the word is sometimes mispronounced.

Stems in -ārio. These follow the same rules, except that, as in 'ádversary', combinations like ers are shortened and the stress goes back; and that words ending in -entary, such as 'elementary' and 'testamentary', stress the antepenultima. Examples are 'antiquary', 'honorary', 'voluntary', 'emissary'. It is difficult to see a reason for an irregular quantity in the antepenultima of some trisyllables. The general rule makes it short, as in 'granary', 'salary', but in 'library' and 'notary' it has been lengthened. The N.E.D. gives 'plēnary', but our grandfathers said 'plĕnary'. Of course 'diary' gives a long quality to the i.

Stems in -ĭli. These seem originally to have retained the short i. Thus Milton's spelling is 'facil' and 'fertil' while other seventeenth-century writers give 'steril'. This pronunciation still obtains in America, but in England the words seem to have been usually assimilated to 'fragile', as Milton spells it, which perhaps always lengthened the vowel. The penultimate vowel is short.

Stems in -īli. Here the long i is retained, and in disyllables the penultima is lengthened, as in 'anile', 'senile', 'virile'. There is no excuse for following the classical quantity in the former syllables of any of these words. As an English word 'sedilia' shortens the antepenultimate, like 'tibia' and the rest, the 'alias' rule not applying when the vowel is i.

Stems in -bĭli. These mostly come through French and change the suffix into -ble. Disyllables lengthen the penultima, as 'able', 'stable', 'noble', while 'mobile', as in French, lengthens its latter vowel. Trisyllables shorten and stress the antepenultima, as 'placable', 'equable', but of course u remains long, as in 'mutable'. Longer words throw the stress further back, except mere negatives, like 'implácable', and words with heavy consonants such as 'delectable'. Examples are 'miserable', 'admirable', 'intolerable', 'despicable'. The Poet Laureate holds that in these words Milton kept the long Italian a of the penultimate or secondary stress.

In English we have naturalized -able as a suffix and added it to almost any verb, as 'laughable', 'indescribable', 'desirable'. The last word may have been taken from French. The form 'desĭderable' occurs from the fourteenth to the seventeenth century. Originally 'acceptable' threw the stress back, as in Milton's

but the double mute has brought it into line with 'delectable'. Nowadays one sometimes hears 'dispútable', 'despícable', but these are intolerable vulgarisms.

Suffixes in tĭli and sĭli. These words mostly lengthen the i and make the usual shortenings, as 'missile', 'sessile', 'textile', 'volatile', but of course 'futile'. Exceptions which I cannot explain are 'fossĭl' and 'fusĭle'.

Suffix in āli. These adjectives shorten the -a and, with the usual exceptions, the preceding vowels, as 'dóctrinal', 'fílial', 'líberal', 'márital', 'medícinal', but of course by the 'alias' rule 'arbōreal' (not a classical word in Latin) and 'gēnial'. Words like 'national' and 'rational' were treated like trisyllables, which they now are. The stress is on the antepenultima except when heavy consonants bring it on to the penultima, as in 'sepulcral', 'parental', 'triumphal'.

Those who say 'doctrínal' on the ground that the second vowel is long in Latin commit themselves to 'medicínal', 'natúral', 'nutríment', 'instrúment', and, if their own principle be applied, they make false quantities by the dozen every day of their lives.

Three words mostly mispronounced are, from their rarity, perhaps not past rescue. They are 'décanal', 'ruridécanal', and 'prébendal'. There is no more reason for saying 'decánal' than for saying 'matrónal' or for saying 'prebéndal' than for saying 'caléndar'. Of course words like 'tremendous', being imported whole, keep the original stress. In our case the Latin words came into existence as décanális, prébendális, parallel with náturális, which gives us 'nátural'. That mostly wrong-headed man, Burgon of Chichester, was correct in speaking of his rights or at any rate his claims as 'décanal'.

Stems in -lo. Of these 'stimulus' and 'villa' have been borrowed whole, while umbella is corrupted into 'umbrella'. Disyllables lengthen the penultima, as 'stable', 'title', 'pupil'. Under French influence 'disciple' follows their example. In longer words the usual shortenings are made, as in 'frivolous', 'ridiculous'. The older words in -ulo change the suffix into -le, as 'uncle', 'maniple', 'tabernacle', 'conventicle', 'receptacle', 'panicle'. Later words retain the u, as 'vestibule', 'reticule', 'molecule'.

