Words; Their Use and Abuse

by William Mathews

“Apple-pie order” is a popular phrase of which few persons know the meaning. Does it signify in order, or in disorder? A writer in the “North British Review” favors the latter interpretation. He thinks it has nothing to do with “apple” or “pie,” in the common sense of those words. He believes that it is a typographical term, and that it was originally “Chapel pie.” A printing house was, and is to this day, called a chapel,—perhaps from the Chapel at Westminster Abbey, in which Caxton’s earliest works are said to have been printed; and “pie” is type after it is “distributed” or broken up, and before it has been re-sorted. “‘Pie’ in this sense came from the confused and perplexing rules of the ‘Pie,’ that is, the order for finding the lessons, in Catholic times, which those who have read, or care to read, the Preface to the ‘Book of Common Prayer,’ will find there expressed and denounced. Here is the passage: ‘Moreover the number and hardness of the rules called the Pie, and the manifold changings of the service, was the cause that to turn the book only was so hard and intricate a matter, that many times there was more business to find out what should be read than to read it when it was found out.’ To leave your type in ‘pie’ is to leave it unsorted and in confusion, and ‘apple-pie order,’ which we take to be ‘chapel-pie order,’ is to leave anything in a thorough mess. Those who like to take the other side, and assert that ‘apple-pie order’ means in perfect order, may still find their derivation in ‘chapel-pie’; for the ordering and sorting of the ‘pie’ or type is enforced in every ‘chapel’ or printing-house by severe fines, and so ‘chapel-pie order’ would be such order of the type as the best friends of the chapel would wish to see.” “The bitter end,” a phrase often heard during the late civil war, has a remarkable etymology. A ship’s cable has always two ends. One end is fastened to the anchor and the other to the “bits,” or “bitts,” a frame of two strong pieces of timber fixed perpendicularly in the fore part of the ship, for the express purpose of holding the cables. Hence the “bitter,” or “bitter end,” is the end fastened to the bitts; and when the cable is out to the “bitter end,” it is all out; the extremity has come.

Few persons who utter the word “stranger,” suspect that it has its root in the single vowel e, the Latin preposition for “from,” which it no more resembles than a bird resembles an egg. The links in the chain are,—e, ex, extra, extraneus, étranger, stranger. When a boy answers a lady, “Yes’m,” he does not dream that his “m” is a fragment of the five syllables, mea domina (“madonna,” “madame,” “madam,” “ma’am” “’m”). The French word même is a striking illustration of what philologists call “phonetic change,” which sometimes “eats away the whole body of a word, and leaves nothing behind but decayed fragments.” Who would believe that même contains the Latin semetipsissimus? The words “thrall” and “thraldom” have an interesting history. They come to us from a period when it was customary to “thrill” (or drill) the ear of a slave in token of servitude; and hence the significance of Sir Thomas Browne’s remark, “Bow not to the omnipotency of gold, nor ‘bore’ thy ear to its servitude.” The expression “‘signing’ one’s name” takes us back to an age when most persons made their mark or “sign.” We must not suppose that this practice was then, as now, a proof of the ignorance of the signer. Among the Saxons, not only illiterate persons made this sign, but, as an attestation of the good faith of the person signing, the mark of the cross was required to be attached to the name of those who could write. From its holy association, it was the symbol of an oath; and hence the expression “God save the mark!” which so long puzzled the commentators of Shakespeare, is now understood to be a form of ejaculation resembling an oath. It is said that Charlemagne, being unable to write, was compelled to dip the forefinger of his glove in ink, and smear it over the parchment when it was necessary that the imperial sign-manual should be fixed to an edict. “Window” is a corruption of “wind-door,”—door to let in the wind.

The word “handkerchief” is curiously fashioned. “Kerchief,” the first form of the word, is from the French couvre-chef, “a head-covering.” If to “kerchief”, we prefix “hand,” we have a “hand-head-covering,” or a covering for the head held in the hand, which is palpably absurd; but when we qualify this word by “neck” or “pocket,” we reach the climax beyond which confusion can no farther go. How a covering for the “head” is to be held in the “hand,” and yet carried in the “pocket,” it requires a more than ordinarily vivid imagination to conceive. “Constable” is derived from comes stabuli, or “Count of the stable,” who formerly had charge of the king’s horses. “Bib” is from bibere, to drink, the tucker being used to save the child’s clothes from whatever may be spilt when it is bibbing.

