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Continued from “Bimonthly etymology gleanings for August and September 2014. Part 1″…

Dangerous derivations and chance coincidences

A correspondent cited a few tentative etymologies of English words.

• Sail: in Mennonite Low German sähl means “harness.”
• Bride: Dutch brudespaar allegedly means “broody pair.” Doesn’t bride mean “broody hen”?
• Cow: the German word kauen means “to chew.” Couldn’t that be the origin of the word cow?

I am sorry to disappoint our correspondent, but such haphazard comparisons should be abandoned. To discover the origin of old words, one has to compare their most ancient attested forms. For example, kauen always had a diphthong, while cow has its late diphthong from a long monophthong that once sounded like Modern Engl. oo (compare German Kuh). And so it goes. On the more intuitive level, one should realize that, if a word has baffled professional scholars for centuries, the most tempting solutions have probably been offered and rejected. By the way, the Dutch compound for “bride and bridegroom” is bruidspaar, not brudespaar; the word has nothing to do with brooding.

Another correspondent wrote that the Russian word for “kiss” also means “to aim.” Whoever suggested this connection seems to have confused the Russian words tsel “whole” (discussed in the post on kissing) and tsel’ “aim.” The sign l’ stands for palatalized (or “soft”) l; where the transliteration has an apostrophe Russian has a special letter (the so-called miagkii znak). Tsel is an old word, while tsel’ is a borrowing of German Ziel “aim” (more precisely, Middle High German), via Polish.

Still another correspondent wonders whether the noun chapbook and the verb tucker (out) “to tire, to weary” can be of Hindi origin. I think chapbook has such a transparent English derivation that it does not merit further discussion. Tucker is probably a frequentative of tuck, like very many verbs of this structure. There is no denying the fact that our correspondent cited Hindi words that have both the form and the meaning closely corresponding to chapbook and tucker. But, as I have written many times while answering similar questions, the fact of borrowing can be ascertained only if we succeed in showing how a foreign word reached English (compare the history of thug, which is indeed from Hindi, or other examples cited in the great book Hobson-Jobson). Was tucker used mainly by Hindi speakers? Do we have any proof that this verb spread from their community? Only a detailed investigation along such lines can sound convincing. Otherwise, we will stay with kauen ~ cow and their likes.

Wise restraint. An old colleague of mine wrote in connection with my post on roil.

“Honoré de Balzac published in 1842 a novel called La Rabouilleuse. The title name is explained as being a word local to the Berry region of France where a young girl is employed to stir up the mud in a stream, thus clouding the water and permitting a fisherman to more readily catch crayfish (crawfish?). One can easily see the way the word is formed: the verb bouillir “boil” plus a reduplicating prefix ra- and a feminine agent suffix. Now the verb rabouillir or some variant of it might fit in with roil both with some phonemes and the meaning.”

The author of the letter did not suggest any solution, and I think he was right to do so. The coincidence looks like being due to chance.

Old Friends

Every now and then I run into publications that would have come in most useful in my earlier posts and comments. But it is never too late to pick up even the oldest chestnuts. For instance, I have challenged the supporters of they ~ them in sentences like when a student comes, I never make them wait to give examples that are really old. Almost nothing has turned up. But here are two more phenomena that have aroused some interest among our readers.

Split infinitive. It would seem that passionate, as opposed to rational, splitting set in several decades ago, and the construction I called to be or to not be conquered the ugly day. Roswitha Fischer’s article on the split infinitive appeared in 2007; however, I read it only this summer. Among many other examples, she quoted Wycliffe: “It is good for to not ete fleisch and for to not drynke wyn” (ca. 1382). I do not follow Wycliffe’s recommendation but in defense of his grammar should say that with for to he had nowhere else to put the negation. I am sure everybody will remember: “Simple Simon went a-fishing, / For to catch a whale.” Nowadays, for to, an analog of German um zu, is dead, except in some dialects.

One… his. We have been taught to say one…one’s. But people keep correlating one with his (now probably their; see above). In The Nation for 1921 I found a letter to the editor from Steven T. Byington (Ballard Vale, Massachusetts) with the funny title Four Centuries of Onehese. The writer quoted five sentences with one—his. I’ll reproduce only the relevant part of them:

• “…one was surer in keeping his tunge, than in muche speking” (excellent advice going back to 1477)
• “…the higher one doth mount, the less doth euery thing appeare which is below him” (1607)
• “If one proposes any other end unto himself” (1650)
• “…one’s sure to break his neck” (1650), “One should do what his own nature prescribes” (1886)

Among other things, the letter discusses the utterance: “One oughtn’t never take nothing that ain’t theirn.” I suspect that in the great books on English grammar by Jespersen, Poutsma, and Curme many more examples of the one… his type will be found. A certain Markman, a friend of James Steerforth’s, “always spoke of himself indefinitely as a ‘man’, and seldom or never in the first person singular” (David Copperfield, Chapter 24 “My First Dissipation”). This way of speaking may help those who have trouble with one.

