Vol III, No 1 [May 1976]

“Ouch!” he said in Japanese

Axel Hornos,
Pittsford, New York

Of all the areas covered by comparative linguistics, interjections and onomatopoeic words are perhaps the richest in surprises.

Take “Ouch!”, a word whose brief, plaintive urgency is vocalized pain itself; a cry straight from the heart. It is so instinctive that many English-speaking people would confidently maintain, upon questioning, that it must be common to the entire human race regardless of country, language, or skin color.

We know this is far from true. Step on the toes of a Spaniard, an Italian or a Frenchman, and he’ll cry out an anguished “Ay!” Pinch hard a Scandinavian, German or Dutch, and he’ll respond with a hoarse “Au!” Poke an inadvertent finger into an Indonesian’s eyeball and he’ll cry “Adú!” A Japanese will say “Aíta!”, a Greek and Russian “Okh!”, a Portuguese “Ui!”

Or consider “Phooey!”, that potpourri of dashed hopes, irritation, and demurral. Yet “Phooey!” would be meaningless to a Spanish-speaking person, who will say “Ufa!” instead. An Italian will growl “Uff!”, a Frenchman “Zut!”, a Chinese “Che!”

On the other hand our explosive “Hurray!” sounds very much alike in all European and Latin American countries, except to the Italians, who chant “Evviva!” instead.

Another Italian word, “Bravo!”, has proved so decisive when one wants to express his admiration for a particularly good bit of opera singing, that it has been adopted by most European and American countries. But in Asia, where Italian opera is not so popular, they think differently. “Bravo!”, in the sense of “Well done!”, becomes “Bagús!” in Indonesia, “Hau!” in China.

In Spain you don’t call a friend with a “Hey, John!” You say, “Oye, Juan!” In Italy, it’s “Olà, Giovanni!” in Russia, “Ey, Ivan!” In France, “Eh, Jean!” In Holland, “Sech, Jan!” In Greece, “Aye, Ioannis!” In Germany, “Hallo, Hans!” In Argentina, “Che, Juan!” (The latter explains the “Che” in Che Guevara: Argentine-born, Guevara frequently used this expression when addressing his Cuban friends. Hence the nickname.)

“Wow!” is another interesting ejaculation, thick with tongue-tying wonder. However meaningful the expression may be to a speaker of American English, the Portuguese shout “Oba!”, the Danes “Orv!”, the Germans “Toll!”, the Italians a tame “O!”, the Turks “Ya!”, the Japanese and Chinese “Wah!”, the Indonesians “Ajaib!” As to the French, they have that beautifully eloquent expression which only a Frenchman could have begotten, “Oh! là là!”

Put an American, an Italian, a Frenchman, a Spaniard, a German, a Greek and a Russian in a circle, make each swallow a spoonful of cod liver oil, then listen to their reactions. You’ll hear, respectively, the following sounds, “Ugh!”, “Pooh!”, “Pouah!”, “Poof!”, “Hoo!”, “Oof!”, and “Phoo!” Now ask them to squash a big bug underfoot, and they’ll snarl “Pooh!” (or “Yakh!”), “Poh!”, “Bah!”, “Bah!”, “Pah!”, “Poof!” and “Phoo!”

Animal cries as heard by people around the world are another source of surprises. Take “Bow-wow,” our uncontested version of a dog’s bark. But it’s “Oua! Oua!” or “Gnaf! Gnaf!” to the French, “Wau-wau” to the Germans, “Han-han” or “Wan-wan” to the Japanese, “Au-au” to the Greeks and Portuguese, “Am-am” to the Russians, “Wang-wang” to the Chinese, “Vov-vov” to Scandinavians, “Hav-hav” to the Turks.

Our “Cock-a-doodle-do” is something else. Frankly, to me it sounds more like some fancy word out of a musical rather than a rooster’s crowing. The French and Portuguese hear it as “Cocorico” (the Japanese as “Koke-koko”), the Germans, Spanish-speaking, Italians, Russians, Turks, and Scandinavians, with slight variations, as “Kikirikí.” Nobody will deny that these sounds are much closer to the rooster’s defiant cry than our unconvincing “Cock-a-doodle-do.”

Pat a cat, and it purrs. But it “ronronne” in France, “ronronea” in Spain and Latin America, “fusa” in Italy, “schnurrt” in Germany.

To our ears a dove coos, but to the French it “roucoule,” to the Germans it “gurrt,” to the Spanish-speaking it “arrulla,” to the Italians it “tuba,” to the Japanese it “popo.” A chacun son coo.

Whoever coined the word “twitter” must have combined love for birds with a fine ear. To the French, birds “gazouille”; one almost hears a bevy of birds sweetly chattering on a tree. The Italians say “cinguetta,” the Spanish-speaking “gorjea,” the Germans “switschert.”

On the other hand, a cat’s “meow” sounds very much alike in most languages, as does a cow’s “moo.” (In Japan it is, interestingly, “niao” and “moh.” This is perhaps because the cat’s and the cow’s calls-and to a large extent the rooster’s–are more easily imitated by the human voice than, say, a dog’s bark or a bird’s twitter.

There is still another group of onomatopoeic words, those that imitate man-made and natural sounds and those that suggest motion. Here are a few in their English, German, French, Spanish -and Italian equivalents:

English	German	French	Spanish	Italian
rumble	rumpeln	gronder	retumbar	rimbombare
sizzle	zischen	grésiller	sisear	friggere
sniff	schnuppern	reniffler	husmear	fiutare
clang	klirren	résonner	resonar	squillare
_bubble	sprudeln	bouillonner	burbujear	bollire
spurt	spritzen	jailler	surgir	spruzzare
swish	sausen	cingler	silbar	sferzare
buzz	summen	vrombir	zumbar	ronzare
rustle	rascheln	froufrouter	crujir	frusciare
shriek	kreischen	hurler	chillar	strillare
snore	schnarchen	ronfler	roncar	russare
splash	planschen	éclabousser	salpicar	schizzare

How can one account for such wide discrepancies?

According to most linguists, onomatopoeic words vary from language to language as the phonologies of the languages vary. Once the sounds become established, they are conventionalized. In a way this is regrettable. If everybody used only the sound words that are closest to one’s way of hearing them–I, for one, swear that barks sound more like “Woof-woof” than “Bow-wow”–languages would be the richer even though communication might go–well, to the dogs.

Can We Write This Wrong?

A. S. Flaumenhaft
Lawrence, New York

We’re on speaking terms with the phrase “on the double,”
But say “on the single,” and, boy, you’re in trouble.
Take “nevertheless”–we hear it galore,
Yet nary a murmur of “neverthemore.”
Note this: “in the long run”–unless it’s a race;
Why not, “in the long walk” to slacken the pace?
If “good for what ails you” does not turn the trick,
“What’s bad for your ailment” could very well click.
Of course “notwithstanding,” but, no, it’s unfitting
Wherever you’re standing to say “notwithsitting.”
The list of “well-heeled' is often unrolled,
Yet never unrolled is a list of “well-soled.”
If facts are “forthcoming,” we’d feel better knowing
That sooner or later they will be “forthgoing.”
In brief, if “the odds are good,” tell me, my lad,
Why we don’t allow that “the evens are bad.”

Mrs. Malaprop’s Bicentennial

James D. White
Mill Valley, California

Few Americans are likely to be in better trim for the commemorative exertions of 1976 than the residents of Northern California, where in 1975 a sort of warm-up bicentennial was observed–unwittingly, it’s true, but with a vigor worthy of the chief figure in the original event.

The beneficiary of all this unconscious memorializing was Mrs. Malaprop, the British comedy character who swept the London stage in 1775 with certain contributions to the ruination of the English language. The Mrs. Malaprop role in Richard Brinsley Sheridan’s play, The Rivals, was that of a busybody intent upon marrying off her young niece to a wealthy aristocrat. In her eagerness to impress, she persisted in using words and phrases beyond her assured vocabulary, and the havoc she wrought with the mother tongue is recalled today in malapropism as an accepted term for misused or mismatched expressions.

Mrs. Malaprop’s bicentennial, at least hereabouts, actually was the latest in a series of vintage years. This can be reported with some confidence because of the tape recorder, a relentless device for such jobs as preserving and spotting on playback the bungled expression which ordinarily might go unnoticed or unverified.