Stems in -no. The many words of this class are a grief to the classifier, who seeks in vain for reasons. Thus 'german' and 'germane' have the same source and travelled, it seems, by the same road through France. The Latin hyacinthĭnus and adamantĭnus are parallel words, yet Milton has 'hyacinthin' for the one and 'adamantine' for the other. One classification goes a little way. Thus 'human' and 'urban' must have come through French, 'humane' and 'urbane' direct from Latin. On the other hand while 'meridian' and 'quartan' are French, 'publican', 'veteran', and 'oppidan' are Latin. Words with a long i, if they came early through France, shorten the vowel, as 'doctrine', 'discipline', 'medicine', and 'masculine', while 'genuine', though a later word, followed them, but 'anserine' and 'leonine' did not. Disyllables seem to prefer the stress on the ultima, as 'divine', 'supine', but even these are not consistent. Some critics would scan Cassio's words

though Shakespeare nowhere else has this stress, while Shelley has. Shelley, too, has

The grammatical term, too, is 'súpine'. Later introductions also have this stress, as 'bóvine', 'cánine', 'équine'. The last word is not always understood. At any rate Halliwell-Phillips, referring to a well-known story of Shakespeare's youth, says that the poet probably attended the theatre 'in some equine capacity'. As it is agreed that 'bovine' and 'equine' lengthen the former vowel, we ought by analogy to say 'cānine', as probably most people do. Words of more than two syllables have the stress on the antepenultima and the vowel is short, as in 'libertine', 'adulterine', but of course 'ūterine'. When heavy consonants bring the stress on to the penultima, the i is shortened, as in 'clandestĭn(e)', 'intestĭn(e)', and so in like disyllables, as 'doctrĭn(e)'. The modern words 'morphin(e)' and 'strychnin(e)', coined, the one from Morpheus and the other from the Greek name of the plant known to botanists as Withania somnifera, correctly follow 'doctrine' in shortening the i, though another pronunciation is sometimes heard.

Stems in -tudin. These shorten the antepenultima, as 'plenitude', 'solitude', with the usual exceptions, such as 'fortitude'.

Stems in -tion. These words retain the suffix, which in early days was disyllabic, as it sometimes is in Shakespeare, for instance in Portia's

Thus they came under the 'alias' rule, and what is now the penultimate vowel is long unless it be i. Examples are 'nation', 'accretion', 'emotion', 'solution', while i is shortened in 'petition', 'munition', and the like, and left short in 'admonition' and others. In military use an exception is made by 'ration', but the pronunciation is confined to one sense of the word, and is new at that. I remember old soldiers of George III who spoke of 'rātions'. Perhaps the ugly change is due to French influence.

Originally the adjectives from these words must have lengthened the fourth vowel from the end long, as nātĭŏnal, but when ti became sh they came to follow the rule of Latin trisyllables in our pronunciation.

Stems in -ic. Of these words we have a good many, both Latin and Greek. Those that came direct keep the stress on the vowel which was antepenultimate and is in English penultimate, and this vowel is short whatever its original quantity. Examples are 'aquatic', 'italic', 'Germanic'. Words that came through French threw the stress back, as 'lúnatic'. Skeat says that 'fanatic' came through French, but he can hardly be right, for the pronunciation 'fánatic' is barely three score years old. There is no inverted stress in Milton's

As for 'unique' it is a modern borrowing from French, and of late 'ántique' or 'ántic', as Shakespeare has it, has followed in one of its senses the French use. It is a pity in face of Milton's

and it obscures the etymological identity of 'antique' and 'antic', but the old pronunciation is irredeemable. At least the new avoids the homophonic inconvenience.

Greek words of this class used as adjectives mostly follow the same rule, as 'sporadic', 'dynamic', 'pneumatic', 'esoteric', 'philanthropic', 'emetic', 'panegyric'. As nouns the earlier introductions threw the stress back, as 'heretic', 'arithmetic', but later words follow the adjectives, as 'emetic', 'enclitic', 'panegyric'. As for 'politic', which is stressed as we stress both by Shakespeare and by Milton, it must be under French influence, though Skeat seems to think that it came straight from Latin.