Check your slang

Also in The Nation, this time for 1922, I found a more than enthusiastic review by Clement Wood of Carl Sandburg’s fourth book of poetry Slabs of the Sunburnt West. In the opening paragraph, Wood expressed his delight about Sandburg’s use of slang. I ran the list by my undergraduate students. Here it is: humdinger, flooey, *phizzogs, fixers, frame-up, *four-flushers, rakeoff, getaway, junk, *fliv, fake, come clean, gabby mouth, *hoosegow, *teameo, *work plug, lovey, slew him in, bull, jazz, scab, booze, stiffs, hanky-pank, hokum, bum, and buddy.

The words that no one recognized are given above with an asterisk. I knew more. However, some of them I knew by chance. For instance, long ago, a bookstore near our main campus closed its doors. It began to sell its stock at a small discount, but every two days the prices went down. The only books that no one wanted to take even when they were free were those by American poets. I grabbed the entire batch and read everything. In this rather dubious treasure trove, I discovered Sandburg, read his poem called Phizzogs, and looked up the word. It has never occurred in my reading since that day. In my work, I have dealt with synonyms for “prison,” so that hoosegow was quite familiar to me. I also knew fliv, but the word is forgotten. This is what I expected, for once I tried the same experiment with jitney and drew blank, while people of my age recognized it immediately. If I had run into a poker player, such a person would have had no trouble identifying four-flushers. Fixers, bull, work plug, slew him in, and stiffs look transparent, but without the context it is impossible to decide their exact meaning. We of course guessed that hanky-pank is a back formation on hanky-panky.

My students say that, when they watch movies of the fifties, they do not understand the slang used there, while their parents are in the dark when it comes to the slang of their children. On the other hand, the words given in bold in my list are today so familiar that no one would have referred to them as particularly striking. One should take into consideration that, to know one’s language, one has to read the literature written in it. It is curious to follow the modern annotations of Oliver Twist and Vanity Fair. Both Dickens and Thackeray used slang quite generously, and the commentators assume that no one understands it today. Perhaps they are right.

I still have some questions unanswered and will take care of them at the end of October.

Image credits: (1) Photograph of Carl Sandburg, 1947. Library of Congress. (2) Sandburg book cover via Booklikes.

The post Bimonthly etymology gleanings for August and September 2014. Part 2 appeared first on OUPblog.

        

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By Anatoly Liberman

Those who will look up the etymology of roil and rile will have to choose between two answers: “from Old French” or “of uncertain origin.” Judging by my rather extensive and constantly growing database, roil and rile have attracted little attention, though Professor Bernhard Diensberg (Bonn) wrote a book on the fortunes of the diphthongs oi and ui in Middle English (it appeared in 1985) and devoted an informative section to those words. Non-specialists may wonder how anyone can write a book on such a subject. “No problem,” as waiters (servers) say in my area when I thank them. English words with oi continue to rile etymologists by their stubborn refusal to disclose their origin. Just try to investigate the history of foist, hoist, ploy, or hoity-toity, and you’ll never get out of this morass. One of the difficulties that plague the inquisitive mind is that oi and i constantly play leapfrog. Dictionaries (or perhaps your own experience) will tell you that a doublet of hoity-toity is hightly-tighty, that joist is related to gist, that many people pronounce point and oil as pint and ile, and so it goes. And it is not for nothing that Crocodile Dundee had a “knoife,” while in the speech of many Britishers the number preceding ten is noin.

Returning to our subject, one cannot be sure whether rile and roil are different words or variants of the same verb. The prevailing opinion is that rile is indeed a dialectal variant of roil, and most dictionaries say: rile—see roil. In any case, be it roil or rile, its country of origin seems to have been France. The cautious statement “origin uncertain/unknown” usually refers not to the homeland of the English verb but to its putative French source (etymon). However, Skeat, who always indicated where each word originated, put a question mark and wrote (? F.). I think the first reasonable French etymology of roil goes back to Francis Henry Stratmann, the author of an important Middle English dictionary.

