English spelling and spelling reform

by Thomas Raynesford Lounsbury

I have already adverted to the fact that had there been any system established in the employment of these combinations of letters, and had each of them been made to represent unvaryingly one particular sound, some of the worst evils of English orthography would have been largely mitigated, and in certain cases entirely relieved. But this was not to be. The opportunity of bringing about regularity of usage in the employment of these signs was either not seen, or if seen was not improved. The same variableness, the same irregularity, the same lawlessness which existed in the representation of the sounds of the vowels and diphthongs came to exist in the case of the digraphs also. They consequently did little more than add to the confusion prevailing in English orthography, and became as valueless for indicating pronunciation as are the single letters of which they are composed.

To this sweeping statement there are two partial exceptions. The first is aw. This is one of several representatives of the so-called broad sound of a heard in ball and fall. Whenever that digraph appears, its pronunciation is invariably the same. No such absolute assertion can be made of the digraph which represents the sound of “long e.” This is the combination ee. There are but two exceptions in common use to the pronunciation of it just given. The first is the word breeches. Its singular has the regular sound. The pronunciation as short i in the plural—used, too, there in a special sense—may perhaps be due to an extension to this form of that tendency, so prevalent in English speech, on the part of the derivative, to shorten the vowel of the primitive. The other is the participle been of the substantive verb. In usage the pronunciation of this word has long wavered and still wavers between the sounds heard respectively in sin and seen. Of this variation there will be occasion to speak later in detail.

These exceptions, however, affect but a limited number of words. They are hardly worth considering when their regularity is put in contrast with the irregularities of the other combinations. Let us begin with the digraph ai. Ordinarily it has the sound we are accustomed to call “long a,” as can be seen in fail, rain, and paid. In pair, fair, hair it has another sound. In said, again, against it has the sound of short e. In aisle it has the diphthongal sound called by us “long i.” This word furnishes an interesting illustration of the way in which much of our highly prized orthography came to have a being. Its present spelling is comparatively recent. Doctor Johnson recognized in it the lack of conformity to any possible derivation. He adopted it on the authority of Addison, though with manifest misgiving. He thought it ought to be written aile, but in deference to this author he inserted it in his dictionary as aisle.

“Thus,” he said, “the word is written by Addison, but perhaps improperly.”[21] Johnson’s action was followed without thought and without hesitation by his successors. There is no question, indeed, as to the impropriety of the present spelling from the point of view of both derivation and pronunciation. Equally there is no doubt as to the impropriety of its meaning from the former point of view. It came remotely from the Latin ala, ‘a wing.’ Therefore, it means really the wing part of the church on each side of the nave. In this sense it is still employed. But since the first half of the eighteenth century it has been made to denote also the passage between rows of seats. Strictly speaking, this is a particularly gross corruption, though, like so many in our speech, it has now been sanctioned by good usage. The proper word to indicate such a sense was alley, corresponding to the French allée, ‘a passage.’ This was once common and is still used in the North of England. Aisle itself was formerly spelled ile or yle. Confusing it with isle, originally spelled ile, men inserted an s about the end of the seventeenth century. Later an a was prefixed under the influence of the French aile. It was thus that this linguistic monster, defying any correct orthography or orthoepy, was created. In any sense of it the s is an unjustifiable intrusion, representing as the word does in one signification the Latin ala, ‘a wing,’ and in the other the French allée, ‘a passage.’

There is another word containing this digraph which illustrates vividly the uncertainty of sound caused by the present spelling. This is plait, both as verb and substantive. About its pronunciation usage has long been conflicting. “Plait, a fold of cloth, is regular, and ought to be pronounced like plate, a dish,” said Walker, at the beginning of the eighteenth century. “Pronouncing it so as to rhyme with meat,” he added, “is a vulgarism, and ought to be avoided.” So say several later English dictionaries. So say the leading American ones. Webster, indeed, concedes that the pronunciation denounced by Walker is colloquially possible. It therefore does not necessarily relegate the user of it to the ranks of the vulgar. Now comes the New Historical English Dictionary, and gives the word not merely three distinct pronunciations, but holds up as only really proper that which has failed to gain the favor of most lexicographers. It is the one found “in living English use,” it says, when the word has the sense of ‘fold.’ Further we are assured that with this signification it is ordinarily written pleat. This would tend to justify still more the ryme with meat, which so shocked Walker. Then in its second sense of a ‘braid of hair or straw’ we are told that it has the sound of a in mat. This leaves the pronunciation of plait to ryme with plate hardly any support to stand on. It has merely the distinction of being mentioned first; but it is denied a real existence as a spoken word. Nothing could better illustrate the unlimited possibilities opened by our present orthography for discussions of propriety of pronunciation about which certainty can never be assured. All statements about general usage, no matter from what source coming, must necessarily be received with a good many grains of allowance, if not with a fair proportion of grains of distrust—at least, whenever our orthoepic doctors disagree. Do the best the most conscientious investigator can, he can never make himself familiar with the practice of but a limited number of educated men who have a right to be consulted. His conclusions, therefore, must always rest upon a more or less imperfect collection of facts.

The digraph ay is naturally subject to the same influences as ai. It is, however, much less used save at the end of words. Grief has, indeed, been felt and expressed, even by devout worshippers of our present orthography, at the arbitrary change of signs made in the inflection of certain verbs, like lay, pay, say. These, without any apparent reason for so doing, pass from the digraph ay in the present to ai in the preterite. Naturally there is no objectionable uniformity in the practice. That might tend to render slightly easier the acquisition of our spelling. Accordingly, lay and pay and say have in the past tense laid, paid, and said, while verbs with the same termination, such as play, pray, delay, have in this same past tense the forms played and prayed and delayed. Stay uses impartially staid and stayed. Much dissatisfaction has been expressed at the “wanton departure from analogy,” as it has been called, which has been manifested by the words of the first list given. As the characteristic of our spelling everywhere is a wanton departure from analogy, it hardly seems worth while to find fault with this particular exhibition of it.

In quay the digraph has the entirely distinct sound of “long e.” Of this word it may be added that the spelling is modern while the pronunciation is ancient. Originally it appeared as key or kay—of course, with the usual orthographic variations. In the earlier half of the eighteenth century, under the influence of the French quai, the present form of the word came in; toward the end of the century it had become the prevailing form. This gave the lexicographer, Walker, an opportunity to display his hostility to any sort of spelling which should engage in the reprehensible task of aiming to indicate pronunciation. Such a proceeding was in his eyes a radically vicious course of action. In the entire ignorance of the original form of the word he remarked that it “is now sometimes seen written key; for if we cannot bring the pronunciation to the spelling, it is looked upon as some improvement to bring the spelling to the pronunciation—a most pernicious practice in language.”

Key, as the spelling suggests, had originally the sound of ey in they and obey; later it passed into the sound of “long e.” This it has transmitted to its supplanter. In the scarcity of rymes in our tongue, it is always a little venturesome to infer from the evidence of verse the past pronunciation of words which have with us the same termination, but different sounds. This imparts a little uncertainty to the treatment of quay in two passages containing the word which are given by the New Historical Dictionary.

But now arrives the dismal day
She must return to Ormond-quay,

says Swift in his poem of Stella at Wood-Park. Does the ryme here represent an attempt to conform the pronunciation to the spelling? More likely it represents the survival of a pronunciation once more or less prevalent. The second extract from In Memoriam is under the circumstances more striking: