A Book About Words. G. F. Graham
Latin roots may be found in our word ‘squire.’ This is made up of the Latin ‘scutum,’ a shield, and ‘fero,’ I bear. Hence ‘scutifer,’ a middle-age word, meant a shield-bearer, i.e. one who attended on the knight, and carried his shield. In old French, ‘scutifer’ was softened into ‘escuyer,’ or ‘écuyer;’ and it afterwards appeared in English as ‘esquire,’ or ‘squire.’
The old French for ‘water’ was ‘aigue,’ from the Latin ‘aqua.’ From this was formed the word ‘aiguière,’ a water-vessel; and this is the origin of our English word ‘ewer,’as in ‘cream-ewer.’
Of the same class is the word ‘forest.’ This did not exist in ancient Latin, but sprang up in later ages. The monks made the word ‘foresta’ out of the Latin ‘foras,’ abroad, or out of doors; the same root which produced the English words ‘foreign,’ and ‘foreigner,’ one who comes from abroad. The monkish Latin form was ‘foresta,’ the French ‘forêt,’ and the English ‘forest.’
Under this head may be also placed ‘comfort’ and ‘courage.’ The former of these is well known to be peculiarly English, and there is no word in any of the continental languages which exactly translates it. True, the French are beginning to use the word ‘comfortáble;’ but it may be fairly doubted whether it realises with them the same idea as with us. It has evidently a Latin element; and the second syllable is, no doubt, derived from the Latin ‘fortis,’ strong. So that, what ‘comforts’ would, in the first instance, probably mean, what strengthens, and would especially apply to ‘creature-comforts’—food or drink, which strengthens the body. Afterwards it would be used in a secondary and more extended sense.
The Italian word ‘coraggio’ is derived from ‘core,’ as the French ‘courage’ comes from ‘cœur;’ both these being originally from the Latin ‘cor,’ the heart. From French the word ‘courage’ has passed into English, where the spelling is the same, though it is somewhat differently pronounced. But neither ‘comfort’ nor ‘courage’ is found in classical Latin.
The word ‘contrada’ in Italian and Provençal came into French in the form ‘contrée,’ and into English as ‘country.’ It is derived from the Latin preposition ‘contra,’ against; and means, properly, the part of the land which lies over—against—us. But the word is altogether of modern manufacture. (Compare the German ‘Gegenstand,’ where the meaning is precisely the same.)
The Latin preposition ‘juxta’ has given rise to several words, both French and English, which did not exist in ancient Latin. The French ‘joust,’ a combat in which the antagonists rushed at, or pushed close to, one another, is one of these. Also ‘ajouter,’ to add or put one thing close to another. From these we have, in English, the adverb ‘just,’ as in the phrase ‘just now,’ i.e. close to the present time; and also the verb ‘to adjust,’ i.e. to place things close to each other. ‘To justle,’ or ‘jostle,’ is a frequentative verb, formed from the above adverb ‘just.’
The word ‘danger’ is composed of two Latin roots: ‘damn-um,’ loss, and ‘ger-o,’ I bear; these produced the Low Latin word ‘domigerium.’ This was afterwards corrupted and softened into the French ‘danger,’ and in that form passed into English.
Our word ‘manage’ is from the Latin ‘manus,’ a hand, through the French ‘main.’ There was a Low Latin word, ‘managerium,’ which meant occupation or actual possession, in the sense of holding in the hand. Thence the word was transferred to the furniture requisite for the occupation of a house, and, in the shape of the French ‘ménage,’ to the household of the occupier. The identity of this word with the English ‘manage’ may be seen in the expression ‘bon mesnagier,’ one who understands how to conduct a household—a good manager.
From the Latin ‘manēre,’ to remain, or dwell, are derived the French ‘maison’ and the corresponding English ‘mansion;’ and from the same source come the English words ‘manse,’ the clergyman’s dwelling-house, and ‘manor,’ the lord’s dwelling-house.
From ‘minutus,’ the Latin participle of the verb ‘minuo,’ come the English adjective ‘minúte’ and the noun ‘mínute.’ Properly ‘minuto primo’ was, in Italian, the first division of the hour; ‘minuto secondo’ was the second, and ‘minuto terzo’ the third division; which is, in French, ‘tierce,’ i.e. the sixtieth part of a second. The English word ‘mite’ is only a contraction of minute—it is a minute insect; and a ‘minuet’ is a dance with short steps.
‘Noisome’ and ‘annoy’ are derived from the Latin ‘nocēre,’ to hurt or injure; whence it may be conjectured also comes ‘noise,’ as being something that annoys, as a stir, wrangle, or brawl.
The word ‘peel’ means the rind of fruit or the bark of a stick. This is from the Latin ‘pellis,’ skin, from which comes the French ‘peau.’ The radical sense of this word is, that which is stripped off, or pilled. ‘Pillage’ is a derivative of ‘pill,’ or ‘peel.’ It means a collection of things stripped off, or plundered.
The English word ‘palm’ (of the hand) is from the Greek παλάμη, through the Latin ‘palma.’ A certain tree is called a palm because of its broad spreading leaves, which resemble the palm of the hand; and a palmer was formerly a pilgrim carrying a palm-branch in his hand, in sign of his expedition to the Holy Land.
CHAPTER III. OLD AND NEW WORDS.
One very interesting point in the study of language is the cause of the introduction of new, and the falling off of old, words. It is to be observed that a new word is generally ushered in with a sort of parade—a flourish of trumpets; many writers make a rush at it, and drag it in, whether applicable or not. Its novelty is attractive; and it is often used in a sense which really does not belong to it. But it is not every word thus introduced that maintains its place: it is often found, after all, that it has more sound than sense, and is rather ornamental than useful; and then it is sure to fall into neglect, dies away, and is heard of no more. On the other hand, in the natural course of things, many words which have done good service, and for a long period, are at length discontinued, and give way to new, and sometimes more useful, terms. These slip out of the language unperceived; they are no longer wanted—no one enquires for them; some new and more expressive terms push them out, and they are consigned to oblivion.
It is quite ludicrous to observe how strangely uneducated or illiterate people use words which, to them, are quite new. They are so fascinated with their novelty, or, perhaps, with their sound and length, that they apply them in all manner of odd and eccentric meanings. Two of these words—‘promiscuous’ and ‘immaterial’—seem to be great favourites with a certain class: an ignorant Englishman somehow imagines that the word ‘immaterial’ conveys a sort of reproach, and he insults his fellow-workman by calling him an ‘immaterial,’ meaning that he is a fellow of no worth or respectability. The word ‘promiscuous’ is often used by the lower orders in the same loose way. A witness in a trial, not long ago, stated that ‘he met the prisoner “promiscuously” (or, as he pronounced it, ‘permiskously’) in the streets;’ meaning, by chance, or casually.
If we trace the history of the English language through the various phases of its career, from its earliest up to its present condition, we shall find that it has been continually growing more Romance and less Saxon. It is said that a process of decay had set in even before the introduction of Anglo-Saxon into England—that the language had already lost some of its inflections; and it is well known that, in process of time, these endings, with some few exceptions, wholly disappeared. Again, at a later period, many Saxon nouns which had formed their plurals in en rejected this form, and adopted the Romance (or French) plural-ending, s. At one time, the word ‘eye’ formed its plural ‘eyne,’ or ‘eyen;’ ‘tree’ made