English spelling and spelling reform

by Thomas Raynesford Lounsbury

I

The first of these objections is connected with the subject of derivation. There goes on, we are told, an irrepressible conflict between etymological spelling and phonetic, or anything approaching phonetic spelling. If the latter come to occupy the foremost place, the former, it is asserted, will disappear. Incalculable harm would thereby be wrought both to the speech and to its speakers. According to some, life would become a burden to the individual, and the language would be ruined beyond redemption, if the spelling of a word should hide from our eyes the source from which it came. The mystic tie that binds the speech of the past to that of the present would be severed. This is the special argument which comes not unfrequently from members of the educated, and sometimes of the scholarly class, though not from that section of it which deals with English scholarship. In the course of the preceding pages there has been constant occasion to give illustrations of its falsity, and far too often of its fraud. Consequently, to discuss it directly and at length will seem to many very much like going through the process of slaying the slain. But it plays so conspicuous a part in all discussions of spelling reform, that it is perhaps advisable, if not necessary, to consider it with special fulness of detail.

There is no question, indeed, that this argument based upon etymology has the strongest hold upon the educated class. It is constantly brought forward as if it were sufficient of itself to settle the question. Words, we are told, have a descent of their own. Letters which are never heard in the spoken speech, and indeed cannot be pronounced by any conceivable position known to us of our vocal organs, are not to be dropped from the written speech, because they remind us, or at least remind some of us, of forms in the languages from which they originally came. It sends a peculiar thrill of rapture, we are assured, through the heart of the student to find, for illustration, in deign, reign, feign, and impugn, a letter g which he never thinks of pronouncing. Silent as it is to the ear, it is, nevertheless, eloquent with all the tender associations connected with dignor, fingo, regno, and impugno. That persons with little education, and on the other hand persons with the highest linguistic training, should not share in these feelings is not at all to the purpose. Such are not really the ones to be consulted. Between these two classes lies a vast body of educated men whose wishes in this matter should be considered paramount.

That this argument in their behalf may not be charged with misrepresentation, take the following passage from Archbishop Trench, one of the deservedly favorite linguistic writers of the previous generation. Furthermore, as about the only English scholar of any repute who has come to the aid of the opponents of spelling reform, his words deserve quotation on that very account. He is giving as a reason for the retention of useless letters that while they are silent to the ear, they remain eloquent to the eye. “It is urged, indeed,” wrote Trench, “as an answer to this, that the scholar does not need these indications to help him to the pedigree of the words with which he deals, that the ignorant is not helped by them; that the one knows without, and the other does not know with them; so that, in either case, they are profitable for nothing. Let it be freely granted that this, in both these cases, is true; but between these two extremes there is a multitude of persons, neither accomplished scholars on the one side, nor yet wholly without the knowledge of all languages save their own on the other; and I cannot doubt that it is of great value that these should have all helps enabling them to recognize the words which they are using, whence they came, to what words in other languages they are nearly related, and what is their properest and strictest meaning.”[36]

Now, in the first place, were all this true, the objection would not be a valid one. The well-being of the many is always to be preferred to the satisfaction of the few. A language does not exist for the sake of imparting joyful emotions to the members of a particular group who are familiar with its sources. When committed to writing it is so committed for the purpose of conveying clearly to the eye the sounds heard by the ear. Anything in the form of the printed word which stands in the way of the speediest arrival at such a result is to that extent objectionable. But even this so-called advantage of suggesting origins is distinctly limited. What educated men know of the sources of words is almost entirely confined to Latin and Greek. Of the earlier forms of the more common native words and of their meanings the immense majority of even the most highly cultivated are ignorant. Their ignorance, however, does not seem to impair their happiness any more than it does their comprehension.