Stems in -os. These words agree in being disyllabic, but otherwise they are a tiresome and quarrelsome people. For their diversity in spelling some can make a defence, since 'horror', 'pallor', 'stupor' came straight from Latin, but 'tenor', coming through French, should have joined hands with 'colour', 'honour', 'odour'. The short vowel is inevitable in 'horror' and 'pallor', the long in 'ardour', 'stupor', 'tumour'. The rest are at war, 'clamour', 'colour', 'honour', 'dolour', 'rigour', 'squalor', 'tenor', 'vigour' in the short legion, 'favour', 'labour', 'odour', 'vapour' in the long. Their camp-followers ending in -ous are under their discipline, so that, while 'clămorous', 'rĭgorous', 'vĭgorous' agree with the general rule, 'ōdorous' makes an exception to it. All the derivatives of favor are exceptions to the general rule, for 'favourite' and 'favorable' keep its long a. Of course 'lăbōrious' is quite in order, and so is 'văpid'.

Stems in -tor and -sor. These words, when they came through French, threw the stress back and shortened the penultimate, ōrātorem becoming orateur, and then 'ŏrător', with the stress on the antepenultimate. Others of the same type are 'auditor', 'competitor', 'senator', and Shelley has

while 'amateur' is borrowed whole from French and stresses its ultima. Trisyllables of course shorten the first vowel, as 'crĕditor', 'jănitor'. Polysyllables follow the stress of the verbs; thus 'ágitate' gives 'ágitator' and 'compóse' gives 'compósitor'. To the first class belongs 'circulator', 'educator', 'imitator', 'moderator', 'negotiator', 'prevaricator', with which 'gladiator' associates itself; to the second belongs 'competitor'. Words which came straight from Latin keep the stress of the Latin nominative, as 'creator', 'spectator', 'testator', 'coadjutor', 'assessor', to which in Walton's honour must be added 'Piscator' and 'Venator'. On 'curator' he who decides does so at his peril. On one occasion Eldon from the Bench corrected Erskine for saying 'cúrător'. 'Curātor, Mr. Erskine, curātor.' 'I am glad', was the reply, 'to be set right by so eminent a senātor and so eloquent an orātor as your Lordship.' Neither eminent lawyer knew much about it, but each was so far right that he stuck to the custom of his country. On other grounds Erskine might be thought to have committed himself to 'téstător', if not quite to the 'testy tricks' of Sally in Mrs. Gaskell's 'Ruth'.

Stems in -ero and -uro. Adjectives of this type keep the Latin stress, which thus falls on the ultima, and shorten or obscure the penultimate vowel, as 'mature', 'obscure', 'severe', 'sincere', but of course 'āustere'. Of like form though of other origin is 'secure'. Nouns take an early stress, as 'áperture', 'sépulture', 'líterature', 'témperature', unless two mutes obstruct, as in 'conjécture'. Of the disyllables 'nature' keeps a long penultima, while 'figure' has it short, not because of the Latin quantity, but because of the French.

The lonely word 'mediocre' lengthens its first vowel by the 'alias' rule and also stresses it. Whether the penultima has more than a secondary stress is a matter of dispute.

Stems in -ari. These words have the stress on the antepenultima, which they shorten, as in 'secular' or keep short as in 'jocular', 'familiar', but of course 'pecūliar'.

On certain Greek words.

It will have been seen that Greek words are usually treated as Latin. Thus 'crisis' lengthens the penultima under the 'apex' rule, while 'critical' has it short under the general rule of polysyllables. Other examples of lengthening are 'bathos', 'pathos', while the long quantity is of course kept in 'colon' and 'crasis'. For the 'alias' rule we may quote 'ātheist', 'cryptogāmia', 'hōmeopathy', 'heterogēneous', 'pandemōnium', while the normal shortenings are found in 'anŏnymous', 'ephĕmeral', 'pandĕmonium', 'ĕrĕmite'. Ignorance of English usage has made some editors flounder on a line of Pope's:

The birthplace of Aristotle was of course Stagīra or, as it is now fashionable to transcribe it, Stageira, as Pope doubtless knew, but the editors who accuse him of a false quantity in Greek are on the contrary themselves guilty of one in English. The penultima in English is short whether it was long or, as in 'dynamite' and 'malachite', short in Greek.