This merciless gadget, when plugged into the public dialogue via radio or television, also reveals the formidable dimensions of the Malaprop tradition. Sheridan presumably contrived many of Mrs. Malaprop’s lapses, but almost without exception the modern examples cited below appear to have been created with anything but deliberation, in the heat of argument and under the pressure of electronic communication. The casualties probably never realized what they’d said.

All this became apparent over the last several years, during playback sessions with taped newscasts, broadcast interviews and talk shows in the San Francisco Bay area. Although the monitoring was done to check public opinion trends on unrelated subjects, the Malaprop spin-off was unmistakable. Some samples had to be run through more than once to be believed. There can be little doubt–the spirit of Mrs. Malaprop lives, as in these samples from notes excerpted from tape transcripts:

“The use of drugs [among the young] is on the upcrease,” a San Francisco police officer assures a news-caster. [Inspector Carrigan, telephone interview, KCBS.] As a new word, upcrease may face a dubious future, but its meaning is clear, which wouldn’t be true of the corollary, inswing.

From Seaside, down the coast, a local official turns up in basic agreement with our San Francisco word-coiner, but mixes metaphors instead of words. He says that the problems of dealing with the young do indeed take us “along an upstream trail.” [Unidentified, KNBC.] Again, this may be preferable, as compared with an uphill swim.

Such scrambling of vaguely similar expressions is only slightly more common than the supercharged effort to get a point across, as exemplified by the retired Marine Corps general who was complaining about the arguments he encountered on national defense. “… And they usually invariably say…,” he fumed. [Lt. Gen. Lewis Walt, taped segment, network newscast.]

These misadventures took place during telephone interviews. It is the talk show, however, that features the misfit metaphor and the delightfully wrong word at both ends of the line.

“Too many people have been sold down the drain,” laments one caller. [Caller to Robin King, KNEW. ]

“If the circumstances were on the other foot,” argues another. [Caller to Joe Dolan, KNEW. ]

“I don’t pull any bones about it,” declares still another on a talk show which regrettably went unrecorded but is not easily forgotten.

“You’re talking around the bush,” complained one listener to a talk show jockey. [Caller to Harv Morgan, KCBS.] Unfortunately the appropriate answer came from quite a different jockey to an entirely different listener. “You,” he said, “are out of your rocker.” [Fred Wilcox, KCBS.]

One jockey, probably deliberately, boggled a caller with this reproof: “You have just used two words that set my hair on edge.” [Jim Eason, KCBS.] No hint as to whether his teeth were on end, and in any case the listener gave no indication of finding anything unusual about it.

On another occasion a listener flabbergasted his talk show guru by declaring: “I think we need to get down to the brass roots of the problem.” [Caller to Bob Murphy, KNEW.] Silence, with the man at the mike presumably sorting out brass roots from grass tacks.

Those are specimens from fast-moving exchanges, but people with more time to think also contribute.

“The nutshell of it is …,” explained a locally famous trial lawyer. [George T. Davis, radio interview.]

“I believe they are cut out of the same mold,” said one San Francisco mayoral candidate of two rivals. [Jack Morrison, radio interview.]

And a radio commentator gave this reply during a law-and-order panel discussion: “… If he had actually broken a crime or could be accused of breaking a crime….” [Bob Murphy, KNEW.]

But the talk-show jock is the old dependable. One, defending the objectivity of the press in general, said it “bends overboard to be fair.” [Hilly Rose, KCBS.] If the information media find this awkward, they could, of course, go over backward.

The newscast contains an occasional gem, but none gathered in this sampling quite matched the inevitable traffic accident report which described a victim as “killed fatally.” [News item, KCBS.]

The advertising copy writer also contributes now and then, as in the public service announcement which asserted that “fatigue is a major cause of automobile safety.” [KCBS.] Or the finance company plug with an announcer intoning: “It’s Christmas, and you’re socked under with bills …” [Pacific Finance Co. commercial, KGO.] Or another finance company barker who urged the listener to “discuss this in the confidence of your home.” [Pat Michaels, KNEW.]

Nor is the printed ad innocent. There was the New York department store, touting a high-priced gown in The New York Times with this coy demurrer: “Far be it for us to say” just where and when this unique creation should be worn. [Bergdorf Goodman ad, The New York Times.]

Harried newspaper copy desks still produce, as in the feature attributed to the Sacramento Union wherein a local citizen was described as a kindly soul “who will lend an ear to anyone who wants to listen.” [Quoted by Herb Caen, San Francisco Chronicle.]

Lest one be deluded into thinking that the mighty, if fallen, are immune, out of the past is Richard M. Nixon’s quoted comment, long before the distractions of Watergate, on the death of Adlai Stevenson:

“In eloquence of expression, he had no peers and very few equals.”

It seems clear that the Malaprop effect, identified 200 years ago and long confined to the uninformed and the careless, now occurs throughout a much broader population because of the increased pressures and volume of modern communications.

EPISTOLAE {Roger W. Wescott}

In response to Norman Shapiro [II, 4], I interpret I could care less as elliptical: add…but it would be difficult!

In response to Sol Rosenfeld [II, 4] and his claim that English s is never pronounced “sh,” I’d reply, as G. B. Shaw did, by asking “Are you sure?” (G.B.S., himself, when stopped and asked “Are you Shaw?”, replied “Positive!” and strode on.) [Roger W. Wescott, Drew University]

This second point was also brought to our attention by Louis A. Leslie, Scarsdale, New York. In all fairness, it should be pointed out that Mr. Rosenfeld was quoting—and, perhaps, had been misled by—Peter Farb’s book, Word Play. —Editor. [LU]

Ellipsis … Faulty and Otherwise

G. A. Cevasco
Associate Professor of English, St. John’s University
New York

“Would you like to join me in a cup of coffee? asks the straight man. “No thank you,” quips the comedian. “I don’t think there’s room enough in there for both of us.” Granted, such a weary bit of humor can be trying, but it does serve as a pointed example of what grammarians call “faulty ellipsis.”

Everyone who listens carefully to the speech of others has heard countless examples of sentences that omit words necessary for effective communication. A short while ago one of my neighbors shocked me momentarily when he announced: “When properly stewed, I really enjoy apricots.” It didn’t take me long to realize, of course, that he had omitted the words they are after the first word of his confession.

I had a few lingering doubts, though, because shortly thereafter he informed me rather solemnly that he wanted to get some work done around his house. “I plan to mow the lawn with my wife,” was the way he put it. Not being especially fond of his wife, I mumbled to myself, “Go right ahead.” But I was forced to conclude that he must have meant that he planned to mow his lawn with his wife’s help. Yet I was still perplexed. Why had he not said, “I plan to have my wife help me mow the lawn”?

Faulty ellipsis may be contagious. Whether my neighbor infected his wife or she contracted it from him is difficult to determine. One day I overheard her say to their young daughter: “Mommy will put your pajamas on.” That would be quite a sight, I thought. Another time I heard her complain to her husband when he was trying a bit too hard to feed their child: “Osberta can eat herself.”

Lest it be thought that my neighbors are the only ones I know addicted to such peculiar expressions, here are a few more examples of faulty ellipsis that I recently heard from friends, acquaintances, and students:

They painted themselves.
Do you feel like ice cream?
We had Mr. Colso for dinner.
A boy scout can cook himself.
Wash your face in the morning and neck at night.
A gentleman never crumbles his bread or rolls in his soup.

I was really taken up short one day when I heard someone state that he could not recommend a certain Captain Scott. The ostensible reason: “He has little Air Force experience and no navel.” [Surely, he meant naval experience.]

Ellipsis, as defined by grammarians, is usually taken to mean ‘the deliberate omission of a word or words necessary for complete syntactical construction but not required for meaning readily implied by the context of a sentence.’ More simply put, ellipsis is saying what we mean but not using all the words we could to say it. The mismanagement of ellipsis is easy, however, and rather common. “This privilege of making words work for us in absentia,” Wilson Follett once remarked, “entails, like all privileges, responsibilities and risks.”

Much of the strength of English depends upon economy, and ellipsis can be an excellent means of attaining an economy of expression. Economy of expression keeps monosyllables at the core of language, curtails the overuse of particles, tends to regularize verbs and to reduce inflectional forms. The wrong kind of economy, however, can be either a source of humor or outright confusion.

Eighteenth-century grammarians were especially troubled by “improper” ellipsis. Robert Lowth, for example, in his Short Introduction to English Grammar (1769) was particularly concerned with the omission of particles. Robert Baker, the author of Remarks on the English Language (1770), agreed with Lowth. He judged the use of government for the government to be “an expression of great barbarity.” He also insisted upon the preposition before the pronoun in phrases like “write [to] me.”