But the objection, further, is a purely artificial one. The happiness conferred is a happiness assumed to be confined to the words in their present form. The example of other tongues shows there is no justification for this belief. The Italian is a phonetic language. Does any one believe that an Italian scholar experiences any less satisfaction in finding the Græco-Latin philosophia, converted in his speech into filosofia than an English one does in seeing it in the form philosophy? Has his language suffered any material injury in consequence? Were I not myself inconsistent and lazy and several other disreputable adjectives, I should write fonetic instead of phonetic. This I cheerfully admit. But were not the strictly virtuous defenders of spelling according to derivation equally lacking in consistency, and absolutely unfaithful to the high etymological ideals they hold up for our admiration, they would be writing phansy, at least, instead of fancy. In one of the sporadic attacks of common-sense which have sometimes overtaken the users of our speech, f has displaced ph in this word, though to prevent the result from being wholly rational it has substituted c for s. The Greek phantasia has come down to us through phantasy, fantasy, and has finally subsided into the present form. To the believer in etymological spelling fancy ought to be as objectionable as fonetic.

In the second place, the hollowness of this pretended regard for etymology is not only detected, it is emphasized by the fact that the opposition to change is equally pronounced in the case of words where the present form is the result of blundering ignorance which gives an utterly erroneous idea of their origin. Can any antagonist of simplification be induced by his devotion to derivation to abandon comptroller? This corrupt spelling does more than defy the pronunciation of the word; it gives an utterly false impression of its source. Controller is in Anglo-French contre-rollour, in law Latin contra-rotulator. These, again, were taken from the Latin contra, ‘against,’ and the diminutive rotulus, rotula, ‘a little wheel,’ which word in the middle ages acquired the meaning of ‘roll.’ The controller, in consequence, was the one who kept the counter-roll or register, by which the entries on some other roll were tested. How naturally the possession of such an office would be apt to give to him holding it “control” over certain others, in the modern sense of the word, is apparent on the surface. But in the sixteenth century, and even earlier, some members of that class, “neither accomplished scholars on the one side nor yet wholly without the knowledge of all languages save their own on the other,” got it into their heads that the first part of the word came from the French compter, ‘to count.’ Hence came the unphonetic spelling based upon a blunder of derivation!

Take two other examples, illustrative of this attitude of opposition. Could any upholder of etymological spelling be induced to drop the c of scent, though nobody ever pronounced the intruding letter? Yet, as it comes from the Latin sent-ire, the substitution of scent for the previous sent destroys in this case for the vast majority of educated men that delightful reminiscence of the classic tongues which, we are told, imparts so peculiar a charm to the present orthography. Mitford, the historian of Greece, was subjected to ceaseless ridicule and vituperation because he preferred the correct etymological form iland, and refused to adopt the s which had been inserted into the word under the blundering belief that it was either derived from or was in some way related to the Latin insula and the French isle.

In truth, the argument of derivation is invoked only to retain whatever orthographic anomalies we chance to have. It is abjured the moment an effort is made to root out any etymological anomalies which have been introduced into the speech. The fact is that if spelling according to derivation were heeded it would result in changes to which those proposed by any advocate of simplification of spelling would seem absurdly trivial. This would be particularly noticeable in the case of words derived from native sources. The opponent of spelling reform who bases his hostility upon etymological grounds would be aghast were he asked to conform to his principles in his practice. Out indeed would go the h of the very word aghast just used. Nothing would induce him to drop the intruding letter in this case or other letters in scores of other cases, though their only effect is to hide the origin of the word. Or take, for illustration of mere uselessness, the k of whole classes of words of native origin. The letter was as little known to the Anglo-Saxon alphabet as it was to the Roman. Hence, were spelling according to derivation strictly enforced, it would have to disappear from no small number of words where it is not merely superfluous as regards pronunciation, but gives an entirely erroneous impression of the form from which it came. It has been remarked that the original of back was bæc, of quick was cwic, of stock was stoc, of sick was seoc. Imagine the indignant feelings of the assumed ardent devotee of spelling according to derivation if he were asked to drop the final letter from these words. Yet from his own point of view it has no business there at all.