There is, however, one distinct class of Greek words in which the Latin rule is not followed. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there were scholars who rightly or wrongly treated the Greek accent as a mark of stress. It is clear that this habit led to an inability to maintain a long quantity in an unstressed syllable. Shakespeare must have learnt his little Greek from a scholar who had this habit, for he writes 'Andrónĭcus' and also

Of course all scholars shortened the first vowel of the word, and doubtless Shakespeare shortened also the third. Busby also thus spoke Greek with the result that Dryden in later life sometimes wrote epsilon instead of eta and also spoke of 'Cleoménes' and 'Iphigēnĭa'. As a boy at Westminster he wrote

Macaulay with an ignorance very unusual in him rebuked his nephew for saying 'metamórphŏsis', and Dr. Johnson, had he been living, would have rebuked Macaulay. For the sake of our poets we ought to save 'apothéŏsis', which is in some danger. Garth may perhaps be forgotten,

but 'Rejected Addresses' should still carry weight. In the burlesque couplet, ascribed in the first edition to the younger Colman and afterwards transferred to Theodore Hook, we have

It need hardly be said that 'tea-houses' like 'grandfathers' has the stress on the antepenultimate.

There are other words of Greek origin which now break the rules, though I believe the infringement to be quite modern. First we have the class beginning with proto. It can hardly be doubted that our ancestors followed rule and said 'prŏtocol', and 'prŏtotype', and I suspect also 'prŏtomartyr'. There seems, however, to be a general agreement nowadays to keep the Greek omega. As for 'protagonist' the word is so technical and is often so ludicrously misunderstood that writers on the Greek drama would do well to retain the Greek termination and say 'protagonistes'; for 'protagonist' is very commonly mistaken and used for the opposite of 'antagonist'.

Next come words beginning with hypo or hyph. In a disyllable the vowel is long by the 'apex' rule, as in 'hyphen'. In longer words it should be short. So once it was, and we still say 'hypocaust', 'hypocrit', 'hypochondria' (whence 'hypped'), 'hypothesis', and others, but a large group of technical and scientific words seems determined to have a long y. It looks as though there were a belief that y is naturally long, though the French influence which gives us 'tȳrant' does not extend to 'tyranny'. I do not know what Mr. Hardy calls his poem, but I hope he follows the old use and calls it 'The Dy̆nasts'. It might be thought that 'dy̆nasty' was safe, but it is not. Some modern words like 'dynamite' have been misused from their birth.

Another class begins with hydro- from the Greek word for water. None of them seem to be very old, but probably 'hydraulic' began life with a short y. Surely Mrs. Malaprop, when she meant 'hysterics' and said 'hydrostatics', must have used the short y. Of course 'hydra' which comes from the same root follows the 'apex' rule.

Words beginning with hyper- seem nowadays always to have a long y except that one sometimes hears 'hy̆perbole' and 'hy̆perbolical'. Of course both in hypo- and in hyper- the vowel is short in Greek, so that here at least the strange lengthening cannot be ascribed to the Grecians. The false theory of a long y has not affected 'cynic' or 'cynical', while 'Cyril' has been saved by being a Christian name. We may yet hope to retain y short in 'cylinder', 'cynosure', 'lycanthropy', 'mythology', 'pyramid', 'pyrotechnic', 'sycamore', 'synonym', 'typical'. As for 'hȳbrid' it seems as much a caprice as 'ācrid', a pronunciation often heard. Though 'acrid' is a false formation it ought to follow 'vivid' and 'florid'. The 'alias' rule enforces a long y in 'hygiene' and 'hygienic'.

On the matter of Greek names the lettern and the pulpit are grievous offenders. Once it was not so. The clergymen of the old type and the scholars of the Oxford Retrogression said Tĭmōthĕŭs, because they had a sense of English and followed, consciously or unconsciously, the 'alias' rule. If there was ever an error, it was on the lips of some illiterate literate who made three syllables of the word. Now it seems fashionable to say Tīmŏthĕŭs. The literate was better than this, for he at least had no theory, and frank ignorance is to be forgiven. It is no shame to a man not to know that the second i in 'Villiers' is as mute as that in 'Parliament' or that Bolingbroke's name began with Bull and ended with brook, but when ignorance constructs a theory it is quite another matter. The etymological theory of pronunciation is intolerable. Etymology was a charming nymph even when men had but a distant acquaintance with her, and a nearer view adds to her graces; but when she is dragged reluctant from her element she flops like a stranded mermaid. The curate says 'Deuteronómy', and on his theory ought to say 'económy' and 'etymológy'. When Robert Gomery—why not give the reverend poetaster his real if less elegant name—published his once popular work, every one called it 'The Omnípresence of the Deïty', and Shelley had already written

It is true that Ken a century earlier had committed himself to

and later Coleridge, perhaps characteristically, had sinned with

but neither the bishop nor the poet would have said 'omniscíence', or 'omnipótence'.