“Dollar” is the German thaler, which is an abbreviation of Joachemsthaler, the valley where it was coined.

“Host,” an army, or a multitude, is from hostis; “host,” an entertainer, is from hospes; “host,” a sacrifice, is from hostia. The word “rostrum” is from the Latin rostra, the beak of a ship. After the submission of the Latins, 334 B.C., the vessels of Antium having been burnt, their beaks were made to adorn the tribune in the Forum. From that time the rostra became the indispensable decoration of the Forum, and hence the name “rostrum” to denote a platform for orators. “Verdict” is from veredictum, truly said. “Palliate” is from pallium, a cloak. “Carat” is from the Arabic kaura, a bean, the standard weight for diamonds. “Salmon” is from saliendo, which points to the “leaps” it makes. A “cur,” from the Latin curtus, is a curtailed dog, whose tail has been cut off for straying in the woods; a “terrier” is from terrarius, an earth-dog; a “spaniel” is a Spanish dog; a “mongrel” is a dog of mingled breed; and the mastiff guards the maison, or house. A horse is called a “pony” when puny; a “hack” from “hackney;” and the lady’s horse was called a “palfrey,” because it was led par le frein, or by the rein.

A “palace” is so called from Collis Palatinus, one of the seven hills of Rome, which was itself called Palatinus, from Pales, a pastoral deity. On this hill stood the “Golden House” of Nero, which was called the Palatium, and became the type of the palaces of all the kings and emperors of Europe. The word “court” had its origin in the same locality and in the same distant age. It was on the hills of Latium that cohors or cors was first used in the sense of a “hurdle,” an “enclosure,” a “cattle yard.” The cohortes, or divisions of the Roman army, were thus named, so many soldiers forming a pen or a court. Cors, cortis, became in mediæval Latin curtis, and was used to denote a farm, or a castle built by a Roman settler in the provinces, and finally a royal residence, or palace. That a word originally meaning “cow-pen,” or “cattle-yard,” should assume the meaning of “palace,” and give rise to such derivatives as “courteous,” “courtesy,” and “to court,” that is, to pay attentions, or to propose marriage, is a striking example of the strange transformations which words undergo in the course of ages. The “Court of the Star Chamber,” so odious in English history, derived its name from the ceiling of the room where it sat, which was dotted with stars. “Pontiff” has an almost equally humble origin. It is from the Pons Sublicius, which Ancus Marcus placed on wooden joists, and which was rebuilt by the censor Æmilius Lepidus in the reign of the second of the Cæsars,—the bridge which Horatius Cocles defended, and whose construction, preservation, and maintenance were confided to the college of priests,—that the word “pontiff” is derived. The word “exchequer” comes, according to Blackstone, from the “checked” cloth that covered the table behind which the money-changers sat. “Suffrage” is from suffragium, a broken piece or potsherd, used by the ancients in voting in their assemblies. “Easter” is from the Anglo-Saxon, Eastre (German, Ostara), a heathen goddess whose feast was celebrated in the spring. Remains of the old pagan worship have survived in Easter eggs, yule logs, and, on the Continent of Europe, Whitsun fires.