To a certain extent this particular brand of ruin had already overtaken the language. From the native words no one had ever thought of discarding the final k, because scarcely any one knew of the forms these originally had. But knowledge of Latin was widespread. Regard for derivation succeeded, therefore, in banishing it from whole classes of words taken from that language. The struggle, however, was long. The authority of Doctor Johnson was in vain invoked for its retention. One must be familiar with the history of orthography to appreciate what dissensions sprang up in once happy homes, what prognostics were indulged in of the ruin that would betide the speech, were men ever to be induced to spell musick and historick and prosaick, and a host of similar words, without their final k. Boswell, who could not help reproaching Johnson for dropping the vowel u from authour, praised him for standing up for the retention of this final consonant. He represents him as saying that he spelled Imlac in Rasselas with a c at the end because by so doing it was less like English, which, he continued, “should always have the Saxon k added to the c.” The “Saxon k” was the lexicographer’s personal contribution to the original English alphabet. “I hope,” continued Boswell, “the authority of the great master of our language will stop this curtailing innovation by which we see critic, public, etc., frequently written instead of critick, publick, etc.”

The biographer’s hopes were doomed, however, to disappointment. Walker, the favorite lexicographer of a hundred years ago, bowed to the storm, while he deplored the havoc it had wrought. “It has been a custom within these twenty years,” he wrote, “to omit the k at the end of words when preceded by c. This has introduced a novelty into the language, which is that of ending a word with an unusual letter, and is not only a blemish on the face of it, but may possibly produce some irregularity in future formations.” To call it a novelty was stating the matter too strongly. But to this extent Walker’s assertion was true, that spelling a word with a final c was only occasional.

Here we have been considering the dropping of a useless final letter which has no justification for its existence on the ground of derivation. This naturally leads to the consideration of the case in which it is proposed to drop a particular one which has such justification. This is the no longer pronounced guttural with which, as one example, through ends. One of the queer objections brought against the spelling thru was that hardly a word existed in our language that ended in the letter u. That seemed to the protester an all-sufficient reason for never letting any of them have that termination. If the sound was there to be represented, there seemed no very cogent reason why the letter fitted to represent it should not perform its office. In the original speech u terminated some most common words, as sunu, ‘son’; duru, ‘door’; and pu, ‘thou.’ What crime has this unfortunate vowel committed that it should be deprived of its ancient privilege of standing at the end of a word? The objection is interesting because it shows what sort of reasons intelligent people can be led to believe and to adduce under the honest impression that these are to be deemed arguments.

Another fallacy connected with this subject of spelling in conformity with the derivation is suggested by the extract taken from Archbishop Trench’s work, rather than directly asserted in it. This is that a knowledge of the origin of words is a desirable if not an essential requisite to their proper use. Consequently, the spelling of the English word should be made to conform to the etymology for that particular reason. This is an assumption that has no warrant in fact. The existence of great authors in every literature, who had either no knowledge or had very imperfect knowledge of the sources of the speech which they wielded at will, is an argument which may be ignored, and ordinarily is ignored, because it can never be squarely met. It is not from their originals or from their past meanings that men learn the value of the terms they employ. Acquaintance with that comes from experience or observation, or from familiarity with the usage of the best speakers and writers. Is the meaning of nausea any plainer after we have learned that it is by origin a Greek word which come from naus, ‘ship,’ and in consequence ought strictly to be limited to denoting seasickness? One hour’s experience of the sensation will give the sufferer a keener appreciation and a preciser knowledge of the signification than a whole year’s study of the derivation. Will stirrup be employed with greater clearness after one has learned that in the earliest English it was stige-râp, and that accordingly it meant the ‘rope’ by which one ‘sties’ or mounts the horse? The information thus gained has an independent value of its own. It may be of interest as satisfying an intelligent curiosity. It may show that the first stirrups were probably made of ropes. But it implies a mistaken and confused perception of what is to be derived from etymological study, to fancy that as a result of it any one will have a better knowledge of this particular appendage to a saddle or use the term denoting it with more precision and expressiveness. It is only in the exceptional cases, when a word is beginning to wander away from its primitive or strictly proper sense, that the knowledge of the derivation imparts accuracy of use. Yet even here this knowledge is of slight value. The transition of meaning is either a natural development which ought not to be held in check, or it is a general perversion which the etymological training of the few is in most cases powerless to arrest.