Another word to show signs of etymological corruption is 'ĕvolution'. It seems to have been introduced as a technical term of the art of war, and of course, like 'dĕvolution', shortened the e. The biologists first borrowed it and later seem desirous of corrupting it. Perhaps they think of such words as 'ēgress', but the long vowel is right in the stressed penultimate.

One natural tendency in English runs strongly against etymology. This is the tendency to throw the stress back, which about a century ago turned 'contémplate' into 'cóntemplate' and somewhat later 'illústrate' into 'íllustrate'. Shakespeare and Milton pronounced 'instinct' as we pronounce 'distinct' and 'aspect' as we pronounce 'respect'. Thus Belarius is made to say

and Milton has

and also

The retrogression of the stress is in these instances well established, and we cannot quarrel with it; but against some very recent instances a protest may be made. One seems to be a corruption of the War. In 1884 the N.E.D. recognized no pronunciation of it save 'allý', as in Romeo's

The late Mr. B.B. Rogers in his translations of Aristophanes has of course no other pronunciation. His verses are too good to be spoiled by what began as a vulgarism. Another equally recent vulgarism, not recognized by the N.E.D. and bad enough to make George Russell turn in his grave, is 'mágazine' for 'magazíne'. It is not yet common, but such vulgarisms are apt to climb.

In times not quite so recent the word 'prophecy' has changed, not indeed its stress, but the quantity of its final vowel. When Alford wrote 'The Queen's English', every one lengthened the last vowel, as in the verb, nor do I remember any other pronunciation in my boyhood. Now the N.E.D. gives the short vowel only. Alford to his own satisfaction accounted for the long vowel by the diphthong ei of the Greek. It is to be feared that his explanation would involve 'dynastȳ' and 'policȳ', even if it did not oblige us to turn 'Pompey' into 'Pompȳ'. In this case it may be suspected that the noun was assimilated to the verb, which follows the analogy of 'magnify' and 'multiply'. The voice of the people which now gives us 'prophecy̆' seems here to have felt the power of analogy and assuredly will prevail.

On proper names.

It is to be hoped that except in reading Latin and Greek texts we shall keep to the traditional pronunciation of proper names as it is enshrined in our poetry and other literature. We must continue to lengthen the stressed penultimate vowel in Athos, Cato, Draco, Eros, Hebrus, Lichas, Nero, Otho, Plato, Pylos, Remus, Samos, Titus, Venus, and the many other disyllables wherein it was short in the ancient tongues. On the other hand we shall shorten the originally long stressed antepenultimate vowel in Brasidas, Euripides, Icarus, Lavinia, Lucilius, Lydia, Nicias, Onesimus, Pegasus, Pyramus, Regulus, Romulus, Scipio, Sisyphus, Socrates, Thucydides, and many more.

Quin, and the actors of his day, used to give to the first vowel in 'Cato' the sound of the a in 'father'. They probably thought that they were Italianizing such names. In fact their use was neither Latin nor English. They were like the men of to-day who speak of the town opposite Dover as 'Cally', a name neither French nor English. A town which once sent members to the English Parliament has a right to an English name. Prior rhymed it with 'Alice' and Browning has

Shakespeare, of course, spelt it 'Callis', and this form, which was first evicted by Pope, whom other editors servilely followed, ought to be restored to Shakespeare's text. In the pronunciation of Cato the stage regained the English diphthong in the mouth of Garrick, whose good sense was often in evidence. It is recorded that his example was not at once followed in Scotland or Ireland. If there was any Highlander on the stage it may be hoped that he gave to the vowel the true Latin sound as it appears in 'Mactavish'.

A once well-known schoolmaster, a correspondent of Conington's, had a daughter born to him whom in his unregenerate days he christened Rosa. At a later time he became a purist in quantities, and then he shortened the o and took the voice out of the s and spoke of her and to her as Rossa. The mother and the sisters refused to acknowledge what they regarded as a touch of shamrock and clung persistently to the English flower. The good gentleman did not call his son Solōmon,² though this is the form which ought to be used by those who turn the traditional English 'Elkănah' into 'Elkānah', 'Abăna' into 'Abāna', and 'Zebŭlun' into 'Zebūlun'. If they do not know

yet at least they ought to know

The malison of Milton on their heads! If the translators of the Bible had foreseen 'Zebūlun', they would have chosen some other word than 'princes' to avoid the cacophony of 'the princes of Zebūlun'.