In his English Grammar (1785), J. Mennye cited and condemned many examples of elliptic sentences from the King James Bible, from the poetry of Pope, from the prose of Hobbes, and from other prominent writers. Hugh Blair in his Lectures in Rhetoric and Belles Lettres (1793) maintained that such expressions as “the man I loved” and “the dominions we possessed” were faulty. “Though this elliptical style be intelligible and is allowable in conversation and epistolary writing,” he dogmatized, “in all writing of a serious or dignified kind, it is ungraceful.”

Virtually all eighteenth-century grammarians were overly concerned with “improper ellipsis.” In the nineteenth century, however, Carlyle wisely recommended that literary men ought to be paid by the quantity they did not write.

Can we of the twentieth century object to such everyday elliptical expressions as:

I’ll light my [tobacco and smoke my] pipe.
[This] House to [be] let [for dwelling].
Georgene is [at] home.
Margreet did not want to go, but she had to [go].
The hostess will make the card party and [the] tea [serving] a success.
Though [it is] possible, it is not probable.
[The] First [to] come [will be the] first [to be] served.

The above examples of acceptable ellipsis could easily be multiplied a hundredfold. Faulty ellipsis is not so common.

Words, of course, should never be omitted unless the intended meaning is clear without them. Except where word omission interferes with the sense content of a verbal construction, ellipsis ordinarily must be deemed acceptable. With all we have to say it is well we can omit a few words now and then.

EPISTOLAE {Louis A. Leslie}

Doctor Jewett [II, 4] says (perhaps facetiously?), “During the French Revolution, a member of the royalty, imprisoned in the Bastille….” I would be amazed to know that he really thought that such a thing could happen, so I assume that he is “pulling our leg.” The mob tore down the Bastille, quite literally, on the first day of the Revolution and found only one old man in the prison.

Dr. Jewett’s final paragraph makes it clear that this is a spoof, but I think I might have been happier if the verse had been tossed out of the window of the Concièrgerie ! Or from the tumbril. [Louis A. Leslie, Scarsdale, New York]

Grass Roots

A.S. Flaumenhaft
Lawrence, New York

There’s a species of grass named corkscrew; there’s another named drunk–that’s right, drunk grass (however, no grass is called sober).

And how many other differently named kinds of grass would the man in the street (or even the student of English) guess there are–a dozen? a hundred? … There are over a thousand!

Several nights ago I heard a politician use the term grass roots, and it suddenly struck me, a retired high school English teacher, that I was ignorant of its derivation, even though I did know the expression denoted people and places “far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife.” I flipped the pages of my unabridged dictionary to grass, then I turned the page in quest of grass roots, only to discover another full page of grass, and on the page after, more grass.

“Walt Whitman,” I mused, “could not have envisioned this variegated vastness of verdure when he described grass as the handkerchief of the Lord,' or even Carl Sandburg when he empathized, ‘I am the grass, I cover all.’ ”

At a glance I saw that my semantic curiosity about grass roots must bide a wee, while I traversed these fields of grass.

The first entries in the ten-column list were adlay, African cane, African millet, and alang-alang (which means ‘alang grass’ which in turn means _ ‘Imperata cylindrica_. E. Tr. As. Af. 3.').

The last entries were zacate limon, zacaton, zebra grass, and zinyamunga (which meant ‘elephant grass, though it sounded like a college yell).

I started browsing in the veldt and brightened at bird and bull grass, lemon and lime grass, pony and poor cat grass, rattlesnake grass, and, praise be, rescue grass. Now properly hooked, I grabbed pencil and paper and began copying and columnizing and commenting.

Extant are: wire, wood, and wool grass; sand, silk, and satin grass; paper grass, wind grass, water grass.

For the birds are: fowl, goose, canary, cockatoo, pigeon and penguin grass. And the good provider has supplied chicken corn. Also turkey foot ( ‘In North America, a species of Andropogon.') I was about to sniff, “fiddlesticks,” but “drumsticks” seemed more appropriate.

As a matter of taste: vanilla, chocolate corn, ginger, sweet and sour, candy, molasses, and sugar grass. And, as might be expected after this binge of confection, toothache grass.

Of and about the animal kingdom are: deer and camel grass, elephant and tiger grass, kangaroo grass, fox and dog grass, cattail, rattail, mouse and mousetail grass, and, just for luck, rabbit foot.

Puzzling it is that our country, the United States, has nary a blade of grass named for it. Arabian millet there is, and Australian love grass, Canada long grass, and Bermuda and Cuba grass, Egyptian finger grass, English blue grass, French rye grass, Italian reed, Japanese barnyard, Korean lawn, Mexican whisk … even Himalayan barley. Countries the world round have grasses bearing their tags, but the U.S., withal its horn of plenty, is nominally barren soil grass-wise. Is it not time that those concerned with making America the beautiful do a little name-dropping in their peregrinations about the land: “I hereby brand thee United States Whatsis grass or U.S. Tag-You’re-It grass.”

Whereas the nation has no grass bearing its label, some of its states do. For instance, California, Kentucky, Nevada have their bluegrass, Dakota and Texas their millet, disproving the axiom that the whole is greater than any of its parts.

Now, breathe deeply for scented and lavender grass, and hold your nose for stink and stinking grass.

The religious will thank the Lord that grass is sacred and holy, and that not a single blade is dubbed “profane.”

Those of us who espouse the finer things in life may read significance into the fact that there is love grass, but no hate grass.

To make one shudder, or at least wince, are: Job’s tears, devil, witch, centipede, spider, cheat, coxcomb, smut, and cutthroat grass.

Yet, there are silk and satin fields to wander, with spring behind and summer dew, in grasses black and blue and silver, and even white and pink, certainly variegated enough to snap a gardener’s garters.

As evidence that there is a method in this mad_mess_, I cite: _lady grass_ (two words), _mangrass_ (one word); _sun, star grass; fog, fountain grass_; grass that’s _hard_, grass that’s _quick_, and grass that’s _bent; beach grass, blowout grass; prickle grass, chess grass; poverty grass_ (“Paradox of Poverty Amid Plenty”?) And in conclusion, _creeping panic_, followed by _panic_ unqualified.

Which raises the question: Is grass by any other name just as green?

Having closed my unabridged dictionary on grass, I idly opened my desk encyclopedia to the same subject, and was flabbergasted to learn that I had barely grazed the surface, for there I read that there are “several thousand members of the grass family.” And to think that I’d started out to get to the bottom of “grass roots”….

EPISTOLAE {Barbara Marsh}

One of the finest breeders of Irish bulls is the weather reporter in Seattle who announces “a 100 per cent possibility of rain, with showers” and “If we have rain today, it will be snow.” [Barbara Marsh, San Diego, California]

EPISTOLAE {Joe Ecclesine}

“I’m writing a letter to your client,” the man said, “but I’m carboning and duplicate-sampling you.”

This happened to me today. It is the first time I’ve been carboned, I think. Definitely the first time I’ve been duplicate-sampled.

As a fugitive from Madison Avenue, I frequently wince when I hear such living language sprigs laid at the door of that fair street. This baby was dumped on me by a salesman for an industrial organization in the Midwest.

I write in the hope of reaching enough keepers of the lexicographic zoo to alert our wordherds to an apparently heretofore unsuspected source of outrageous philological waifs.

Let’s not blame all the lumpy newies on Madison Avenue, hey guys? [Joe Ecclesine, Rye, New York]

The Mysterious Origin of the Tarot

E.E. Rehmus
San Francisco, California

One of the most exasperating puzzles confronting the student of the occult is the ultimate origin of the Tarot (French tarault, German Tarock) and it has been variously attributed to such far-ranging peoples as the Egyptians, the Hindus, the Chinese, the Gypsies, and just about every other race. We now see it as containing many Kabbalistic elements and recognize it solely as an object of occult research and as a device for telling fortunes.

But it arose with a curiously full-blown suddenness amongst the upper class Italians in the 14th century as the “tarocchi” (plural of tarocco) ‘a game played with 78 cards painted with suns, moons, devils and monks.’ The deck was composed of 56 cards of the ordinary Italian suits (coppe, spade, bastoni, and denari) plus 21 tarocchi or trumps, and an additional card, ‘the fool’ (il matto). The latter is the source of the modern Joker. So popular did this game instantly become–how could it fail, with monks next to devils in the pack?–that by 1415 the illustrious Marziano had painted a deck worth 1500 gold crowns!