“Mystery,” something secret or unknown, comes from mu, the imitation of closing the lips; but “mystery,” in the Mystery Plays, such as continue to be performed at Ammergan, in Bavaria, is a corruption of ministerium; it meant a religious ministry, or service, had nothing to do with mystery, and should be spelled with an i, and not with a y. “Puny” is from the French puis-né, “since born,” hence, by metaphor, sickly, inferior, diminutive. From the same source is derived “puisne” (that is, younger, or inferior) judge. The phrase “True Blue,” applied to the Presbyterians, is said by Dean Stanley to be owing to the distinct dress of the Scotch Presbyterian clergy, which at one time was a blue gown and a broad blue bonnet. The Episcopal clergy either wore no distinctive dress in public services, or wore a black gown. The Rev. Dr. Murray, however, in an address before the Assembly of the Free Church of Scotland, gave a different explanation of the phrase: “A Scotchman once told me that when we were persecuted as a denomination, the minister was wont to go to the mountains, and when there was to be a communion a blue flag was held up as a signal or notice, and also as an invitation to attend, and some regard this as the origin of the term; but on a visit to Pompeii, a few years ago, I spent some time in inspecting the splendid frescoes of variegated hues. I found all colors had faded except the blue, and that was as bright as when first put on, though nearly two thousand years previously. The ‘true blue’ never gives out,—never changes. So, when we say of a man ‘he is true blue,’ it is equivalent to saying he is firm in and true to his principles.” “France” owes its name to the Franks, who conquered her native Celts. The word Franc comes, according to a German philologist, either from the Teutonic franhô, “bold,” “frank,” or from franca, a sharp, double-edged battle-axe, which the Franks hurled with great dexterity in attacking their enemies. From Franc are derived our words “franchise” and “enfranchisement.”

One of the most interesting classes of common words with curious derivations is that of the names of things or acts which were once names of persons. Language teems in this way with honors to the great and good men who have been benefactors of their race; and it also avenges the wrongs of humanity by impaling the very names of the wrong-doers in a perpetual crucifixion. Many words of this class betray their origin at once. It is easy to recognize Tantalus in “to tantalize,” Epicurus in “epicure,” Mesmer in “mesmerism,” Gordius in the “gordian” knot which Alexander cut, Galvani in “galvanism,” Volta in the “voltaic” pile, Daguerre in “daguerreotype,” and McAdam and Burke in “to macadamize” and “to burke.” But when we read or hear of a work on “algebra,” or of a person who has uttered “gibberish,” we get no hint, at first, of Giber or Geber, the famous Arabian sage, who sought for the philosopher’s stone, and used, perhaps, senseless incantations. “Artesian,” applied to a well, does not inform us that such a well was first cut through the chalk basin of the province of Artois. We speak of a “dun” without suspecting that the word came from the name of a stern bailiff in the time of Henry VII, one Dun, who was eminently successful in collecting debts. We hear of a “maudlin” speech without thinking of Mary Magdalen; of a “lazaretto,” without being reminded of Lazarus; of “simony” without a suggestion of Simon Magus; and of “silhouettes,” without a suspicion that it was the unpopular French minister of finance, M. de Silhouette, whose persistent economy doomed his name to be affixed to the slight and cheap outline portraits thus named. “Martinet” does not recall the rigid disciplinarian in the army of Louis XIV, nor does a “tram-road” point very plainly to Outram, the inventor. In “saunterer” we do not readily detect La Sainte Terre, “the Holy Land,” the pilgrims to which took their own time to get there; nor would a “pander” ever remind us of the Trojan general Pandarus, or “tawdry” of the fair of St. Etheldreda, or St. Awdry, where gaudy finery was sold. “Music,” “museum,” and “mosaic,” do not inevitably suggest the Muses, nor does a “pasquinade” tell us about the statue of an ancient gladiator which was exhumed at Rome, in the peculiar physiognomy of which the wits of that city detected a resemblance to Pasquino, a snappish cobbler, who lived near by, and on the pedestal of which it became a practice to post lampoons. Few men think of Jaque, of Beauvais, as they put on “jackets”; of Blacket, who first manufactured the article, when they lie under “blankets”; or of Hermes Trismegistus, the Egyptian priest, when they “hermetically” seal a bottle or fruit can. Excepting the readers of Pascal, it is probable that not many Frenchmen detect in the word escobarder, “to equivocate,” the name of the great casuist of the Jesuits, Escobar, whose subtle devices for the evasion of the moral law have been immortalized in the “Provincial Letters.”

Vulcan is still at his forge in “volcanoes,” and has even descended so low as to “vulcanize” rubber; and though “Great Pan is dead,” he comes to life again in every “panic.” A “sandwich” calls to mind Lord Sandwich, the inveterate gamester, who begrudged the time necessary for a meal; and the “spencer” recalls Lord Spencer, who in hunting lost one skirt of his coat, and tore off the other,—which led some inventive genius to make half-coats, and call them “spencers.” Of the two noble lords it has been said that