In the United States everything is planned very long in advance, while in Europe one can sometimes read about a conference that will be held a mere three months later. By that time all the travel money available to an American academic will have been spent a millennium ago. In the United States, we have visions rather than short-range plans.
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By Anatoly Liberman
As usual, many thanks for the letters, questions, and comments. I answered some of them privately, when I thought that the material would not be interesting to most of our readers. In a few cases (and this is what I always say) I simply took the information into account. My lack of reaction should not be misunderstood for indifference or ingratitude.
Etymology and poetry
In tracing the origin of words, we often have to deal with sound symbolism and sound imitation. Sound effects are also the glue of organized speech. Old Germanic verses depended on alliteration (and were chanted), folklore is chanted all over the world, Greek, Latin, and Germanic poets distinguished between long and short syllables, and, until recently, European poetry was based on rhyme. But free verse seemingly has no phonetic foundation. Is it poetry? The question does not quite belong to this blog, so that I will confine myself to a brief response. Free verse is not devoid of a phonetic base, namely intonation. It is possible to read any piece of prose in such a way that it begins to sound like poetry. Conversely, one can read even well-organized poetry like prose. But traditional poetry, just because it used special devices, could often be attractive without being “clever,” while free verse, in order to impress, has to contain deep or original thoughts. Since few people have them and since for producing free verse one does not need any technical skills, it often degenerates into a string of trivialities parading as emotions. Paradoxically, the fewer devices poets have at their disposal, the harder it is to compose anything memorable and the poorer the outcome is. But rhyme, alliteration, assonances, and the rest do not always disguise banality. Fortunately or unfortunately, in order to produce good poetry (the same holds for any good art), one needs talent, a rare commodity, regardless of style.
For years ingenious people have been composing sentences that can baffle spellers. This is what I found in The Spectator for 1933 (a letter to the editor):
“The following short sentences are made up of English words in common use, but I doubt if one in five of your readers would get full marks if they were given as a dictations exercise: ‘A harassed pedlar met an embarrassed saddler near a cemetery to gauge the symmetry of a lady’s ankle. The manoeuver they performed with unparalleled ecstasy’.”
Pedlar is peddler, while manoeuver lost one vowel in American English. Other than that, the exercise does not strike me as either too complicated or as a product of great wit. However, it was nice to hear that even eighty years ago at least twenty-five percent of the well-educated subscribers to The Spectator were already not fully literate. It is even nicer to read the statement made in 1931 (another letter to the same worthy journal): “There is much to be said for the simplification of English spelling, however much it may offend the taste of lovers of English, but the world cannot wait while England sets her house in order.” Indeed it cannot; yet only the English speaking world has the authority of doing something in this area.
A clever case of they. I am sure everything is correct in the sentence that follows, but it still sounds funny. My local newspaper has recently discussed coyotes prowling in the city. The deputy police chief said: “They’re an animal that does not like human contact.” Are analogs thinkable, for example: “They are a toy that can harm babies”?
To whom it may concern. (from News Service) “Meanwhile, Syria’s state news agency said that authorities liberated Austrian lawyer Anton Sander, whom had been held by rebels in Homs for the past four months.” Why won’t we pass a law prohibiting the form whom? Something like: “If you want to say whom, say who.”
Old languages and complexity. It was not my goal to compare the morphological complexity of Hittite (or Tocharian) and Sanskrit (Greek, Latin, Gothic). This kind of comparison is hard because a language recorded early may be more “advanced” than a language whose written monuments go back to a later date. I only wanted to point out that a hope to find simplicity in ancient languages has no foundation.
A not too primitive Hittite.
Jixy ~ taxi. I received two responses to my note on the “jixy,” named after Joynson-Hickes. It was London cabmen who coined the word, and yes, the politician was known as Jix; hence the blend. Jixi is not only a blend of Jix and taxi but also a tribute to the popularity of this type of word formation. So those who hate the noun selfie should beware: such words have been around for a long time. Consider walkie-talkie, movie, to say nothing of Tommy, Jackie, and so forth. That the word (selfie) is inoffensive does not of course mean that the thing should be admired. But my area is language, not mores.
Speaking of words and mores: Old Engl. myltenhus “brothel.” Could this word be a reshaping of Latin multa ~ mulcta “fine, punishment” or multus “much, many”? In etymology, all kinds of things are possible. The question is how probable our solution is. According to traditional opinion, Old Engl. myltestre “prostitute” is an alteration of Latin meretrix. As I said in the post on brothel, I have no enthusiasm for this idea and prefer my own derivation (myltenhus = stew house, stews; this is, for example, what such establishments were called in Shakespeare’s days). However, it may well be that also in the seventeenth century the phrase common house meant the same (see Notes and Queries, June 2008, pp. 191-194). Perhaps in Anglo-Saxon England brothels ware also called “houses for many’’ (multi) or for the behavior that carried its own punishment, but such guesses can never be substantiated.
Wolf puns. In my previous gleanings, a picture by the great Russian artist Valentin Serov showed a wolf walking past a fence. There was a question whether I deliberately punned on the name Serov (stress on the second syllable; ser- means “gray”) and the color of the wolf, the more so as I had recently discussed the etymology of the word gray. I wish I had noticed the coincidence! No, the pun was unintentional. Other than that, Russian family names from color words are common: compare Belov, Chernov, and Krasnov, from “white,” “black,” and “red” respectively.
A final flourish.