It is at once obvious to anyone who has studied the history of these fascinating cards that they cannot have been the sudden and unique invention of some clever gamester alone, but must have a more ancient tradition lying behind them. Since we are immediately halted in our investigations at the 14th century, however, the real source of the Tarot can only be guessed by an intuitive kind of comparative philology. As an amateur etymologist perhaps I may be allowed somewhat more latitude for speculation than the academician.

The first possibility that comes to mind–one that we may quickly discount–is the possibility that the word tarocchi arose by analogy with malocchio, the infamous Italian ‘evil-eye,’ although the Tarot was long considered by God-fearing Christians as “the devil’s picturebook.” We can equally reject the notion that it derived from some such imagined word as *ter-occhio, suggesting the wondrous Tibetan “third-eye” of mystic and vatic power.

Many speculators have suggested that the Latin word rota ‘wheel’ is the Tarot’s origin. When the word is written in a circle, the final T disappears. Taro, then, could easily be made into Latin anagrams or magic squares in early occult practice, such as:

Perhaps the words in these squares are supposed to form sentences. But if so, they do not translate well: ‘Hathor speaks in throught through the Torah’? ‘The Tarot wheel is the plough of Otar’? Most scholars now feel that it is more likely to be a variation of the word Torah than of rota.

The Tarot’s beginnings, however, may well have been deliberately obscured. Although we can readily find farfetched coincidences such as Eskimo târk (meaning “obscure’?), Mandarin tsarng ( ‘to hide’), English tarn (originally, a lake without an outlet, hence ‘one that is hidden’?), as well as dark itself–ultimately from Old High German tarni ( ‘secret, dark'). They are all fanciful comparisons, to say the least.

But what if we head in another direction in our search to shed some light on these “dark” origins? Old High German has another word related to tarni, viz. tarchanjan ( ‘to hide’), which at an oblique angle leads us to the Finnish tark-astus ( ‘examination, scrutiny’) and tul-kki ( ‘an interpreter’). But here the trail ends in a maze of possibilities.

If we choose to limit our discussion to card-playing alone, we can blaze still another trail–southward, this time. Since l and r alternate among many languages (e.g., English title and French titre), we are permitted to equate the Finnic t-l with t-r, and we might just be tempted to compare the latter with Arabic tarha ( ‘discard’) or taraha ( ‘throw down’).

But a far more enlightening path can be taken if we progress from tulkki and tarchanjan back down to Armenian tarkmanel ( ‘to translate’), which is the Greek dragoumanos ( ‘an interpreter’) or our word dragoman. From this we proceed to Arabic tarjuman, Hebrew turgman, m’thurgman ( ‘interpreter’) and finally to the Chaldee targum ( ‘an interpretation’). From TAR-G to TAR-C or TAROC is but a step.

But g may equal h and here at last we confront ourselves with the Hebrew T-?-H, meaning ‘to warn, forewarn,’ or even ter-etz ‘answer, solve,’ as examples of the many things the Tarot is expected to do for us. From there we may even go once again all the way down to the ancient Assyrian word adr-u ( ‘dark’) or up the other way to Basque adir-azi ( ‘to interpret’). From t-r-h, however, we also derive Torah, the Judaic Law, and Tarot-Kab-balistic connections have long been established by Hebrew scholars. Indeed, one of the cards, The High Priestess, actually bears the scroll of the Torah in her arms.

Yet there is an even sharper, more convincing source than the word Torah for the satisfaction of our intuition. It is too much of a coincidence that the Hebrew tera-ph-im (hieroglyphs used in ancient Judaic divination) were originally old Hebrew gods, perhaps corresponding to the points in the Kabbalistic “Sepher Yetzirah” (or “Book of Creative Emanations”), 22 in number, which is the exact number of the Tarot trumps if we include The Fool. We must remember that in Hebrew spelling the vowels were omitted: taro(t), tora(h) and tera(phim) could all be the single root t-r-a- [This actually is a word ( ‘blow of a trumpet’), but I’m postulating an earlier root.] (final “a” in Hebrew having the breath sound of “h”). This prototype would have all the multiple meanings listed above.

We may therefore say that the Tarot has a Hebrew origin and that it surely must have been discovered in the Italian ghetto (an Italian word, by the way, from borghetto, a borough or section of a city) which, as we know, was the traditional Jewish quarter, as in Rome. From there it was brought out into 14th century Italian society as the card game. The Tarot, as we have often suspected, was apparently a secret device for studying the Kabbalah, possibly assisted by the symbolic teraphim, in the dark days of medieval Jewish persecution.

A Bicentennial Pair: George & Patsy

Arthur J. Morgan New York, New York

Everyone knows that George Washington’s wife was named Martha–many people know that her maiden name was Dandridge and her married name, after her first marriage, was Custis. But not many people are aware that George didn’t call his wife Martha. He called her Patsy.

Furthermore Martha Dandridge Custis had a daughter whose name was also Martha. Now here was a good chance to distinguish between the two Marthas at home, but by stubborn custom the daughter was also known as Patsy.

First of all, to substantiate the nickname or pet name by which the Father of his Country called his wife, here is a quotation from a letter he wrote to inform his wife that he had just been called to the highest post in the American Revolutionary Army:

“My Dearest:…
“You may believe me, my dear Patsy, when I assure you, in the most solemn manner, that so far from seeking this appointment, I have used every endeavor in my power to avoid it….”

And the letter ends:

“…and to assure you that I am, with the most unfeigned regard, my dear Patsy,
Your affectionate
George Washington.”

[Ladies of the White House, Laura C. Holloway, Bradley & Co., Philadelphia, 1882, pages 46-7.]

And how did this all come about? Well actually in the 18th and 19th centuries the name Martha, which was quite popular, gave rise to the nickname Matty, then Patty, then Patsy. These nicknames are reminiscent of the nicknames for Margaret: Meg, Peg and Peggy. However, although Peg and Peggy are still recognizably derived from Margaret, Patty and Patsy no longer are recognizable as being related to Martha.

The reason, of course, is the rise in popularity of the name Patricia, to which these nicknames are now closely attached. (Witness Pat Nixon and Patty Hearst.)

The interesting and rather touching letter to “Patsy” Washington was dated Philadelphia, 18th June, 1775.

EX CATHEDRA

The recent appointment of Father Ambroise-Marie Carré to the Académie Française provides an opportunity for a few observations on that august body in particular and on the legislation of language in general. The Académie, which consists of 40 lay and clerical functionaries, was founded in 1635 by Cardinal Richelieu as a “brain trust” for King Louis XIII. But its chief function during the past 100 years or so has been the “protection” of the French language from the contamination by words of other languages. Several years ago, this erupted in a concerted campaign against Franglais, the corruption of the French language as a result of its miscegenation with English. Although the Académie continues its valiant, though bootless efforts–even to the extreme of condoning, if not inspiring the government’s warning to advertisers that a fine would be levied against those who use the interdicted loanwords. It publishes an official dictionary, the latest edition of which appeared in 1905, and a grammar, the eighth edition of which was published in 1935.

The history of the Académie is an interesting one, but a little too involved to recount here. It must be remembered that, literacy being what it was in those days (a condition it seems we are rapidly approaching once again, which, in itself, ought to be a warning to those who yearn for “the good old days”), the nonreading public was more likely to be exposed to any semblance of literature by attending performances at the theater, probably in much the same way in which our functional illiterates establish their relationships with the face of the TV tube. In those days, the government felt compelled to intervene, not to save the people, you understand, but to preserve that extraordinary vehicle–la langue Française–which, as the property of the state, was falling into the hands of aliens, seditionists, and corrupt influences like Moliére, Racine, La Rochefoucauld, and other assorted hoodlums. Among its first accomplishments was a criticism of Le Cid, by Corneille, and it would appear to have gone to greater heights from then on.

With the exception of two minor lacunae, one occasioned by the suppression of all Académies from 1793 to 1803, during the aftermath of a local fracas, the other resulting from the 1940-45 inconvenience, the Académie has continued to flourish.

In addition to its watchdog activities, the Académie dispenses literary prizes, presumably to those authors whose works are free of linguistic transgressions. Generally, the efforts of the Académie have had little or no effect on improving the purity of French and cannot be said to have done very much for its body or flavor, either.

