THE MAGIC OF WORDS

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 9, 1 April 1927, Page 8

THE MAGIC OF WORDS

('Written for THE SUN.) A DICTIONARY is a book with a ready-made reputation. The popular opinion is that one would have to be desperately hard-up for reading matter before turning to its unenticing pages. Lately, though, we did that very thing, opened one casually in an idle mood, and lit straight way on a word we had never seen or heard before. It was “minuscle,” a small sort of letter used in MSS in the Middle Ages. It is not a very illuminating description, and “a small sort of letter” sounds rather deprecatory, but there it was, that hitherto unknown word, pointing the way to an hour’s entertainment. Over went the pages, and the hunt was on. The M’s yielded little treasure. There were “modillion,” and “module,” architectural terms we felt we should have known, but were not quite sure of. There was “modulus,” a constant quantity, used in connection with some variable quantity. Did we, or did we not, make his acquaintance in those terrible days when we were struggling with trigonometry and- the higher mathematics? We simply don’t remember. A few pages further on is “musrole,” the noseband of a horse’s bridle. That one is an utter stranger, although many a bridle have we slipped over a horse’s head in old, adventurous far-off days. The N’s hide few secrets. There is “nelumbo,” the Hindu and Chinese lotus, an ugly word; “nematoid,” a round-worm, an ugly creature, no doubt; and "nephalism,” teetotalism. If you live In a boarding-house, and have been unable so far to classify as a smell or a scent, the odour of cooked food that penetrates into every nook and corner, you may now learn the correct word. It is “nidor.” Not a vei’y expressive word, applied to cabbage-cooking. One would expect something with a little more verve and animation. “Nosology” isn’t what you might think it. It would be an excellent synonym for inquisitiveness. But it is, really, an arrangement or classification of diseases. “Nuncupative” and “nuncupatory” mean orally pronounced, not written,- as in a will. There is a distinguished legal look about them, don’t you think? The O’s look interesting. “Ochlocracy” is mob-rule. “Ogee” we learned the meaning of in cross-word puzzle days. “Operose” is tedious or troublesome. There are a few scientific words, “orology,” “orpiment,” “ozocerite”; and this being the oyster season, it is as well to know that “ostreaculture” is the scientific cultivation of oysters. The first page of the P’s yields the two fresh acquaintances, “paideutics,” the science of teaching, and “paigle,” the cowslip or primrose. “Palingenesis,” is a great geological change; a “palinode,” is a recantation. “Paraselene,” a mock moon, and “parhelion," a mock sun, are just nodding acquaintances, not old and tried friends.

“Pelagic” means belonging to the ocean; inhabiting the open ocean. Poets please take heed; it is a word worth popularising. “Phlogiston,” is a hypothetical element formerly thought to exist, and to be pure fire, or the principle of combustion. That is why when little Susette had swollen glands in the winter-time, we had to apply anti-phlogistine poultices. The word use to puzzle us sorely. Now it clear as day.

The remainder of the P’s are commonplace and familiar, except one ugly word, “porbeagle,” a kind of shark, and the Q’s are disappointing. The R’s give several words that look as though they may have been used more freely in days when language was statelier and more urbane than it is to-day. There are “refocillation,” the act of giving new vigour; “refossian,” the act of digging; "renitence,” resistance to pressure. But it is tedious work wading through column after column of words prefixed with re. There is something commonplace about them; so we will pass them by, and continue the search for more romantic-looking words. Here are “rindle” a small water-course or gutter; “romal,” a silk handkerchief; “roriferous,” generating or producing

dew; and “rutilant,” emitting rays of light. “Redactor,” is an editor. How many editors know that? - Having got thus far, one is forced to the conclusion that many of these words have disappeared from common knowledge out of sheer ugliness and unwieldiness. Others it would be as well to rescue before they sink into total oblivion. “Paigle” is a quaint word; preferable to cowslip though it could never displace primrose. “Rindle” is satisfactory and workmanlike, but “roriferous” is frankly impossible. Should you meet a friend one morning, and open the conversation by informing him that it had been a roriferous night, it is quite possible that he might mistake your meaning. The S’s are so numerous that they require an article all to themselves. And we begin to feel, too, that a dictionary is one of those books that require dipping into at intervals; not a bedside book, certainly, but one for odd idle hours. We must leave it before it gets wearisome. But let us not despise it when other sources of delight run dry. For it is well to remember that all the magical words that ever were strung together by poets and orators and litterateurs are contained in its enlightening columns. HELENA J. HENDERSON.