“Mr. Snowden had an enthusiastic reception when he returned to London. He was hailed as a national hero. These revenges of time are amusing and also reassuring.” No, not our very own Snowden but Philip Snowden, the once wll-known British politician. This quotation is again from The Spectator (1929; a faithful volunteer is looking through this journal in search of materials for my etymological database, and I cannot help reading adjoining pages). But never say die! Edward Snowden was installed as Glasgow University’s rector and succeeded in this post Winnie Mandela and Mordechai Vanunu. These amusing and reassuring revenges of time… Nomen est omen.
Anatoly Liberman is the author of Word Origins And How We Know Them as well as An Analytic Dictionary of English Etymology: An Introduction. His column on word origins, The Oxford Etymologist, appears on the OUPblog each Wednesday. Send your etymology question to him care of email@example.com; he’ll do his best to avoid responding with “origin unknown.” Subscribe to Anatoly Liberman’s weekly etymology articles via email or RSS.
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Image credit: Hittite orthostat – Teshub. Gaziantep, Turkey. Photo by Avi Dolgin. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 via dolgin Flickr.
The post Monthly etymology gleanings for April 2014 appeared first on OUPblog.
By Anatoly Liberman
Because of the frequency of the words the, this, that, these, those, them, their, there, then, and with, the letter h probably occurs in our texts more often than any other (for Shakespeare’s epoch thee and thou should have been added). But then of course we have think, three, though, through, thousand, and words with ch, sh, ph, and gh. Despite the prominence of h in written English its status is entirely undeserved, because it performs its most important historical task, namely to designate the sound in words like have, hire, home, and so forth only in word and morpheme initial position (the latter as in rehire, dehydrated, and the like).
The history of h is dramatic. Germanic experienced a change known as the First Consonant Shift (a big shock, as the capitalization above shows). When we compare Latin quod “what” (pronounced kwod) and its Old English cognate hwæt (the same meaning; pronounced with the vowel of Modern Engl. at), we see that Engl. h corresponds to Latin k. A series of such regular correspondences separates Germanic from its non-Germanic Indo-European “relatives,” and this is what the shift is all about. The k ~ h pair is only one of nearly a dozen. When the shifted k arose more than two thousand year ago, it had the sound value of ch in Scots loch, but then the weakening of Germanic consonants set in (linguists call this process lenition), and the guttural sound was one of its casualties: it stopped being guttural and became “mere breath,” as we now have in home and hell. Degraded to breath, or aspiration, h began to disappear. In no other Germanic language has the habit of dropping one’s h’s advanced as far as in English, but it can be observed in all its modern and medieval neighbors, especially in popular speech. For example, in the delightful Middle Dutch narrative poem about the arch-scoundrel Reineke Fox (the French call the beast Reynard) h is dropped on a scale unthinkable in Modern Dutch. Standard English frowns upon h-less words, but in a few cases they managed to assert themselves. For instance, the form preceding modern them was hem, and that is why we say tell’em: it is not th that has been shed, but h. However, what the sound h has lost in pronunciation, the letter h has more than regained on paper.
Each case—the introduction of ch, sh, and gh—deserves a special essay, but I will devote this post only to th. Today th designates a voiceless consonant (as in cloth) and a voiced one (as in clothe). Both sounds existed in Old English, though their occurrence and distribution were partly different from what we find in the modern language, and there were special letters for them—þ (voiceless) and ð (voiced). They go back to the form of two ancient runes. But from early on the Romance tradition became dominant in Germanic scriptoriums: in German, Dutch, and English we find the digraphs (that is, two-letter groups) dh and th. Dh did not stay anywhere, but th did and is ambiguous, for, at least theoretically, it could be used f
By Anatoly Liberman
The spelling of those two words does not bother us only because both are so common and learned early in life. Yet why not shure and shugar? There is a parallel case, and it too leaves us indifferent, though for a different reason. Consider su in pressure, measure, pleasure, leisure, and the like. We do not question the occurrence of su in the middle of a Romance word, with its phonetic value of sh (as in cushion) or ge (as in genre and rouge) and pay no attention to azure, in which the same sound is designated by a more natural group zu. The French origin of pressure, azure, measure, and their ilk, let alone genre and rouge, is so obvious that perhaps even those who have never studied French are dimly aware of it. By contrast, sure and sugar are fully domesticated (only etymologists know all the details of their descent), and, even more important, su in them occurs word initially. It is their position at the beginning rather than in the middle of the word that causes surprise. However, both sure and sugar also came to English from French and in this respect have common cause with pressure and measure.
From a historical point of view, the story is simple. Consider the names of the letters U and Q, that is (in phonetic terms), yu and kyu. Before y, t becomes ch, s turns into sh, and z yields the voiced partner of sh. Listen to how you say what you…; it is probably indistinguishable from watch you. Many (most?) people pronounce unless you as unlesh you, and I have seldom heard anyone pronounce the title of Shakespeare’s play As You Like It with z before you: it is usually the same sound as in Measure for Measure. In the middle of the word, rather than at word boundaries, an analogous assimilation happened several centuries ago, and that is why nature and vision sound as though they were spelled nachure and vizion. This brings us to sugar and sure.
The vowel occurring in French sure was alien to most Middle English dialects, including the dialect of London, and, as the name of the modern English letter U shows, yu replaced French u in borrowed words. We can observe this substitution even in such a recent loanword as menu (and compare nubile and other nu- words). Once sure appeared in English, it turned into syure, and a similar change happened in sugar (syugar). Later, syu- developed into sh- (compare bless you, session, and Asia, regardless of whether you have a voiced or a voiceless middle in the last of them, for the voicing is secondary). As noted above, sure and sugar are such conspicuous monsters because word initially su- designates sh only in those two words. (Actually, the plant name sumach also has a variant with shu-, but it is known too little. Sumach makes a good riddle: “There are three English words in which initial su- has the value of shu-. The first t