by which savans have attempted to map out the original cosmogony, are put forth christened in the name of two pagan gods, as the Plutonian and the Neptunian theories.

The demigods are as much at home in our Christian literature as the gods. Curiously enough, modern conditions seem oftentimes to be more expressly prepared for these impersonations than the melodrama in which they played their rôle before. They affiliate with Christian culture wonderfully. There are more "chimeras" in modern thought than in ancient myth. The tasks of the present day are more "herculean" than in the times of Eurystheus. The modern "atlas" receives a more universal homage than its giant prototype ever dared to claim. The civilization of our age is equipped with more hands than Briareus and more eyes than Argus; and in its facility of adaptation is more "protean" than Proteus himself. And we have still other and equally valuable importations from the cloud-land of classic myth. Those fabulous monsters which peopled the fancy if not the forests and waters of ancient Greece, are at home with us also. Part human, part bestial, part divine, they stand among the enigmas of the past, and doubtless embodied the fears, the fancies, the hopes or the doubts of the early generations. We adopt them, and they serve the new regime as willingly as the old. They go not grumbling to their task like Caliban, but spring to it with a cordial alacrity like the genie of Aladdin. It would be difficult to compute the usefulness of these ignes fatui of ancient poetry, dutifully submissive as they are to the demands of our material age; "hydra," "gorgon," "siren," "sphinx," "harpy," "satyr," "sybil," "hippogriff," "dragon," "phoenix," "centaur," "sylph," "fate," "faun," "nymph,"-the simple mention of these few will show how largely modern language is indebted to the grotesque side of ancient religion for convenient terms in which to express some of its ideas.

Teutonic mythology has been more chary. The gods of the Valhalla, too busy or too warlike to be good philologians, have done little for us in the business of word-making. The days of the week bear the names of the Saxon gods. Our unhappy word "sin" is said to be the name of Loke's wife Sigua, or Sinna. "Easter" was originally a day sacred to Eostre, a Saxon

goddess of Spring. An occasional term has strayed in from pantheons more distant and less known. A "ghoul" was originally a Persian demon that lived in the woods and preyed on man and beast. The word "termagant" once signified a ferocious divinity supposed to be worshiped by the Mohammedans, and imported thence upon the early stage to play the part of a ranting swaggerer in the miracle-plays and moralities; in which capacity he served long and faithfully, but at last subsided into a mere synonym for a feminine scold. A similar use the rude play-mongers made of Herod, and this is the origin of Shakespeare's phrase "out-heroding Herod;" but the process stopped there, and the name instead of being assimilated into the vernacular has been remanded to its historic obscurity. The word "pantaloon" is another theatrical contribution; and comes to us with a signification apparently at the farthest possible remove of incongruity from its original sense. Starting as a compound, Пavraλewv, all-lion, adopted in Greek families as a personal name, it came to be promoted to the patron saintship of Venice, St. Pantaleone; thence taking to the stage, it was borne by the jester in comedy, who was farcically arrayed in breeches and stockings that were all of one piece this fixed the name to that special fact in the masculine outfit, and the Venetian fool has taught wise men to wear "pantaloons." Other personages of Christian mythology besides St. Pantaleone have a place in the language. St. Audrey (Ethelred) lives in "tawdry;" the Magdalen has already been cited as having degenerated into "maudlin." St. Patrick is responsible for "paddy." St. Valentine gives his name to the amorous doggerel which cloys the mail on the fourteenth of February. Crispin, once the patron of cobblers, now means the cobbler himself. St. George and St. Gingoulph have so far lost their sanctity as to serve only for petty oaths to the vulgar herd-" by George," and "by jingo." The prophet of the Lamentations gives us "jeremiad." The arch-treachery of Judas and the submarine experiences of Jonah have subjected both names to common use. St. Peter is the original of "samphire," "petrel," "parrot," and "parroquet;" "saltpetre" also looks as if it belonged in the same apostolic succession, but goes back of Peter to the root meaning of the word. "Jesui

tical," from the proper name of our Lord himself, shows what monstrous distortions history may produce; while "criss-cross,' from his title, shows as well to what trivial uses the most sacred terms may come to be applied.

