English spelling and spelling reform

by Thomas Raynesford Lounsbury

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.