of basketwork; hence "bootless" came to signify fruitless, as a bootless errand, an errand in which no fish were caught, no purpose attained. "Bootless and weather-beaten back." Shakspeare. In more modern Welsh "Bootias" came to signify a pair of boots. Brat. No etymology given by Johnson, but its root may, we apprehend, be found in our Welsh word "Bratt," panniculus, a clout, swaddling clothes, that is, an infant in swaddling clothes, a brat. Break and Breach. Saxon, yet again, in the English dictionary, but it seems to us that these words may fairly be deduced from the Welsh "Breg," ruptio, fractura, a rupture or breaking. Burgess. Johnson tells us comes from the French Bourgeois, but why not from the Welsh "Burdais" or "Burgais," a citizen, one intitled to the rights of the Bur, the lower or enclosed town? The dictionary admits "denizen" to be derived from the Welsh "Dinasdyn," or man of the city, and why not Burgess from Burgais? Brew. From "Berw," coctio, a boiling. Is not this at least as presumable as Johnson's derivation of this word from the Dutch "Browen?" Hence also the old English word "Brewis," a sop of bread seethed in the fat of the boiling pot, or in the drippingpan. Bustle. From the Welsh " Bustl," fel, and "Bustlaidd," felleus, gall, bile, bitterness of temper, &c., because those subject to a redundancy of bile are generally hasty, petulant, impetuous, and often in a hurry, or continual bustle. Bone. From "bon," a stock, or stem. Thus "bonog" is thickshanked, or having thick shank-bones; and "bongam," is crookshanks, or having crooked shank-bones. Johnson will have this word to come from the Saxon "Ban." Brag. The English dictionary assigns the derivation to the Dutch" Braggerdn," but this word has probably been taken from the Welsh "Brag," malt; or "Bragod," Promulsis, Mulsum, mead or metheglin, as a man who has the malt in him, or has drank much strong drink, is apt to brag, and play the "braggadocio." Clean. The Welsh "glan," pure, clean, neat. Thus " Ysbryd Glan," the Holy Ghost, that is, the Pure Spirit, Johnson has not gone further back than the Saxon, "clan." Spirit also from "ysbrid." Clothes. From the Welsh "clos" and "closyn," a pair of breeches; the most essential part of a man's clothes. The word is still pronounced close and not clothes, and as pronunciation is always more permanent than the orthography of a language, this is no mean argument in favor of our derivation, though Johnson gives it a Saxon origin, Clos, because it designates a close garment, contradistinguished from the loose flowing toga of the Romans and the open philibegs of the Scotch. Caress. From "Cares," a kinswoman; and "caru," to make love, to court; yet the English dictionary will absolutely assign it a French source, from "caresser;" but it is easy, to perceive that both the English and the French have the same common Celtic origin, and most probably the Latin "carus" also. Chin. From Gen, gena, mantum, ysgén, 'sgen, chin. The Saxon cenne is more remote. Knife. From "Cnaif," tonsura, a cutting: the English dictionary, however, makes it Saxon instead of British. Fist. The clenched fingers, from "Fys" or " Bys", a finger. Cot. Still Saxon, if we are to believe the dictionary, but unquestionably derived from the Welsh "cwt," tugurium, and this tugurium again probably from "ty," a house; and "gwr," a man; "tugwr," a man's habitation; which, with a Roman termination, would form the word "tugurium:" The old English word cote, as Dovecote, was nearer the Welsh cut in pronunciation. Cunning. Artifice, sagacity. Saxon yet again in the dictionary, but we must trace its source back to the ancient British "cwn," dogs, and ing a Saxon termination, indicating quality, cwning, or cunning, the distinguishing quality of that most sagacious animal, the dog. Captain. Johnson has deduced this word from the French "Capitaine," but we insist it comes from the Welsh " Capten," a corruption of "Cadpen;" Dux, that is, the chief of an army, being an inversion of Pen y Cad, the head or chief of the army. Carn. A heap of stones raised over the slain, from the Welsh "carn," hence the Welsh curse "carn ar dy ben,” woe betide thee! or a carn be on thy head! so also carnage, slaughter, or food for the carn. We could multiply these etymologies almost to infinity, but we find we are already exceeding all reasonable limits for a single article. We can imagine already some severe Aristarchus dissatisfied with our " Welsh trifles," exclaiming In mala. He nuga seria ducunt And our fair readers, perhaps, in remarking our extreme jealousy for the pristine originality of the Welsh, may say that in our derivations, "Trifles light as air, are, to the jealous, Confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ. There is one very singular etymological curiosity which in treating of Welsh derivations, we ought not, perhaps, to omit to mention, which is, that the word "truth," in Welsh, signifies flattery in English; and yet I think no one can dispute that this Anglo-Saxon synonyme for verity is not derived from the ancient British truth, spelled precisely the same, although of a directly opposite sense, and this on the principle of contrarieties as in the Latin "Lucus, a non lucendo." A lady to whom we shewed these philological observations made the following imprompta on our derivation of truth and bustle, from two Welsh words of similar sound and spelling but of quite different sense and signification. How strange the ancient language of our isle! But it must be remembered that not only the orthography and orthoepy, but the very sense and meaning of words are continually changing in all languages. In the English, for instance, the word "knave" formerly signified a servant, although at present it means a rogue, a rascal. So "villain," in its original sense, designated a person holding by a particular kind of tenure, called tenure in "villanage," but now the term is uuderstood to be synonymous with a wicked wretch. A great