To return from the region of the supernatural to common life, a curious thing to be noted is the manner in which some names have slipped down through all the gradations of endearment and familiarity into a sort of kindly contempt. The history of this process of debasement in most instances belongs to the great Unknowable; and the process itself is apparently without cause, as it certainly is without reason. No name can be more staid and demure than Andrew, or more "manly," as its etymology denotes; why then, when we want to describe a clown, do we call him a "merry-andrew?" Thomas is another name which has suffered sacrilege; "tomtit" is not bad, nor tomcod," though neither can be called euphonious; but "tomboy" is an unwarrantable liberty, and "tomcat" is abusive; while "tomfool" and "tomnoddy" are good cause for indictment. Thomas, however, has had less to endure than John. That injured class of worthies who bear this honorable title, may well contemplate with horror the outrages which an unfeeling vernacular has inflicted. First it appears as a national misnomer, John Bull, Johnny Crapaud, John Chinaman. Our soldiers in the late war talked of their encounters with " Johnny Reb.'—and at last chipped off even that to the "johnnies." Next we have it belittled to adorn such domestic stuff as apple john," "poor john," "johnny cake." Then follows a motley throng of derivatives from its nicknames Jack and Jock. Toward the deft little artist "Jack frost " we have only feelings of kindness; he adorns the name. A "jackscrew" has the merit of being useful, if not elegant. The "jackdaw" belongs to a respectable family, if not of the first blood himself. There is no valid objection to "jack-o'-lantern," nor to the ubiquitous “jack-at-all-trades," nor even to the bloody but necessary "Jack Ketch." When it comes to "smoke jack," "yellow jack," "cross-jack" (nauticé pronounced crojik), and especially "boot jack," it is time to protest. But to burlesque it in "horse jockey," and baboon it in "jocko" and "jackanapes,' is the last pitch of ignominy but one; and that very last, the

ne plus ultra of hardship, is "zany," a clown, a fool, which is corrupted from the Italian form of the word, and should be met by armed resistance. The original name with its gentle meaning, "the gracious gift of God," might well complain with Bessus in Beaumont and Fletcher's King and No King,

stances.

All my whole body's but one bruise with beating:

I think I have been cudgelled by all nations,

And almost all religions.

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Some of these travesties of sense in name-words may be the result of pure accident. Doubtless they are; and we need not leave the statement to mere conjecture, for there are other terms in the language, and some of them of no mean rank, which can be traced altogether to the influence of fortuitous circumBoth our words "money" and "mint come from the fact that the first Roman pieces happened to be coined in the temple of Juno Moneta. Ammonia was first prepared near the temple of Jupiter Ammon. The "lyceum" takes its name from a sacred enclosure at Athens dedicated to Apollo Avnetos, the wolf-slayer. "Dollar" is the German thaler, and that of itself is but an accident, an abbreviation of Joachimsthaler, as denoting the valley where it was coined. The "italics" used in printing get their name from the patriotic whim of Aldus Manutius, who dedicated his invention to the States of Italy; and who besides has given his own name to all "aldine" editions, as a synonym for classical beauty and finish. Col. Bomford dedicated his big gun to his country, and that made it a "columbiad." The now disparaging title of "blue stocking" once expressed an enviable membership in a certain literary coterie, and the name sprung from the hose of the indispensable Mr. Stillingfleet. The French word for pun, "calembour," commemorates the German Count Kahlemburg, notorious for his flounderings in French pronunciation. The Parisian "lorettes" are so named from the accidental neighorhood of a church.

The accidents of language would form a chapter by itself. And the study of it would impress us anew with the strange and constantly shifting conditions by which tribes grow up from barbarism into enlightenment. It may be that a nation is an organism, and has an organic unity and growth. I will not

stop to controvert the assertion, though I cordially disbelieve it. At any rate, thus far in history no nation has had a fair chance to come up under the regular and decorous nurture of its organic laws, if it has any, or in any way to show what might have been under such well ordered conditions. All nations that have come up at all have "growed," like Topsy, in a scrambling way. And each language perpetuates the memory of the main haps and mishaps of the people who speak it. All the natural sprains and dislocations, the falls and bruises, are faithfully scarred into the language; so that in some instances, given the language alone, and all the larger movements of a nation's history can be reconstructed. Take Britain for a sample: the study of the English tongue in its present state would show that somehow and at some period Celts, Romans, Saxons, Danes and Normans had something to do with its formation, that it was affected at various times by feudalism, by the Crusades, by campaigns in France and the Lowlands, by naval warfare and piracy, by the growth of manufactures and commerce. All these and innumerable minor influences have left their mark on English speech so deeply that if all the literature and history of Britain could be conceivably blotted out, the national story could in some degree be restored from the language alone.

The accidents in language can be illustrated also by observing the many instances in which a name seems to be present and is not. The constellation Charles's Wain, for example, is not so entitled in behalf of any Charles, royal, plebeian, or mythical, but is simply a corruption of "the churl's wain." Satan may possibly have much to do with making "lucifer matches," but it is not his name, however, which is affixed to the patent. The "muscovy duck" has no relation to Moscow, but is a blunder for "musk duck." The "turkey" was misnamed for the country from which it did not come. The emblem of constancy, "rosemary," is fragrant with memories not of Mary, but of the sea. "John Dory" is a highly satisfactory fish and of splendid hue, but of such extravagant fins withal that the savans have given him the ineffable title acanthopterygious: "John Dory" has certainly the advantage in point of euphony, and looks as if it were another borrowing from the

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