‘Rileyed’: the word has nothing to do with the story

Roil¹ surfaced in the fourteenth century and meant “roam about.” Then there is a long chronological gap (and such gaps never augur well for etymological studies) until the end of the eighteenth century. Besides that, there is roil^2-3 “make turbid,” “vex.” Roil¹ partly merged in its meanings with roll, and the other roil (it is not clear whether we have one item or two) merged with rile, whose recorded history begins in 1724. The first edition of the OED was not sure whether all those verbs were related and cited obsolete French ruiler “to mix mortar,” a sense rather remote from what one would expect. But in 1918 Ernest Weekley observed that ruiler looks like a continuation of Old French rouiller, whose derivative rouil “mud” has been attested and fits the required meaning. The online edition of the OED does not object to Weekley’s etymology but offers a more cautious formulation.

The plot thickens (that is, the morass gets deeper) when we look around and notice rail “to complain (about something); use abusive language.” Hence the noun raillery with a much nicer meaning, and close to it we find rally “treat with good-humored ridicule.” This then is the sum: roil, rile; rail, and roll. For each of them a plausible etymon has been suggested: Old French roillier or rouiller (? from Latin regulare “regulate”; so Skeat), rotulare, from Latin rotululus “roll,” a diminutive form; compare late Latin rotula “little wheel”), and ragulare, from ragere “to bellow, howl.” According to an old conjecture, rile is an independent formation, not a dialectal doublet of roil, and a noun rather than a verb, as allegedly shown by Middle Engl. ryall ~ riall “foam, fermentation,” from Old French roille ~ rouille, ultimately from Latin robigo “rust.” Another hypothesis traced roil to some verb like Icelandic rugla “to confound,” but the phonetic barrier between rugla and roil cannot be overcome. No doubt, the origin of our group is “uncertain.”

The sound complex rag is notorious for its etymological obscurity: compare Engl. rag “to scold, rate,” a close synonym of rail. And of course, “scold; disturb; vex” look like related senses. Ragamuffin was once the name of a petty devil, perhaps originally a creature that made a lot of noise, but this is guesswork. Those interested in the origin of Engl. rogue and ragman (as in ragman’s roll, the etymon of rigmarole, the latter being pronounced by everybody I know as rigamarole) will find some information in my post “Old slang: rogue” (12 May 2010). Swedish hippies were called raggare (the word is still very much alive in Sweden), while in the Old Germanic languages the root rag- alternated with arg- and was a gross insult. Thus, when one sees Latin ragere, one cannot help thinking of all those Germanic words.

Not only words tend to tie themselves up in knots

I have no quarrel with the French etymons of roil (and its brother rile), rail, and roll. Perhaps they ultimately do go back to the late Latin verbs most dictionaries cite, but I would like to note two things. First, the habit of finding Latin etymons for obscure French words has nowadays much less appeal than it had a hundred and even fifty years ago. Second, of interest is the statement in the entry rail “complain,” as it appears in the OED online: “…probably of imitative origin.” “Imitative” is often hard to distinguish from “sound symbolic.”

In any case, I believe that this guess has potential. It might be useful to remember that  one of several verbs listed under rail means “rattle,” and one of the verbs listed at roil means “to flow”; “to flow” occasionally also means “to make a lot of noise,” with reference to “roiling waters” (there are good examples in Middle High German and Old Icelandic). We have roil “wander,” “flow,” “rattle,” “stir up,” and “vex,” alongside rail “use abusive language.” In the rile ~ roil group, only roll has a clearly ascertainable origin. When the rest of the “family” appeared in English, its members were probably influenced, at least to a certain degree, by the similar-sounding verb roll and began to interact with it and one another. That is why it is so hard to disentangle them and decide which sense belong to which verb and how many senses each of them has.

This situation reminds me of the problem I encountered while researching the origin of troll ~ droll, trill, and trawl. Nice Romance etymons have also been given for all of them, but the group is probably sound imitative (see the post “Between troll and trollop,” 3 January 2007). Words tend to tie themselves up in knots. Following the established format, dictionaries devote a special entry to each of them, but it might be more profitable to follow the practice of old lexicographers and feature both individual words and, when expedient, whole nests. Perhaps roll ~ rile ~ roil ~ rail is a good candidate for such a nest.

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 protected]; 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: (1) The Bitter Drunk by Adriaen Brouwer. Public domain via Wikimedia Commons. (2) Python vert /Morelia Viridis. Photo by marie. CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 via raym5 Flickr.

The post Fishing in the “roiling” waters of etymology appeared first on OUPblog.

        

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