first occupied by Mr. William Till, the famous numismatist." Here, it may be supposed, is an admirable derivation for the word till from a personal name. But a little examination of

word-history disproves the accuracy of this inviting conjecture. Mr. William Till, as a coin collector, was appropriately named; but he collected in 1814, while the word "till, a drawer in a counter or desk," is to be found in Bailey's Dictionary of 1742, and probably in far earlier ones, since it is derived from an Anglo-Saxon word dille (equivalent to German theil, a part), and meaning a division or compartment.

The same historical argument demolishes the absurd derivation of brawn from a cook so named. Dr. King wrote his "Art of Cookery" in the early part of the last century; but the word brawn is centuries older, and to be found in the prayer-book version of the 119th Psalm, ver. 70:-"Their heart is as fat as brawn, but my delight hath been in thy law." The prayer-book version, as most of you may be aware, dates from 1539, being that of the great English Bible of Tyndal and Coverdale; and it is interesting to see how the later translation of the authorized version has dropped out the old word, giving instead, "Their heart is as fat as grease."

Another illustration of the error of deducing words from individual or imagined names appears in the explanation commonly given of the word martinet. It signifies in English a vexatiously strict commanding officer, and is altogether a military term. It is therefore alleged to be the name of some departed colonel named Martinet, who has thus for ever stamped the name he bore upon the character he gained. But martinet in the Swiss superstition means the spirit of mischief, the malicious sprite, the bugbear, and in this sense is mentioned by Victor Hugo ("Toilers of the Sea," vol. i.) when setting forth how every country has at least its tradition of some such ill-conditioned Loki. And special reason why such a Swiss word should have this extensive military sense to-day may be found in the fact that for so many centuries and in so many countries Swiss mercenaries formed a part of almost every European army.

It is undoubtedly true that individual names have now and then been perpetuated in the manner here censured; but if so, we find almost universally that there is some good and distinct historic proof of the fact; and if such proof be not adducible, we can scarcely go wrong in scouting the derivation proposed.

When we are told that the word simony, by which we mean corrupt trafficking in church preferment, is derived from Simon Magus, the explanation and testimony afforded by his history recorded in the Acts of the Apostles give convincing proof of the accuracy of the derivation. So we know the origin of Davenport, D'Oyley, Macadamize, Brougham, and Clarence. So we know that to "burke an inquiry" means to silence it, in figurative allusion to the murderer Burke, who, to provide bodies for the surgeons, used to murder his victims by covering their mouths with a pitch plaster. But other such instances are rare. In fact, these nominal derivations hardly ever have any sort of reasonable ground for their support. One such term, however, seems now to have got a firm footing in our language, the explanation of which may possibly in course of time be lost. It is that most euphonious periphrasis in which the bloodthirsty ogre of the lodging-house bed is denominated a "Norfolk Howard." Here a very noble name is assigned to a very ignoble insect, with what seems likely to be a permanent, if unpleasant, association, and the manner in which it has come about may be worth recording.

A few years ago a Welsh gentleman altered his name; the lieutenant of his county, denying his right to do so, refused to address him by his new style in official correspondence. Considerable debate arose on the subject, and, the question being brought before a court of law, it was held that there was nothing illegal in the change of name effected. The decision was given the day before the Derby day. The Times on the day after the Derby day inserted a leading article on the subject of the right of changing names; the writer of that article went to the Derby, and, doubtless knowing what the subject of his night's writing was to be, had it frequently present in his mind. In Epsom he noticed an innkeeper's name posted up as Joshua Bugg-truly an ominous epithet for one of his calling,—and the Times' writer in his article cited this extraordinary patronymic as an example both of a name needing change, and of its owner's right to change it. The article declared that as far as legality was concerned "Mr. Joshua Bugg might take the name of Norfolk Howard tomorrow." Mr. Joshua Bugg was a reader of the Times, and he "followed the leader" implicitly. Not only did he announce in the next day's Times his change of name, but actually adopted the writer's chance suggestion, and took the style of "Norfolk Howard" from that time. Happy man, we might say, at the

price of a short advertisement to end the long annoyance of so loathly a name. But mark again the sort of Nemesis which followed. He hoped, as millions have vainly done, to get rid of the bug; but the very publicity of the proceeding marred the purpose of its author. The multitudinous tribe of bugs whose ranks he left took umbrage at his leaving; the right he exercised they, exercised in turn; true to their affectionate nature, they would not part from him whom once they held. When he was Bugg, they all were bugs,-plain, simple, peaceful, pertinacious, and content; but he became Norfolk Howard-so did they. Had poor Joshua taken the name of Cimex, he would have been still a Bugg, though a bug in Latin, and the tribe, familiar already with that epithet, would have been content with being bugs in English. But the temptation to adopt aristocratic style was too much for him, and so he and his descendants must bear for ever to represent that multitudinous nightmare which mocks them. still beneath their high-flown name.