In America, we may deplore the grammar, the rhetoric, the vocabulary, and the lack of expressiveness of governmental officials, of journalists, of entertainers, and of others who may be considered as having some influence on English, if only because they seem to have a dominating control over our media of mass communication. But only a very few of us are purists, and it can be demonstrated that when you scratch a purist you find a liberal. Surely, it would ill suit any speaker of English to forbid any but English root words into the language: the result would be stultifying, throttling. Fully half (if not more) of the current word stock of English has its origins in the Romance languages; another substantial portion comes from almost every other language under the sun.

When the English speaker borrows a word a like succotash or kimono, when he coins one like transistor or telephone, and when he adapts one like zeppelin or pizzeria, he does so consciously, trying in certain instances (transistor, telephone) to be highly denotative and in others (succotash, kimono, zeppelin, pizzeria) to be connotative, as well. English speakers seem to like that exercise, for it is a practice that has become a habit since the Danes, the Angles, and the Saxons got together more than eleven centuries ago.

There is an arbiter neither elegantiarum nor grammaticorum in America. Aside from the futility of it all, perhaps there is something about the idea that interferes with our notions of freedom of speech. As we have noted, though some of us may deplore the inability of others to express themselves in articulate, elegant, “grammatical” style, we must acknowledge that problem as traceable to a lowered standard of education and not to the admittance into the language of foreign contaminants. [As we go to press, we note, for instance, that the New York State Board of Regents has voted, unanimously, to accept a 9th-grade proficiency in English and mathematics as satisfactory for fulfilling the requirements for a high-school diploma.] Some may lament the absence of an Academy devoted to the legislation of English vocabulary, grammar, and syntax, but, judging from the effectiveness of the Académie Française, it seems to us that the archaíc senility of such an activity could be exceeded only by the discovery, somewhere in the outskirts of Paris, of a thriving industry in buggy whips, obsidian knives, and flint arrowheads. [—LU]

EPISTOLAE {David M. Glagovsky}

In your review of the revised edition of The Random House College Dictionary [VERBATIM II, 3], you admit that “Baseball is one of our weakest points” while discussing the definition of designated hitter. While the points you raise are valid, there are two points you make which I feel I must correct.

Pitchers of neither team “resort to a designated hitter.” Rather, a team’s manager decides whether or not to “resort to” using a dh.

In your version of the definition you start with the words “pinch hitter.” Designated hitter and pinch hitter are not synonymous. A ph (or ‘substitute batter,’ to use the term in the official rules) can pinch-hit only once in a game and then must either take the field in the next halfinning (in which case he is no longer a ph because he is batting for himself) or be replaced by a regular fielder. A dh, however, stays in for the entire game. If, on the other hand, a ph substitutes for a dh, the ph then becomes the dh for the rest of the game. See? [David M. Glagovsky, Arlington, Virginia]

[Yes. We made the error of using pinch hitter in the generic sense of ‘any batter who substitutes for another,’ ignoring the fact that it is a very specific, denotative term in base-ball. —Editor [LU] ]

Prepositions and Other Words Not to End a Sentence With

With dismay, perplexity, irony, consternation, and as great a variety of emotions as there are attitudes about language, enough readers have pointed to our occasional use of a preposition at the end of a sentence to warrant our commenting on the subject.

To those who maintain that preposition means ‘in place before,’ we reply that although that’s what it might have meant, etymologically, in Latin, it doesn’t necessarily mean that in English, where it is the name of a grammatical class of words.

To those who cite a “rule” enjoining the ending of a sentence with a preposition, our reply must be a little more complicated. First of all, Who formulated such a, rule? As far as we can determine, its origins can be traced to the 17th-century stylists–Dryden, chief among his contemporaries–who modeled their English on Latin in the vain hope of attaining a “classical” style. They ignored an important fact or two, the most important of which is that English, notwithstanding its huge stock of Romance vocabulary, is of Germanic, not of Latin origin. Languages are classified by their structure, not by their lexicon. Yet, once that has been recognized, can anyone imagine imposing German word order on English? For that matter, normal word order in Latin–with notable exceptions for purposes of style–requires the verb to appear at the end of the sentence; a rule of that kind imposed on English would result in utter chaos.

The fact is that in Latin, the preposition was almost invariably placed before the word it modified. But it is pointless to impose that practice on English.

While we’re at it, we might as well give to the “split-infinitive” rule its quietus: the simple fact is that if one insists on modeling his syntactic style on Latin, one must avoid splitting an infinitive because in Latin the infinitive is a single word, composed of a root (like ama- ‘love’) plus an inflected ending (like the infinitive marker -re). Placing something between them is akin to defying a law of physics, let alone of Latin grammar.

There is yet another point to be made about so-called “prepositions.” Contrary to popular belief, many of the words in English so categorized are actually adverbial particles. For instance, the in in take in ‘deceive,’ the up with in put up with, the off in take off ‘depart,’ behave more like adverbs than like prepositions. How would those who object to ending sentences with prepositions handle perfectly good English utterances like Come in, Charley was easily taken in, His behavior is difficult to put up with, I want to go out, Do you mind if I look on [while you repair that watch]?, The doctor is ready to see you: you may go in, and thousands of others, including, That’s something I don’t wish to comment (up) on, I don’t know what you’re talking about, That remark is uncalled for, and [II, 4] “…acceptability and unacceptability vary with …the degree of ‘perfection’… the purist is capable of insisting upon.”

Style and emphasis favor You’d be so nice to come home to over “It’d be so nice to come home to you,” poetic license notwithstanding

After all, all speakers of every language have at least one artistic talent in common–creating language–and, as we well know, ideas of artistry, creativity, and elegance vary widely. VERBATIM hereby bestows on each and every one of you a Poetic License, irrevocable for as long as you live, no fees or renewals required. [LU]

An Epilogue to “Apostrophes”

A few sharp-eyed readers have pointed out what they took to be an improper use of the apostrophe in our article on that very subject [II, 4]. In the second paragraph appeared the following:

“…we recall that a friend of our parents’ gave…”

and the objection was to the apostrophe after parents.

This is what is generally known as the double genitive (or double possessive), and has a history going back to Old English. Its most common reflex is seen in such constructions as a friend of mine, that remark of his. But when a noun is substituted for the pronoun, the construction persists: a friend of my mother’s. Similarly, a friend of our parents’. We find a play of Shakespeare alternating with a play of Shakespeare’s, the distinction being, perhaps, a matter of style. We happen to prefer the style with the apostrophe.

A Grammar of the English Language, Vol. III, Syntax, George O. Curme, D.C. Heath and Co., 1931, p. 77:

The double genitive and the of-genitive are often used side by side without any differentiation of meaning: a play of Shakespeare’s (or of Shakespeare). But the forms are gradually becoming differentiated. The double genitive is associated with a liveliness of feeling, expressing the idea of approbation, praise, censure, pleasure, displeasure.

Some 40-odd years after that was written, we are not at all sure that we agree with the connotative description, but we are firm in our conviction that the double genitive is an active fact in the English language. [LU]

EPISTOLAE {Arthur J. Morgan}

Professor Fowkes in “Talking Turkey” [VERBATIM II, 3] mentions the fact that a word used for turkey in Hindi is perū. He fails to note, however, that that is the Portuguese for turkey and that the Portuguese navigators and explorers (followed by traders) doubtless brought both the word and the bird to the subcontinent.

In Peru, while it would be delightful if the bird were called ‘hindi,’ it is actually called pavo. This makes it a sort of minor league peacock, since the latter is either pavón or pavo real. However, there is also another word for the turkey in South America which sounds as though it might be a native word: guanajo.

Fowkes suggests that the Italian word for turkey, tacchino is a derivative of tacco, “…but which tacco?” Well, I don’t know what he means by that; tacco is usually ‘heel,’ so tacchino would be ‘little heel.’ This doesn’t appear very likely, but the Italian lexicographer Migliorini could think of nothing better than “forse voce onomatopeica,” ‘possibly onomatopoeic.’ (It is an endearing thought that Italian turkeys cry “Tacchino!” just as the ax falls.) [Arthur J. Morgan, New York, New York]

Giving Up the Ghost

Mabel C. Donnelly
University of Connecticut, Hartford

In the 20th century the major surviving meaning of ghost is, according to the OED, “the soul of a deceased person… appearing in visible form.” This is the meaning associated with Halloween.

Ghost meaning ‘soul or spirit, the principle of life’ survives only in the colloquialism to give up the ghost and in the liturgical Holy Ghost. At the present time, even the liturgical expression is giving way to Holy Spirit.