One form of this fallacy of derivation is that which connects it with the history of words. The two are closely allied. They are, indeed, so closely allied that when one is spoken of, it is the other that is usually meant. We are often condescendingly assured by the opponent of spelling reform that its advocates forget that words have a history of their own. After indulging in this not particularly startling remark he almost invariably goes on to make clear by illustration that he himself has no conception of what it means. “Shall we,” asks a writer, after reciting this well-worn formula—“shall we mask the Roman origin of Cirencester and Towcester by spelling them Sissiter and Towster,” as they are pronounced? Now it may not be wise, for various reasons, to alter the orthography of proper names. But the unwisdom of it will not be for the reason here given. In this case it is evident from the words accompanying his protest that what the decryer of change means to say is that by altering the spelling of the place names, their history would be obscured. What he actually says, however, is that their derivation, which is but a single point in their history, would be hidden from view.

For the leading idea at the bottom of an argument of this sort, if it has any idea at all, must necessarily be that the particular form which the word assumed at the first known period of its existence should be the form religiously preserved for all future time. Now, if orthography is merely or, even mainly, to represent etymology; if, further, we are able both to obtain and retain the earliest spelling, there is method in this madness, even though there be not much sense. But of the first form we have been able to secure the knowledge with certainty in only a few instances. Far fewer are the instances in which we have retained it. Almost invariably it is a form belonging to some later period that is adopted and set before us as somehow having attained sanctity. This imputed sanctity works only harm. The maintenance of one form through all periods not only contributes nothing to the history of the word, it does all it can to prevent any knowledge of its history being kept alive. For it is the spoken word alone that has life. Only by the changes which the written word undergoes can the record of that life be preserved. If the written word remains in a fossilized condition, all direct knowledge of the successive stages through which the spoken word passed, disappears. The moment a word comes to have a fixed unchangeable exterior form, no matter what alterations may take place in its interior life, that is to say, in its pronunciation, that moment its history, independent of the meaning it conveys, becomes doubtful and obscure. This is the condition to which English vocables are largely reduced. Their successive significations can be traced; but knowledge of the important changes of pronunciation they have undergone becomes difficult, if not impossible, of attainment.

Two terms designating common diseases may seem to illustrate fairly well the opposite condition of things here indicated. They are quinsy and phthisic. The one early dropped the forms squinancy, squinacy, and squincy, which belonged to the immediate Romance original. To that an s had been prefixed. When that letter ceased to be pronounced, no one thought of retaining it. So for that reason it disappeared from the English, just as for the opposite reason it has been preserved in the corresponding French word esquinancie. In this case a history has been unrolled before us. It is not unlike that seen in the supplanting of the form chirurgeon by surgeon. On the other hand, take the case of the word phthisic, as now ordinarily written. This form gives us no knowledge of the real history of the word. From other sources we learn that it was once spelled as it is now pronounced. The most current of several forms was tisik. In Milton it is found as tizzic. Such a spelling makes evident at once how it was then sounded, just as still do the corresponding tisico in Italian and tisica in Spanish. But in the seventeenth century, and even as early as the sixteenth, scholars went back to the Greek original and imposed upon the unfortunate word the combination phth, which by a liberal use of the imagination is supposed to have somehow the sound of t. This has finally come to prevail over the earlier phonetic spelling. He whose knowledge of the word is confined to its present form is almost necessarily led to believe that it was taken directly from its remote source. From all acquaintance with the various changes it has undergone, and with the pronunciation it has had at various periods, he is shut out. Archbishop Trench has pointed out the transition by which emmet has passed into ant through the intermediate spellings of emet and amt, which necessarily represented changes of sound.[37] By this means a history has been unrolled before us. But he certainly had no right to felicitate himself upon the result. If his theories be true, instead of spelling the word as we pronounce it, which we now do, we ought to adopt in writing the poetic and dialectic emmet at least, if not the earliest known form. To employ his own argument, letters silent to the ear would still be most eloquent to the eye. In this particular case some of us would be made happy beyond expression by being reminded of the Anglo-Saxon original æmete.

Even using history in the narrow and imperfect sense in which those who advance this argument constantly employ it, we are no better off. Nearly every old word in the language has had different forms at different periods of its existence. Which one of these is to be selected as the standard? When does this so-called history begin? Take the word we spell head. Shall we so write it because it is the custom to do so now? Or shall we go back to the Anglo-Saxon original heâfod? Or shall we adopt some one of its three dozen later forms—such, for instance, as heved or heed or hed? This last, which with our present pronunciation, would be a pure phonetic spelling, was more or less in use from the thirteenth to the eighteenth century. The reason for our preference for the existing form has no other basis than the habit of association to which attention has been so frequently called. We do not spell the word as head because it gives us a knowledge of the changes which have taken place in its history, for this it does not do at all. Nor do we so spell it because it gives us a knowledge of its derivation, for this it does very little. Nor further do we so spell it because it represents pronunciation, for this it does still less. We cling to it for no other reason than that we are used to it. What is here said of head can be said of thousands of other words.

Even in the case of Cirencester and Towcester, above mentioned, the same statement holds good. As there intimated, proper names do not really enter into the discussion of the general question. Being individual in their nature, they are more or less under the control of the individuals who own them. These can and do exercise the right of changing at will their orthography and their pronunciation. But for the sake of the argument, let us assume that it would be a gross outrage to spell the names of these towns as Sissiter and Touster. Let us admit that by such a change all knowledge of their Roman origin would be lost to those who did not care enough about it to make the matter a subject of special study. It is accordingly a natural and, indeed, a perfectly legitimate inference, that in the designation of towns the main office of their orthography is to point out who founded them or how they chanced to come into being.

If this be so, the principle ought to be carried through consistently. What, in such a case, should be done with Exeter? The ancient name was Exanceaster, which passed through various changes of form, among which were Exscester and Excester. As early, at least, as the reign of Queen Elizabeth it became usually Exeter. If it be the object of spelling to impart information about the origin of places, ought we not at any rate to return to the form Excester, to remind “a multitude of persons, neither accomplished scholars on the one side, nor yet wholly without the knowledge of all languages save their own on the other,” that the Romans once had a permanent military station on the banks of the Exe? It is to be feared that no devotion to derivation would lead the inhabitants of the city to sanction such a change. In truth, the value of all knowledge of this sort is something assumed, not really substantiated. The few who need it, or wish it, can easily acquire it without the necessity of perverting orthography from its legitimate functions to the business of imparting it. How many of the inhabitants of Boston in Lincolnshire and of Boston in Massachusetts lead useful, happy, and honored lives, and go down to their graves in blissful unconsciousness of the fact that the name of their city has been shortened from Botolph’s Town! How many of them are aware, indeed, that such a saint as Botolph ever existed at all?

In truth, all knowledge of the history of words ceases for most of us the moment these assume a fixed form, independent of the sounds they purport to represent. That history is found in the pronunciation. It is recorded and revealed to us only by the variations in spelling which variations in pronunciation require. In this matter the attitude of the past and of the present is distinctly at variance. Especially is this so in the case of unpronounced letters. Our ancestors discarded such without scruple, whether found in the original or not. We cling to them. We are not content with merely clinging to them. The more in the way they are, the more we cherish them. This point is brought out strikingly in the earlier and the later treatment of two initial letters which ceased to be sounded. These are k and h. The latter was incontinently dropped in writing when it failed to be heard in the pronunciation. This, indeed, was done so long ago that knowledge of the fact that the letter once existed at the beginning of certain words is now mainly confined to the students of our earlier speech. In the other case the unpronounced letter is still retained in the spelling. There is consequently no way for us to determine from the form of the word when this initial k ceased to be a living force. That knowledge must be gained with more or less of certainty from an independent investigation.

It has already been pointed out that there are some two dozen words in our speech in which an initial k followed by n is silent.[38] If the researches of Mr. Ellis can be trusted, the dropping of the sound of this letter from pronunciation in the speech of the educated took place in the seventeenth century. By that time English orthography was beginning to be subjected to that process of petrifaction which consummated its work in the century following. The external form in existence continued to be preserved with little or no modification, regardless of whatever changes took place in its internal life. Naturally these words beginning with an unpronounced k fell under this influence. Take as an illustration the word knave, corresponding to the German knabe, ‘boy,’ and having originally the same signification. As regards its meaning the English word has passed through the successive senses of boy, of a boy as servant, of a servant without regard to age, of a rascally servant, and finally of a simple rascal with no reference to the time of life or the nature of employment. There it remains. The idea both of boyhood and of service has entirely disappeared. That of rascality, not at all implied in the original, has now become the predominant sense.

In the case of the signification, we have therefore a complete history unrolled before us. In the case of the form, we have but a partial history. It was not so at first. In the earlier period the spelling of the word changed with its pronunciation. The original was cnafa. The substitution of k for c indicated no difference in the sound. But the weakening of the final a to e, the replacing of f by v denoted the prevalence at the early period of the idea that the spelling was not designed to defy pronunciation, but to point it out. Then changes made in it are evidences of the changes that had been going on in the sound. But when later the k disappeared from the pronunciation, no attempt was made to indicate the fact by dropping it also from the spelling. By that time the printing-office had begun to fasten its fangs upon the language. Consequently, the letter no longer heard by the ear was carefully retained to console the eye and burden the memory.

Now, it may not be advisable—at least, for the present—to discard the unpronounced initial letter in the case of words of this class; this, too, for reasons entirely independent of the feelings of association. The revival of the phonetic sense among the men of the English-speaking race is possible as a result of an extensive reform of English spelling. In that case the pronunciation of k before n might be resumed in English speech, just as it is still found in German. The letter, indeed, continues yet to be heard in English dialects, so that in one sense it has never died out. Highly improbable, therefore, as is the resumption of the sound, it is at least possible. This consideration, though it can not form an argument, may suggest a pretext for not discarding it at present. But to retain it on the ground of derivation is more than irrational in itself. It is absolutely inconsistent with the attitude which has been taken and is now universally approved in the case of words which once were spelled with an initial h.

Had the users of language been always under the sway of the feelings which have made us keep the k, no small number of common words which now begin with l, n, or r would have these letters preceded by the aspirate. So they were at first. This class may be represented by ladder and lot, the originals of which were hlædder and hlot; by neck and nut, originally hnecca and hnut; by ring and roof, originally hring and hrôf. The letter h, having disappeared from the pronunciation, our fathers dropped it from the spelling. The most ardent devotee of derivation as a guide to orthography would now be unwilling to restore it. The same men who would be horrified at the idea of dropping k from knoll and knife, because that letter or its equivalent is found in the original, would be equally horrified at the thought of restoring h to loud and nap and raven, though in all of them it once flourished. It is simply another illustration of the same old sham of invoking derivation to resist any change in the spelling to which we are accustomed, and of disregarding it, and even defying it, when we are asked to carry out our professed principles by altering the spelling so as to bring it into accordance with them.