number of other similar instances might be cited. Now if these fluctuations in the meaning and acceptation of words occur in the same language, how much more frequently must such conversions present themselves in the incorporation of words from one language into another; we cannot, therefore, be astonished at any metamorphosis they undergo in their transit. Jan. 12, 1832. GLÄS. Y LLEUAD. O, LLEUAD arianaidd! mòr deg yw dy lwybr, A rhaid yw cyvaddev na welir dim purdeb Rhydychain. TEGID. A WELSH SHEPHERD'S TRAGEDY, FOUNDED ON FACT. (From the Journal of the Rural Doctor.) To what a homely, nay, dirty origin, are we indebted for much, both of elegance and beauty, in the moral as well as physical world: from some foul vault in the human heart, grow and wave over its ruins the black laurels of tragedy, blood-dropped! from a filthy bed of dung, starts, at the laugh of Spring, a glorious bed of tulips or hyacinths: a poor acorn lying among yellow leaves, rotting under the Autumnal wood, gobbled up by a starved raven, and deposited (not by the most elegant method of planting,) on the steep bank of the Wye, asks only a little mould and much time, and, behold, that picturesque oak, the patriarch of the giant family of trees, gracefully leaning and extending his noble arms in their scarf of ivy to the blue glistening river; chequering the summer sod of the bank beneath into a golden mosaic of sun and shadow, as the west wind waves its top, which dances like a deep green crust of some helmeted yet smiling king, prepared alike for peace or battle; beautiful in the serene sky, strong and roaring thunder in the stormy, the king of the woods, the glory of all the Wye-side landscape. And all this from the hunger of a raven! Methinks, gentlemen, readers and editors of the Cambrian Quarterly, that in like manner might that kindred (and often hungry, alas!) thing of ill omen, which haunts "the sick man's chamber," yclept "the Doctor," pick up in that doleful wood, that sad shady place of the falling human leaf, many a germ of romance of real life, unromantic as that haunt of his may appear; which germ, moulded a little, and fermented in his brain, (that is to say, if he possess any,) even as in a dunghill or earthy bank at least, might at last develop itself to the gracious eye of heaven, (of the public, I mean,) welcome its smile, defy its frown, shake at it its branching head of three volumes post-octavo; in short, flourish like that oak, adorning the passing hour as that the gliding river. Belonging to that fraternity of human ravens myself, I have long been in the habit of picking up these seeds of romance by the sick bed; but whether it be that my cranium possess it not, or that the sort of medulla it does enclose, be not a fit matrix or hotbed for its growth, I know not; but there it lies, and I expect and long, and look, and the devil a shoot it puts forth, or else so unseemly a one as will grow downwards, so that, however fine a plant it may prove, it is a subterranean one, and never sees the light; sap, heart, nerve, something is wanting to push forth my sickly secret offspring. In other words, (save and except in a cer tain retrospective work, touching the past not present, buried genius not living,) I exist an owl, a mole, in the woods and fields of literature; my doings, with parted day and the dark loneness of an underground existence; my study (among wild mountains) my world, and myself "my pensive public." For once, however, I shall come blinking abroad to bask myself on the green bank of a mountain periodical, as I delight to consider the Cambrian Quarterly. Broken metaphors being kindly excused, I would say, "behold my oak at last, Messieurs l'Editeurs!" "This thing!" ye cry: "A dwarf oak," gentlemen, I confess, but the acorn was a very fair one and a real. To speak "like a man of this world," I have thrown into a little history of rustic life an affecting incident that occurred in Wales, and which, indirectly at least, my professional pursuits, brought me acquainted with. It seemed to me suited in its character to the spirit which I conceit ought to vivify the pages of a Cambrian Magazine. Might I presume to advise, I should hint that, although by no means calculated exclusively for the meridian of Wales, it should still retain the stamp of the land whence it emanates; if possible it should be fresh, bold, picturesque, vivid, contemplative rather than active; a work to be taken up in the same spirit and with the same refreshing, resting, restorative effect, as the fine springs, the gales of the golden vallies, and glorious morning mountain tops of that land, are drunk, and inhaled, and danced upon. While other Quarterlies, catching the fury of the times and the party topic of the hour, almost merge their literary in their political character-becoming mere intellectual battle-fields, let one at least "babble of green fields." There are hours when the most ferocious politician may desire a little green for the soul's eye, (to speak poetically,) on which it may repose, fatigued with the fierce glories of the war, and satiated with triumph (each of his own side) while every first day of the month, the field of letters, like that of the dragon's teeth, throws up its crop of heroes, pugnacious as perishable, "ready, aye ready, for the field." Agreeably to this my notion of the "Magazine from the Mountains," the humble hero I have to introduce is no better than a farmer's servant, his mistress no loftier a heroine than that farmer's daughter,. their real names (for reasons hereafter apparent,) are suppressed. I had a call to a distant patient, on a lovely day, just breaking, of July. Let not any one imagine that there was any emergency of speed in this early summons: "the doctor" is rarely required in Wales, till such a period of disease as also almost allows his bringing a brother raven, the undertaker, along with him. So it was in this instance: following, therefore, at a most respectful NO. XIV. N |