This explanation of words by the suggestion of a personal name, however trustworthy where distinct evidence can be adduced, as in the last two instances, is, as I have before said, inadmissible without proof; to attempt it is an error, caused by want of research. I will now adduce an illustration or two of an error of an opposite character,-that, namely, arising from such over-research as leads inquirers to prefer seeking a remote derivation for a word to looking for it close at home. The word. skewer, for example, with its vulgar pronunciation skiver, may give occasion to very learned disquisition. The linguist's first idea, under the light of the expression skiver, will be to refer the word to the same root as the words shiver, a fragment or flake, and shavings, of wood. These words are to be found in the Dutch schyf, a slice, high German schiefer and Danish skive, a slate; and though it be evident that the butcher's skewer, a strong and penetrating stick, is not well suggested by the idea of a weak shaving or a flaky mineral, he is apt enough to sit down content with such an origin as being possible, plausible, and the best he can get. And yet at his very hand in our own language the true meaning of the word is hidden under another spelling in the word secure, which comes from the Latin through a figurative use. What could be more natural than that meat so cut as to be likely to fall to pieces should be secured from doing so? Thus the cook or butcher would secure the meat, and extend the name of the act to signify the instrument with which the act was done.

A few words may be allowed before we leave the subject on one other common error as to derivations, that, namely, which originates in the determination to find an origin for words or names which were doubtless at first arbitrarily formed, or accidentally applied. As a general rule, every word, perhaps every name, has an origin; but, especially in the matter of names, there are multitudes occurring, in works of fiction for instance, entirely constructed by their authors. These are subject to no rules of interpretation, and should be left alone. We all know how many writers, especially German, ones, have seemed to discover in the works of Shakspeare depths of philosophic meaning, transcendent if not transparent, which common sense incontinently scouts; we feel as impatient at such laborious efforts as we should at a person who, looking on a beautiful picture hanging on the walls of a gallery, should insist on proving to us his frantic theory that the figure of the original must be behind the canvas, though the picture may be but a fancy sketch. Just as there have been found commentators to expound on the most philosophical and recondite principles, that part of Goethe's "Faust" which the author himself pronounced to be, not only without hidden meaning, but absolute nonsense (Dummes Zeug) so the cacoethes derivandi leads people to seek for derivations, even in the most arbitrary names. A single but striking illustration is that of deducing the name of Swift's imaginary hearer, Lemuel Gulliver, from the words Gull-i-ver, to gull or deceive in truth. Swift might have called his hero Johnson just as well as Gulliver. In fact, the very existence of Gulliver as an actual bonâ fide name affords a strong presumption against any such intentional meaning on the author's part, while to gull in truth, if the phrase mean anything beyond a bull, was neither the object aimed at, nor the effect produced, by the famous book of travels.

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

No form of words, probably, is so familiar to us from our very childhood as those few sentences to which, by general consent, men have given the name of "The Lord's Prayer." It is of universal use among us and all Christians; it is the child's first prayer, learnt almost in babyhood, and it is the accompaniment or the fitting conclusion of the man's own words of prayer. In public worship we have it in every service, and from family prayer it is seldom absent, and we fancy all feel that something is wanting if private devotions are concluded without it. Whence, then, came this form of prayer, so short and yet so full of meaning, that, as is expressed in the Catechism of Edward VI., 1553, "In this short abridgment are sufficiently contained. all things that every Christian ought to pray for;" so beautiful in its language and rhythmical in its flow, and yet so simple. that, as the same catechism says, "there is in all this prayer nothing doubtful or beside the purpose?"

This paper aims at giving a few words-first, on the origin of the prayer itself, as it has been given to us; and then a sketch of some of the chief variations and changes through which our own English version passed until it reached its present almost, if not quite, perfect form. The words, in the form in which we have them, originally were the words of our blessed Lord himself. They are His own form of prayer, with which He has bidden men approach God, who, as He taught them, is their Father in heaven. We find, on referring to our authorities, the written Gospels of St. Matthew and St. Luke, that Jesus twice taught the prayer to those who were, on different occasions, listening to His words. The prayer is contained in St. Matt. vi. 9-13, and again in a form which presents substantially the same petitions, though with some variations of wording, in St. Luke xi. 2-4. In the former passage it is a part of the sermon on the mount, and is set forth as an illustration of what prayer should be.

Having treated of several subjects Jesus proceeds to mention "various acts of devotion" which befit His followers; how, for