That these usages were familiar is evident from the pronunciation of proper, especially Biblical, names. Thus 'Bābel' and 'Băbylon', 'Nīnus' and 'Nĭneveh', were spoken as unconsciously as Mīchael' and 'Mĭchaelmas'. Nobody thought of asking the quantity of the Hebrew vowels before he spoke of 'Cāleb' and 'Bārak', of 'Gĭdeon' and 'Gĭlead', of 'Dĕborah' and 'Abĭmelech', of 'Ēphraim' and 'Bēlial'. The seeming exceptions can be explained. Thus the priest said 'Hĕrod' because in the Vulgate he read 'Hĕrodes', but there was no Greek or Latin form to make him say anything else than 'Mēroz', 'Pērez', 'Sērah', 'Tēresh'. He said 'Ădam' because, although the Septuagint and other books retained the bare form of the name, there were other writings in which the name was extended by a Latin termination. There was no like extension to tempt him to say anything but 'Cādesh', 'Ēdom', 'Jādon', 'Nādab'. I must admit my inability to explain 'Thŏmas', but doubtless there is a reason. The abbreviated form was of course first 'Thŏm' and then 'Tŏm'. Possibly the pet name has claimed dominion over the classical form. As in the herba impia of the early botanists, these young shoots sometimes refuse to be 'trash'd for overtopping'.

A story is told of an eccentric Essex rector. He was reading in church the fourth chapter of Judges, and after 'Now Dĕborah, a prophetess', suddenly stopped, not much to the astonishment of the rustics, for they knew his ways. Then he went on 'Debŏrah? Debŏrah? Debōrah! Now Debōrah, a prophetess', and so on. Probably a freak of memory had reminded him that the letter was omega in the Septuagint. It will be remembered that Miss Jenkyns in Cranford liked her sister to call her Debōrah, 'her father having once said that the Hebrew name ought to be so pronounced', and it will not be forgotten that the good rector was too sound a scholar to read 'Debōrah' at the lettern.

An anecdote of Burgon's is to the point. He had preached in St. Mary's what he regarded as an epoch-making sermon, and afterwards he walked home to Oriel with Hawkins, the famous Provost. He looked for comment and hoped for praise, but the Provost's only remark was, 'Why do you say Emmāus?' 'I don't know; isn't it Emmāus?' 'No, no; Emmăus, Emmăus.' When Hawkins was young, in the days of George III, every one said Emmaus, and in such matters he would say, 'I will have no innovations in my time.' On the King's lips the phrase, as referring to politics, was foolish, but Hawkins used it with sense.

PS.—I had meant to cite an anecdote of Johnson. As he walked in the Strand, a man with a napkin in his hand and no hat stept out of a tavern and said, 'Pray, Sir, is it irréparable or irrepáirable that one should say?'—'The last, I think, Sir, for the adjective ought to follow the verb; but you had better consult my dictionary than me, for that was the result of more thought than you will now give me time for.' The dictionary rightly gives irréparable, and both the rule and example of the Doctor's obiter dicta (literally obiter) are wrong.

J.S.

MISCELLANEOUS NOTES AND CORRESPONDENCE

ADDENDA TO HOMOPHONES IN TRACT II

Several correspondents complain of the incompleteness of the list of Homophones in Tract II. The object of that list was to convince readers of the magnitude of the mischief, and the consequent necessity for preserving niceties of pronunciation: evidence of its incompleteness must strengthen its plea. The following words may be added; they are set here in the order of the literary alphabet.

Also note that so should be added to sew, sow, and that the words leech, leach, are not sufficiently credited with etymological variety: [see below p. 33].