Early English uses of spirit, according to OED, are derived from “passages in the Vulgate in which spiritus is employed to render Greek pneuma,” [ ‘breath,’ whence pneumatic tire, pneumonia, etc.]. The translation of pneuma by spirit, the OED goes on, “is common to all versions in the Bible from Wyclif onward.”

But examination of the Gospel according to St. Mark, i, King James version, shows verse 8, “baptizing with the Holy Ghost,” whereas verse 10 refers to “a spirit, like a dove, descending.” In King James, then, as in references during the Middle Ages, Cursor Mundi and others, both ghost and spirit were used without constraint, often interchangeably.

Only recently has the Catholic church expressed a preference for Holy Spirit rather than Holy Ghost. A Catholic Dictionary, D. Attwater, ed., 3rd ed., 1958, cites “a tendency nowadays to prefer Holy Spirit” because of the “common meaning” of the word ghost referring to “apparitions or illusions.” Ghost, says the Dictionary is certainly archaic.”

So it seems that in mid-20th century ghost has been put in the prison of Halloween.

BIBLIOGRAPHIA

SLIPS OF SPEECH John H. Bechtel, The Penn Publishing Company, 1901 (Republished by Gale Research Company, 1974)

Rarely use a foreign term when your meaning can be as well expressed in English. Instead of blasé [sic], use surfeited or wearied; for cortége use procession; for couleur de rose, rose-color; for déjeuner, breakfast; for employé, employee; for en route, on the way; for entre nous, between ourselves; for fait accompli, an accomplished fact; for in toto, wholly, entirely; for penchant, inclination; for raison d’être, reason for existence; for recherché, choice, refined; for rôle, part; for soirée dansante, an evening dancing party; for sub rosa, secretly, etc.

The selection quoted above and this book are important, for they illustrate how style and even meaning in language have changed during a brief 75 years. Of the items listed, today’s speakers of English would probably consider only couleur de rose, déjeuner, employé, and the archaic soirée dansante (replaced by the later, but now also archaic thé dansant) as affected. But the rest–11 out of 15–are readily encountered in common speech and writing. These deal less with the question of fashion in language than with language itself. One, recherché, has a more common sense today as ‘arcane, recondite, obscure’ than as ‘choice, refined,’ though dictionaries still list the older sense, chiefly because it may well be encountered in writings more than 50 years old.

Language fashions change, too: under “Trite Expressions,” we can find such unfamiliar “stereotypes” as counterfeit presentment, the hymeneal altar, the rose upon the cheek, the debt of nature, the bourne whence no traveler returns, the devouring element, a brow of alabaster.

Under “Very Vulgar Vulgarisms,” we find (among regionalisms and eye-dialectalisms) fooling you, lots of, teeny. Included is a list of “objectionable expressions' that was prepared by William Cullent Bryant for his staff when he was editor of The Evening Post. Among them are many that we continue to find in poor style today: gents, (to) decease, darkey. But a major portion of the items on the list are quite standard today: of specific words to avoid, we know of no modern injunctions against bogus, collided, compete, donate, and many others; of substitutions, we find quaint such interdictions as casket (for coffin), jubi- lant (for rejoicing), official (for officer), pants (for pantaloons), reliable (for trustworthy), and quite (when prefixed to good, large, etc.).

Perhaps a little expensive for the average book buyer, this small volume is nonetheless recommended for libraries whose users are interested in the development of the English language and in the contemporary history of its usage. [LU]

THE LANGUAGE OF MEDICINE John D. Dirckx, M.D., Harper & Row, 1976

As the subtitle of this curious but intriguing little paperbook informs us, Dr. Dirckx has written a book that deals with the evolution, structure and dynamics of words used in the medical profession. The author, Medical Director of the Student Health Center at the University of Dayton, makes it quite clear that he is writing especially for members of the medical profession–but trusts that non-physicians will find his book both instructive and entertaining.

A few years ago this reviewer foolishly thought that he knew a little bit about the English language, but after 16 years as a professional medical writer and editor, including five years spent as a medical lexicographer (with sidetracks into the murky depths of general lexicography), it can truthfully be said that the mind not only boggles but nearly collapses under the weight and complexity of the information Dirckx offers.

This book will be of interest to many readers of VERBATIM–not just as persons involved in language and the magic of words generally, but as potential or actual patients who want to learn more about the jargon that is sometimes necessary in medicine (together with the concealment of ignorance, which is not).

At first glance, this book appears to contain about 5,000 pages. This is a deception of reading time. Each page is closely packed with words, words, words–key entries in italics (fully indexed) with snap comments about their etymologies and current standings. The book is fairly loosely structured. It contains seven chapters, dealing with everything from medical slang, jargon, and gibberish to modern coinages, abbreviations, and trade names.

In spite of the fact that the author points out errors of usage and lack of clarity in medical writing, he attempts to justify the use of much medical jargon by claiming that only medical writers and journal editors care about accuracy and that physicians understand well enough the logical absurdities involved. He comments that a patient might talk of a “shiner” whereas a doctor (holy of holies) would speak of a “periorbital ecchymosis,” which is true only if you could imagine a doctor referring to cephalalgia instead of a headache or odontalgia instead of a toothache. It just isn’t done in practice, except for papers submitted to medical journals; and the editors of such journals will soon set the author straight.

Occasionally, Dirckx steps into a nicely planned trap of his own design. He claims that “several physicians have a regrettable habit of inventing, or at least misapplying, terms to cover their inability to arrive at a diagnosis. There must be several million people who have been told by their physicians that they have low blood pressure, a condition unknown to writers of textbooks of medicine.” On that point one must question the author about his medical qualifications, especially since he makes such a big point of this so-called error. The fact happens to be that every major medical textbook in the world lists low blood pressure (under the medical heading hypotension). The only technical point to be conceded is that low blood pressure is not a disease entity but a feature of some primary disorders (Addison’s disease being the best known). Of course, low pressure is also a fact in acute shock (circulatory collapse) and other conditions, such as myocardial infarction, orthostatic hypotension, and hemorrhagic fever. One leading medical textbook (Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine, p. 225) even mentions that chronic low blood pressure may be a feature in “malnutrition, cachexia, chronic bed rest, and a variety of neurologic disorders… especially in the standing position.”

It is no fun to pick on errors, simple or complex. The fact is that this book is quite useful and makes extremely interesting reading.

Dirckx occasionally pokes fun at his fellow physicians. He mentions that, “Though they readily stretch the meanings of words, physicians show little imagination or initiative in the fabrication of new words in medicalese. Exceptions are retrospectoscope, a mythical instrument with which the pathologist is reputed to achieve 20/20 hindsight in identifying the errors and omissions of the clinician, and the acronymic Gok’s disease (God only knows).”

American doctors have traditionally been looked upon by their patients as nearly mystical and gódlike super-beings. It is refreshing to see a book that attempts to prick the bubble of this illusion, even though the primary audience may not find it altogether amusing. Much of the magic of medical jargon is exploded. Technical terms are revealed as smokescreens for ignorance or insecurity in many cases. The play must go on. As the author tells us, “Besides the special jargon that physicians use when they speak to patients about technical matters, there is yet another patois in which doctors converse among themselves about these matters when they must do so in the presence of the patient. The former idiom is intended to make complex ideas intelligible, the latter to make simple ideas opaque.”

—Edward R. Brace, Fellow, American Medical Writers Association, Aylesbury, Bucks., England

EPISTOLAE {Henriette Berger}

“They Don’t Write English Like They Used To” [VERBATIM II, 3] suggests that they don’t write French or German like they used to either. The pâté-mad Alsatians mentioned, if French-speaking, spell the name of their city Strasbourg. Those who are German-speaking spell it Strassburg. “Strassbourg” must be the Freutschais spelling. [Henriette Berger, Oberlin, Ohio]

EPISTOLAE {Sterling Eisiminger}

College Slang 1975

Slang, the area of language that allows the linguist to show himself human, reveals much of the humor and ingenuity of language makers. Most of us have coined a phrase or word at one time, and all have used or not used fore, make language.

The following are some current slang expressions collected on the campus of Clemson University, Clemson, South Carolina.

ace, v. to do very well on a test. Also, blitz.

bean up, v. to take drugs in order to study all night.

bitch building, a sorority dormitory.

blitz, v. See ace.

bomb, v. to do very poorly on a test. Also, flag.

Bugs Zoo, an introductory course in entomology.

dude ranch, a fraternity dormitory.

Flick Lit., an introductory course in film.

flag, v. See bomb.

gaper, n. a conspicuous fraternity pledge.

get jacked, to become enthusiastic about a game, course, weekend, etc.

goob, n. a large pimple. Also, pointer, zit.

gorp, n. “if he were the last male on earth you’d be reluctant to date him.”

