe;’ ‘syllable,’ from ‘syllabe;’ ‘cartridge,’ from ‘cartouche;’ ‘partridge,’ from the Latin ‘perdix,’ through the French ‘perdrix;’ ‘groom,’ from the Anglo-Saxon ‘guma,’ a man; ‘vagrant,’ from ‘vagans;’ and ‘corporal,’ from ‘caporal.’

3rd. P and B are often inserted after m; as ’empty,’ Anglo-Saxon ‘æmtig,’ ‘tempt,’ from the French ‘tenter;’ ’embers,’ from the Anglo-Saxon ‘æmyrje;’ ‘nimble,’ from the Anglo-Saxon ‘nemol.’ Also in ‘lamb,’ ‘limb,’ ‘crumb,’ ‘thumb,’ and ‘numb,’ the b forms no part of the root.

4th. D naturally attaches itself to n final; as in ‘sound,’ ‘riband,’ ‘lend,’ &c. This may probably account for certain provincial pronunciations, as ‘gownd,’ ‘drownd,’ &c. Also in ‘thunder,’ ‘kindred,’ and ‘yonder,’ the d is parasitical.

Assimilation.

Assimilation, or the coming together of letters which have an affinity for each other, is a principle which affects the spelling, as well as the pronunciation, of many English words. This law softens the pronunciation, and will account for the frequent occurrence of a double consonant at the beginning of a large class of words. The rule is here:—‘When a prefix ending in a consonant is applied to a root beginning with one, that consonant disappears, and there is substituted for it the initial consonant of the root.’ This happens most frequently in English words compounded with Latin prepositions. The d in the preposition ‘ad’ is often assimilated to the initial consonant of the root to which it is applied.

The word ‘accede’ is made up of ‘ad’ (to) and ‘cede’ (come). But the initial c in ‘cede’ assimilated to itself the d in ‘ad,’ i.e. changed it into a c. Thus ‘adcede’ became ‘accede.’ This law will account for the double consonant in such forms as ‘accost,’ ‘aggrieve,’ ‘allude,’ ‘ammunition,’ ‘annex,’ ‘apply,’ ‘assist,’ ‘attract,’ and many others. In all these cases the first syllable was originally ‘ad.’

This law applies with equal force to other Latin prepositions which enter into the formation of English words; as ‘con,’ ‘in,’ ‘per,’ ‘sub,’ &c. We spell the word ‘collect’ for ‘conlect;’ ‘commune,’ for ‘conmune,’ &c. On the same principle we write ‘illegal,’ for ‘inlegal;’ ‘irregular,’ for ‘inregular;’ ‘pellucid,’ for ‘perlucid;’ ‘succumb,’ for ‘subcumb;’ and many others. But when the root begins with a labial (b, p, or m), then the final consonant of the preposition is always changed into m. This is why we write ‘imbibe,’ and not ‘ibbibe;’ ‘imbue,’ not ‘ibbue;’ and ‘impossible,’ not ‘ipposible,’ &c.

This principle of assimilation has operated in the formation of the words ‘hammock’ and ‘stirrup.’ The first is from ‘hang-mat,’ where the ng has been assimilated to m. The second is from the Anglo-Saxon ‘stig-rope’ (literally, ‘mount-rope,’ or rope to mount by), where r is substituted for the g in ‘stig.’

Attraction.

Attraction is another principle which affects the forms of certain words. Sometimes a consonant is drawn away from the word to which it properly belongs, and becomes a part of its neighbour. The effect of this law is especially remarkable in the article ‘an.’ In certain cases the n (of an) does not really belong to the article, but is the initial letter of the noun following. This happens in the case of ‘an orange;’ the word ‘orange’ is, in Spanish, whence it is derived, ‘naranja,’ and we should therefore write ‘a norange’ rather than ‘an orange.’ But the article a has attracted to itself the initial n of the noun, and the result is—‘an orange.’ For the same reason ‘an adder’ should be written ‘a natter,’ or ‘a nadder.’ On the other hand, there are cases in which the n of the article is attracted into the following word. If the word ‘apron’ is from the French ‘naperon’ (from nappe, cloth), we should write ‘a napron,’ and not ‘an apron.’ Several of these cases may be pointed out. We say and write, ‘a neap tide,’ instead of ‘an ebb tide;’ ‘a newt,’ for ‘an ewt’ (or eft); and, on the other hand, ‘an auger,’ for ‘a nauger;’ ‘an awl,’ for ‘a nawl;’ and ‘an umpire’ for ‘a nompire.’ The same principle operates in certain French expressions. The province of Southern Italy formerly known as ‘Apulia,’ is in French written ‘La Pouille.’ Here the a initial of ‘Apulia’ is attracted into the article. The expression should be ‘L’Apouille,’ and not ‘La Pouille.’ In the same way, the French call ‘Anatolia’ (Asia Minor), ‘La Natolie;’ whereas it should be written ‘L’Anatolie.’ It is from the Greek ἀνατολή—the rising of the sun.

Accent.

The accent of an English word depends chiefly on its derivation. In words of Saxon origin, it is placed on the root. For example, ‘lóve’ is an accented monosyllable, and preserves its accent on the root, in all its derivations; as in ‘lóving,’ ‘lóveliness,’ ‘lóveable,’ &c. But in Romance words, the tendency is to put the accent on the branches, and not on the root. In French, the vocabulary is drawn mainly from Latin words without their inflections. The French words ‘natúre,’ ‘fatál,’ ‘aimáble,’ &c., have the accent on the second syllable, because they are formed from the Latin ‘natúra,’ ‘fatális,’ and ‘amábilis,’ without the endings. But in English all these and similar words are accented on the first syllable; and we pronounce them ‘náture,’ ‘fátal,’ ‘ámiable.’ In Chaucer’s poetry, many French words are accented on the second or third syllable, in accordance with the classical principle; thus, we there find ‘honóur,’ ‘natión,’ ‘companý,’ &c. All these, after Chaucer’s time, shifted the accent back to the first syllable, thus conforming themselves to the genius of the English language. There is, to this day, in English a conflict in the accent between the two principles, the Teutonic and the Romance; the former leaning to the root, and the latter to the branches of the word. But even in classical words, as regards accent, the Saxon genius clearly prevails. We accent the word ‘órdinary’ on the first syllable, which contains the pith of its meaning; whereas the French place the accent on the last—‘ordináire.’ It was probably the antagonism between these two principles—the Germanic tendency toward the beginning, and the Romance toward the end, of the word, which caused the accent in English to be so long unsettled. But the genius of the Saxon eventually triumphed over the French element, in accent as well as in grammatical forms, and the general rule in English pronunciation, is to put the accent on the root.

The spelling of certain English derivatives depends on the place of the accent in their roots. Now, when the last syllable of the root is accented, the final consonant must be doubled in the derivative. This accounts for the root ‘rób’ (with one b), making ‘robbed,’ and ‘robber,’ (with two b’s) admít (one t), making admitted (two t’s), &c.

But when the accent lies on any other syllable of the root, the final consonant must remain single in the derivative, as ‘límit,’ ‘límited;’ ‘díffer,’ ‘díffering;’ ‘bénefit,’ ‘bénefited;’ &c. This rule applies only to root-endings consisting of a single vowel followed by a single consonant; for if a diphthong precede, the consonant must remain single in the derivative. We must therefore write ‘joiner,’ ‘steaming,’ ‘toiling,’ ‘reader,’ &c., with single consonants.

But there are exceptions to this general rule. One especially regards roots ending in l. These always double the l in the derivative, whether the last syllable of the root be accented or not. The verb ‘to expél,’ will, by the above rule, naturally make its past tense, ‘expelled;’ but why should ‘trável’ give ‘traveller,’ or ‘équal,’ ‘equalled?’ These, though universally adopted, are clearly against the principle. Two other words are also exceptions, ‘worship,’ and ‘bias.’ These make ‘worshipped,’ and ‘biassed,’ with double consonants. The Americans refuse to admit these exceptions, and they write ‘traveler,’ ‘equaled,’ ‘worshiped,’ and ‘biased,’ with single consonants. It must be admitted that they are right in principle, but the general practice in English is in these cases decidedly in favour of the double consonant.

Inversion.

There appears in certain letters a peculiar tendency to get out of order—to slip into a wrong place—a restless desire for change. No letter of the alphabet is more subject to this affection than the liquid, r. Many French words ending in re, are found in English to end in er. The French ‘lettre’ is in English ‘letter.’ The final syllables of ‘Septembre,’ ‘Octobre,’ ‘Novembre’ and ‘Décembre,’ are inverted in English, and are written ‘September,’ &c. The Greek root ἑρπ (creep) gave in Latin ‘repĕre;’ whence we have ‘reptile,’ &c. ‘Brunt,’ is derived from ‘burn.’ The ‘brunt’ of a battle is where it ‘burns’ most fiercely. Again: a ‘purpose’ is what we ‘propose’ to do; and ‘to trundle’ a hoop is to ‘turn’ it repeatedly. The Saxon verb ‘urnan,’ is the source of the English ‘run.’ ‘Brimstone’ is an inversion of ‘burn-stone;’ and the verb to ‘ask,’ was in Anglo-Saxon, ‘axian.’ Chaucer has ‘drit’ for ‘dirt;’ ‘briddes,’ for ‘birds,’ &c.

Corruption.

When a word is warped or distorted from its original form, either by a vicious pronunciation, or by a mistaken notion of its derivation, it is said to be a corruption. Though we must accept and adopt the usual spelling of such words, it may be useful and interesting to know what brought them into their present forms.

When a word is first pronounced in the hearing of those who do not know its meaning, its spelling naturally becomes with them, a mere imitation of the sound. It is remarkable how often these corruptions appear in the names of taverns and ships. Such words being most frequently in the mouths of the illiterate, will soon acquire a false pronunciation, which, after a time, leads to a false spelling, and hence many of their present forms. It was this rude attempt to imitate a sound that led the sailors to call their ship ‘Bellerophon’ the ‘Billy Ruffian.’ From the same cause, the sign of the ‘Boulogne Mouth’ was corrupted into ‘Bull and Mouth;’ and the ‘Bacchanals’ (a very appropriate name for an inn), was transformed into the ‘Bag of Nails.’ It is said that our soldiers in India could never be taught to pronounce properly ‘Surajah Dowlah,’ the name of that Bengal prince who figured in the affair of the Black Hole. They persisted in calling him ‘Sir Roger Dowlas!’

Some of these corrupt forms are so firmly rooted in the language, that they must now be recognised as correct, and adopted accordingly. We are told that the word ‘grocer’ was originally ‘grosser,’ and meant one who sold articles in the gross (en gros). This is probably the true explanation; but we must not, on that account, revert to the old spelling. It would be eccentric and pedantic in the extreme to write ‘rightwise’ for ‘righteous;’ ‘frontispice’ for ‘frontispiece,’ or ‘shamefast’ for ‘shamefaced;’ for though the first may have been the true and original form of these words, custom must here take precedence of derivation, and we must spell them according to the present usual practice.