The following words, the absence of which has been noted, are not true homophones:—

To Shakespearean obsoletes p. 27 add

THE SKILFUL LEECH

The Poet Laureate has pointed out that several useful words have been lost to the English language because their identity in sound with other words renders it impossible to use them without the risk either of being misunderstood or of calling up undesirable associations. It is owing to this cause that English—or, at least, the English of Great Britain—has no word that can correctly be used as a general designation for a member of the healing profession. In America, I believe, the word is 'physician'; but in England that appellation belongs to one branch of the profession exclusively. The most usual term here is 'doctor'; but the M.D. rightly objects to the application of this title to his professional brother who has no degree; and in a university town to say that John Smith is a doctor would be inconveniently ambiguous. 'Medical man' is cumbrous, and has the further disadvantage (in these days) of not being of common gender. Now the lack of any proper word for a meaning so constantly needing to be expressed is certainly a serious defect in modern (insular) English. The Americans have some right to crow over us here; but their 'physician' is a long word; and though it has been good English in the sense of medicus for six hundred years, it ought by etymology to mean what physicien does in French, and physicist in modern English. Our ancestors were better off in this respect than either we or the Americans. The only native word to denote a practiser of the healing art is leech, which is better than the foreign 'physician' because it is shorter. It was once a term of high dignity: Chaucer could apply it figuratively to God, as the healer of souls; and even in the sixteenth century a poet could address his lady as 'My sorowes leech'. Why can we not so use it now? Why do we not speak of 'The Royal College of Leeches'? Obviously, because a word of the same form happens to be the name of an ugly little animal of disgusting habits. If I were to introduce my medical attendant to a friend with the words 'This is my leech', the gentleman (or lady) so presented would think I was indulging in the same sort of pleasantry as is used when a coachman is called a 'whip'; and he (or she) would probably not consider the joke to be in the best of taste. Of course all educated people know that it was once not unusual to speak of a man of medicine as a 'leech'; but probably there are many who imagine that this designation was a disparaging allusion to the man's tool of trade, and that it could be applied only to inferior members of the profession. The ancient appellation of the healer is so far obsolete that if I were to answer a question as to a man's profession with the words 'Oh, he is a leech', there would be some risk of being misunderstood to mean that he was a money-lender.

Etymologists generally have regarded the name of the bloodsucking animal as the same word with leech a physician, the assumption being that the animal received its name from its use as a remedial agent. But the early forms, both in English and Low German, show that the words are originally unconnected. The English for medicus was in the tenth century lǽce or léce, and in the thirteenth century leche; the word for sanguisuga was in the tenth century lyce, and in the thirteenth century liche. According to phonetic law the latter word should have become litch in modern English; but it very early underwent a punning alteration which made it homophonous with the ancient word for physician. The unfortunate consequence is that the English language has hopelessly lost a valuable word, for which it has never been able to find a satisfactory substitute.

H.B.

DIFFERENTIATION OF HOMOPHONES

On this very difficult question the attitude of a careful English speaker is shown in the following extract from a letter addressed to us:

METAL, METTLE: and PRINCIPAL, PRINCIPLE

'I find that I do not naturally distinguish metal and mettle in pronunciation, tho' when there is any danger of ambiguity I say metal for the former and met'l for the latter; and I should probably do so (without thinking about it) in a public speech. In my young days the people about me usually pronounced met'l for both. Theoretically I think the distinction is a desirable one to make; the fact that the words are etymologically identical seems to me irrelevant. The words are distinctly two in modern use: when we talk of mettle (meaning spiritedness) there is in our mind no thought whatever of the etymological sense of the word, and the recollection of it, if it occurred, would only be disturbing. So I intend in future to pronounce metal as metəl (when I don't forget). And I am not sure that metəl is, strictly speaking, a "spelling-pronunciation": It is possible that the difference in spelling originated in a difference of pronunciation, not the other way about. For metal in its literal sense was originally a scientific word, and in that sense may have been pronounced carefully by people who would pronounce it carelessly when they used it in a colloquial transferred sense approaching to slang.

'The question of principal and principle is different. When I was young, educated people in my circle always, I believe, distinguished them; so to this day when I hear principal pronounced as principle it gives me a squirm, tho' I am afraid nearly everybody does it now. That the words are etymologically distinct does not greatly matter; it is of more importance that I have sometimes been puzzled to know which word a speaker meant; if I remember right, I once had to ask.

'It would be worth while to distinguish flower and flour (which originally, like metal and mettle, were the same word); yet in practice it is not easy to make the difference audible. The homophony is sometimes inconvenient.'

CORRECTION TO TRACT II

On p. 37 of TRACT II the words 'the Anglo-prussian society which Mr. Jones represents' have given offence and appear to be inaccurate. The German title of the series in which Jones's Dictionary is one has the following arrangement of words facing the English title: