In almost all the languages of the Teutonic family, of which ours is one, the word is still spelled with k; and so it is in the Asiatic languages, from which, probably, both the Teutonic and the Greek, alike borrowed it.
The spelling acre, as also centre, theatre we, probably, derived from the French; to which language we owe the emasculation of many a noble Saxon word.
In the New England Farmer our orthographical sins are thus set in order before us:
“The Western Farmer and Gardener, is an excellent journal—very. It has only one feature that we dislike, viz.—it spells ACRE a-k-e-r! We are somewhat surprised at Bro. Beecher, who usually evinces such good taste, as well as such good sense, should adopt such an ugly-looking substitute for an old word of so much better appearance, although supported in it by the prince of lexicographers.
“A-k-e-r! Wheugh! Bro. editors, hoot at it till it
shall become obsolete. In Todd’s, Johnson’s, and Walker’s, and Worcester’s dictionaries, fuel is spelled fewel, as the most correct way. This is odd enough and bad enough—but it is hardly so unsightly as aker.”
Nothing becomes obsolete until it has been in vogue. But pass that: what a sight will the hooting confraternity present! I imagine Maine Farmer Holmes—a plump, short, dapper gentleman, giving a long howl, that sounds so ludicrous, that he draws back from the open window to laugh. Our more sober Breck performs the euphonious duty with such conscientious heartiness, that up starts the man of Buckwheat from his (mis-spelled) Ploughman’s chair, as also does the Cultivator Cole—a trio not practiced to sing together. The uproar reaches Albany, and surprises him of the Cultivator, who hoots supplementary, with such voice as he happens, in his surprise, to have on hand. Next, toward the west, Dr. Lee shall give a scientific roar or hoot such as will make his laboratory jar again. Down across the lake the hooting (not hunting) chorus goes (what will the sailors think is to pay!) to Elliot of the yard-long-named Magazine, who, hoarse with lake fogs and winds, shall put in so bass a hoot, that Wight and Wright of the Prairie Farmer will howl of mere fright, if for nothing else.
Audacious men! we utterly defy you! We shall pass by the whole crowing brood of Polands, Dorkings and what-not; and raise a breed of genuine owls, to be our champions in this dire necessity. We say, peremptorily, that we will not bet on any match between hooting birds and hooting editors. But our serious opinion is, that, in grave solemnity of looks, and in professional hooting, a half dozen well-trained owls will beat the whole of you. However, we are open to conviction.
[1] Two-volume edition, imperial octavo.