Treacle.—A remarkable curiosity in the way of derivations is one traced by that indefatigable explorer, Archbishop Trench, which connects treacle with vipers. The syrup of molasses with the poison of snakes! Never was an odder relationship; yet it is a case of genuine fatherhood, and embodies a singular superstition. The ancients believed that the best antidote to the bite of the viper was a confection of its own flesh. The Greek word θηρταχή, flesh of the viper, was given first to such a sweetmeat, and then to any antidote of poison, and lastly to any syrup; and easily corrupted into our present word. Chaucer has a line—
Christ, which that is to every harm triacle.
Milton speaks of the “sovran treacle of sound doctrine.” A stuff called Venice Treacle was considered antidote to all poisons. “Vipers treacle yield,” says Edmund Waller, in a verse which has puzzled many a modern reader, and yet brings one close to the truth of the etymology, and shows that treacle is only a popular corruption of theriac.
Wig.—This word may be cited as a good example to show how interesting and profitable it is to trace words through their etymological windings to their original source. Wig is abridged from periwig, which comes from the Low Dutch peruik, which has the same meaning. When first introduced into the English language, it was written and pronounced perwick, the u being changed into w, as may still be seen in old English books. Afterwards the i was introduced for euphony, and it became periwick; and finally the ck was changed into g, making it periwig, and by contraction wig.
The Dutch word peruik was borrowed from the French perruque. The termination uik is a favorite one with that nation, and is generally substituted in borrowed words for the French uque and the German auch. The French word perruque comes from the Spanish peluca, and this last from pelo, hair, which is derived from the Latin pilus. Hence the Latin word pilus, hair, through successive transformations, has produced the English word wig.
Windfall.—Centuries ago a clause was extant in the tenure of many English estates, to the effect that the owners might not fell the trees, as the best timber was reserved for the Royal Navy; but any trees that came down without cutting were the property of the tenant. Hence was a storm a joyful and a lucrative event in proportion to its intensity, and the larger the number of forest patriarchs it laid low the richer was the lord of the land. He had received a veritable “windfall.” Ours in the nineteenth century come in the shape of any unexpected profit; and those of us who own estates rather quake in sympathy with our trembling trees on windy nights.
ODD CHANGES OF SIGNIFICATION.
The first verse of Dean Whittingham’s version of the 114th Psalm may be quoted as a curious instance of a phrase originally grave in its meaning become strangely incongruous:—