Grit Lit., a course in southern literature.

grub, v. to pet.

hunk, n. a handsome, well-built male.

Land of the Midnight Sun, the architecture building, as a rule, where projects continue day and night.

lavaliered, adj. pre-engaged.

library, n. the bathroom, largely because in the dormitory it is the only quiet place to study.

lunch lip, a voracious lip.

munchies, n.pl. snacks.

mystery meat, suspicious cold cuts.

nerd, n. a conceited gorp.

Pimple Lit., a course in adolescent literature.

Po, n. affectionate term for the post office.

pointer, n. See goob.

poop file, a fraternity file of old tests.

pork it, what a lunch lip does best.

query, n. a test.

rack, n. the female chest.

rack monster, one inordinately fond of his bed.

scope, v. to look over at a classmate’s test paper.

shoot some hoops, to play an informal game of basketball.

sleeze, n. a loose woman. Also, slooze.

smoker, n. a fraternity party held to recruit pledges.

spaced, adj. wigged, freaked, or otherwise slightly removed from reality.

submarine races, the, a favorite necking spot.

suckin' wind, in danger of failing.

turkey, n. an undesirable. Also zero.

zit, n. See goob.

[Sterling Eisiminger, Clemson University]

EPISTOLAE {Stanley M. Holberg}

Shortly after reading “You Know What” [VERBATIM II, 3], I caught myself writing, in a letter to a friend, “His health has had its ups and its you-know-whats,” and it occurred to me that there is a motive for using this substitution formula that Professor Read did not mention in his enjoyable article. I think that it is not an uncommon tactic to employ the formula in order to say to one’s hearer or reader, in effect, “I am using a tired old expression, but I want you to know that I am well aware of doing so.” To say, “He is living in a fool’s you-know-what,” is narrowly to skirt banality, and this, you will agree, is to be avoided like the you-know-what. [Stanley M. Holberg, St. Lawrence University]

EPISTOLAE {Norman R. Shapiro}

Constant Rider’s comments on baseball Spanglish [VERBATIM II, 3] invite comparison with French-Canadian baseball terminology. Obviously more linguistically chauvinistic than our neighbors to the south–being more linguistically vulnerable–the Canadians have developed a complete native vocabulary. Some terms–le but, la manche, la chandelle–have been borrowed from other sports. Most, however, have been manufactured out of whole cloth by sportswriters and announcers and officially adopted after frequently lengthy deliberations.

Thus, in Canadian parlance, a frappeur ‘batter’ will come up to the marbre ‘plate’ (lit. ‘marble’), face the lanceur ‘pitcher’ on the monticule ‘mound’ who, in turn, lance la balle ‘pitches the ball’ to the receveur ‘catcher.’ The pitch may be a rapide ‘fast ball,’ a courbe ‘curve,’ even a tirebouchon ‘screwball’ (lit. ‘corkscrew’). If the batter s'élance dans le vide ‘swings and misses’ (lit. ‘lurches out into space’) or lets a good pitch get by, he is penalized with a prise ‘strike,’ the third of which–result of a bad swing or a décision de l’arbitre ‘called strike’ (lit. ‘umpire’s judgment’)–produces a retrait sur prises ‘strikeout’ (lit. ‘withdrawal on strikes’). Four balls, on the other hand, put him on base with a but sur balles ‘base on balls.’ He may, of course, frapper un coup sûr ‘get a hit’ (lit. ‘hit a safe shot’), from a simple ‘single’ to a circuit ‘home run,’ or a fausse balle ‘foul ball,’ or a ballon au champ extérieur ‘outfield fly,’ or a flêche ‘line drive’ (lit. ‘arrow’), or a roulant ‘ground ball’ (lit. ‘roller’), etc.

A chandelle ‘pop-up’ (lit. ‘candle’) may be caught by the arrêt-court ‘shortstop,’ who, if he is fast enough, may doubler les coureurs sur les pistes ‘double up the runners on the base paths’ and terminer la manche ‘end the inning.’

Suffice it to say that while the foregoing terms–and dozens more–are ostensibly French, few Frenchmen would have the vaguest notion of the scenario they describe. Proof that, in the sports realm at least, France and French Canada, like the England and America of Churchill’s famous comment, continue to be two countries separated by the same language. [Norman R. Shapiro, Wesleyan University]

EPISTOLAE {H. N. Meng}

Even the best writers (novelists, historians, columnists, etc.) seem to have trouble with contractions of what I always thought to be spirit and image. We get spitting image, spit ‘n’ image, and a few other variations. It seems to me that the only correct contraction should be spi’t ‘n’ image.

Regarding Norman Shapiro’s wonderment about I could care less [VERBATIM II, 4], it is my opinion that it’s just plain sloppy talk by people who couldn’t care less about what they are uttering. It sounds O.K. to their careless ears. These same people would never say “I could agree more.” [H. N. Meng, Bethesda, Maryland]

EPISTOLAE {A. Ross Eckler}

Jon Mills asks [II, 4] for other words besides facetious which use vowels in sequence. Besides the well-known abstemious, one can find parecious, arsenious, acheilous, acheirous, bacterious, arterious, affectious, fracedinous, acleistous and annelidous in Webster’s Second. Is it possible to find a word with vowels in order that does not end in -ous? I haven’t found one in Webster’s but cacheticorum and arteriosum are in Dorland’s Illustrated Medical Dictionary, and conus arteriosus is in Webster’s Third.

The November 1968 and February 1970 issues of WORD WAYS, the Journal of Recreational Linguistics, generalized the AEIOU problem by asking for Websterian examples of words containing each of the 120 different possible orderings of the vowels. Examples for 109 were eventually located–all but AEIUO, AUIEO, EAIUO, IAEUO, IAUEO, IEAUO, IUEOA, OAIEU, OAUEI, OEIAU and UIAEO), and the word Milquetoast (in Webster’s Third) was subsequently found to fill one of these holes.

Short well-known eight-letter words with the vowels each represented once are dialogue and euphoria. Two seven-letter examples besides sequoia, are moineau and miaoued. The French language has a fine six-letter example, oiseau.

Mr. Mills also mentions the vowel-replacement problem, exemplified by pack-peck-pick-pock-puck. Examples of these are so easy to find that WORD WAYS readers introduced the additional constraint of Y as a vowel. In the August 1975 issue, Darryl Francis proposed mathmeth-mith-moth-muth-myth: meth is in A Dictionary of New English (1973), and the others are in Webster’s Third. In the November 1975 issue, several readers pointed out the examples Dane-dene-dine-done-dune-dyne (all in the Penguin Dictionary of English) and pale-Pele-pilepole-pule-pyle (all in the Funk & Wagnalls College Dictionary). Mana-mane-mani-mano-Manu-many can all be found in Webster’s Third. In the February 1976 issue, Dmitri Borgmann gives examples of from three to eight letters in length, but he must use obsolete words from the Oxford English Dictionary in the longer examples. [A. Ross Eckler, Morristown, New Jersey]

[A general round of applause (one hand clapping) to those readers who sent in abstemious. As for the vowel-sequence problem, it might be solved most neatly by a fast chorus of Old MacDonald Had a Farm! This gives us the opportunity to call our readers' attention to the excellent quarterly periodical, WORD WAYS, published by Mr. Eckler. WW is filled with word games, articles on some of the more recondite anomalies of language, and a great deal of linguistic acrobatics. A sample issue is $2.00; a year’s subscription, $8.00. Address WORD WAYS, Spring Valley Road, Morristown, NJ 07960, and send remittance in full with your order.—Editor [LU]]

EPISTOLAE {Robert L. Bates}

Although Bruce D. Price is quite correct that Noun-speak [VERBATIM II, 4] has become endemic in the language, he cites only one lengthy example, U.S. Air Force aircraft fuel systems equipment mechanics course. This is fair specimen. But General Electric has issued an earth resources technology satellite data collection platform field installation, operation and maintenance manual, and the University of Michigan has produced a shore erosion engineering demonstration project post-construction season progress interim report. Many, many more examples could be cited from the world of science and technology.

My own interest is the expression that consists of an adjective followed by two nouns. This construction, which is innocent of hyphens, I term the Lulu. It is especially poignant in the names of occupations. Thus we see want-ads for a vibrating equipment manager, a buried pipeline designer, and a destructive lab technician. When a dangerous de-fusing job is to be done, we call on an unexploded bomb expert. There is a girl in the business office of a midwestern University whose official title is Dishonored Check Collector. Occasionally a super-Lulu appears, as in the ad in the Wall Street Journal for a frozen ethnic food manufacturer. Luluized groups are not uncommon: NASA has an Energetic Particle Team, and the governor of California can call on a 7-person mudslide advisory panel (7-person mudslides are something like 4-person bobsleds, I assume). The students at Caltech can partake of meals like an interstellar molecular sack lunch seminar, and those at the University of Kansas can eat at a home cooked family owned restaurant.

It is clear that mixing in a few adjectives with Noun-speak greatly increases its range and flexibility. I’d like to comment further on this, but you’ll have to excuse me. Lulu just called. I have an appointment at the Contaminated Soil Removal Facility. [Robert L. Bates, Columbus, Ohio]

EPISTOLAE {Harold F. Osborne}

In reference to Russell Slocum’s article, “A Quick Brown Fox Jumps Over the Cwm Fjord-Bank Glyph Biz” [VERBATIM II, 4], let me suggest that now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of holo-alphabetic precision.

Slocum’s apocryphal story of the World War I crypto-analyist to the contrary notwithstanding, the sentence offered as an illustration of typical holo-alphabetical brevity (at 34 letters) is just not holo-alphabetic. He may offer, and VERBATIM may publish, his example, Pack my bag with five dozen liquor jugs, but this does not make the sentence fit the basic definition, since it contains no x, thereby invalidating it either for intellectual exercise or cryptoanalysis.

The correct version, of course, is Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs. Slocum perhaps can take comfort in the fact the sentence is often misquoted as Pack my bag with six dozen liquor jugs, presumably for the sake of a more euphonious rhythm; this version, alack, lacks the v.

Let me now progress from this quick quibble to a more civil cavil. Slocum began by identifying A quick brown fox… as a “grammer school writing exercise” incorporatin all 26 letters of the alphabet in a 33-letter sentence. This suggests that in Reading, Pa., or elsewhere, pupils still are being taught penmanship, something that will be news to parents and educators of most communities.

Be that as it may, I submit that Slocum’s example, again, is more representative of cerebral wishing among those who are obsessed with brevity as a desideratum than it is of actual usage. The standard version of this sentence is The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’s back, as everyone knows who has tried out a new typewriter on a merchant’s display. The important attribute of this sentence is that, when combined with the numerals, it tests the full set of typewriter keys and also just fills a single line across standard 8½" × 11" typing paper with this neat pica display:

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog’s back 1234567890.

Also, unmentioned by Slocum is the use of “The fox” (and not “A fox”)–sentence and numerals–as the standard automatic tape-driven test for teletype function, known to generations of telegraphers, telephone long-lines troubleshooters, and wire-service newsmen. This invariable, longer version has the additional advantage that on repetitive lines the letters and numerals are displayed in vertical columns, plainly revealing what particular combination of electrical symbols is at fault, as well as providing a neat all-over pattern charting the fox’s track as he pursues his carefree track across and down the page, as well as over the lazy dog’s back. [Harold F. Osborne, Bethesda, Maryland]

EPISTOLAE {Douglas T. Henderson}

According to your May issue [VERBATIM II, 1], Sanka brings five cups of coffee in Canada. My friend R. L. D. claims that when he orders a dry martini in Berlin, they bring him three…. [Douglas T. Henderson, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania]

EPISTOLAE {A. W. Reichel}

Spanish author Pío Baroja said there existed a storehouse of verbal adornments, popular words and phrases commonly known and employed. He declared that he tried to avoid the place.

I once decided to stop requisitioning the hackneyed adj.-adv. pretty. I shortly discovered a formidable professional element among the pro-prettys arrayed against me.

From that very day’s newspapers, the Wall Street Journal had “pretty well-known fact” (quoting a Radcliffe sophomore); the same paper’s book reviewer’s column had “pretty impressive personalities”; The Christian Science Monitor’s Editor’s column had “pretty obvious”; the Los Angeles Times had “pretty petty” (quoting the Mayor at a press conference), and a TV newscaster added “pretty quickly.”

Edwin Newman’s Strictly Speaking devotes several paragraphs to pretty good.

Tracing the usage back to Shakespeare’s time (“A pretty while these pretty creatures stand …” Lucrece, 1.1233) and beyond only adds to the seeming indispensability of the practice.

The Dictionary of American Slang shows how humorist James Thurber handled the situation by carrying the usage to its ultimate foolishness. He described a building as “…a little big and pretty ugly.” [A. W. Reichel, Los Angeles, California]

EPISTOLAE {Gloria Dawkins}

Are any business executives, I wonder, losing sleep over how to dictate letters to their feminist secretaries?

Years ago, in secretarial school, I was taught that the proper salutation in a letter addressed generally to a business firm was “Gentlemen:”. Does the considerate boss of today start his dictation with “Gentlepersons:”?

And what will become of “Dear Sir:”? There are alternatives that have been used in the past–and may still be in use for all I know–but they have slightly comic overtones. “Dear Sir or Madame:”, for instance, carries the implication that there is some uncertainty in the writer’s mind as to the sexual leanings of the person addressed. There is no such vacillation in “Dear Sir/Madame:”. Here, the writer has clearly made up his mind that he is addressing an out-and-out hermaphrodite. “Dear Person:” has a somewhat disparaging air to it and might be useful for irate letters to banks or credit departments about their alleged computer breakdowns. However, it wouldn’t do for companies or customers whose good will is sought.

One solution might be to omit the salutation entirely in impersonal letters of this kind, in which case the closing “Yours very truly,” would be superfluous. Could the result be called a letter of any sort? The unthinking courtesy of most business letters may be phoney–after all, I know the bank manager isn’t truly mine or even respectfully mine, nor does he hold me particularly dear–but there is a kind of Dickensian charm about it that I like. [Gloria Dawkins, Unionville, Ontario, Canada]

EPISTOLAE {Mary M. Roche}

I enjoyed very much the article “Where the Harts Wear Pants” by Sister Mary Terese Donze [VERBATIM II, 4].

I recall that in my fourth grade experience it was not the hymns that puzzled me, but Church History. The “Diet of Worms” I firmly believed to be a bad name for Martin Luther. It seemed a bit revolting, but fairly appropriate. Not until the seventh grade did I learn that diet was the name of a legislative assembly, and Worms was the name of a German city. Now in a good ecumenical spirit we sing hymns written by Martin Luther. May he rest in peace! [Mary M. Roche, Meriden, Connecticut]

EPISTOLAE {Edwin H. Hammock}

Anent the Gratuitous Negative [VERBATIM II, 2], when I arrived in Central Ohio circa 1929, it was common in rural parts to hear, I doubt he’ll not be here tonight.

The inverse of the Gratuitous Negative: Thanks a lot really means ‘No thanks for that left-handed compliment’; while Thanks a million still conveys a great thanks.

Shame on W.M. Woods [II, 4] and his search re cowbird, Molothrus ater. In 1828, in American Orthnic Biography, Audubon wrote, “From the resemblance of its notes to that of the word ‘cow-cow’, this cuckoo is named Cowbird in nearly every part of the union.” [Edwin H. Hammock, Columbus, Ohio]

EPISTOLAE {Candace Murray Huddleston}

Until sixty years or so ago when Kentuckians began filtering into our east central Indiana farm community populated by descendants of local pioneers, there wasn’t a creek in the whole township. We had spring branches– whether the “spring” was because they flowed from springs or flowed mainly in spring and tended to dry up come summer might be something to look into–but when they flowed they flowed into cricks where we swam and caught shiners and crawdads and tadpoles; and also hellgrammites for bait for bigger fish in bigger cricks and the river.

We also have a brook now. A few years ago a transplanted New England couple built a house above our Fall Crick. They are trying but have not qualified yet for their naturalization papers. They keep forgetting that their brook is a crick, and they still bring up water in a pail, which hitherto hereabouts had been only what Jack and Jill went up the hill with.

Our neighbors from back east take paper bags along on mushroom hunts; those from Kentucky take pokes; and we natives take sacks.

Though Webster’s was the only dictionary in our early farm library, we went along with Oxford preferred when we greazed our wagon wheels with axle grease, getting our hands greazy, too.

And more on Dr. Kurath’s Mary. New neighbors from Kentucky who moved to a farm up the road a piece from us had a daughter Murray, same as our last name. They spelled it M-a-r-y. [Candace Murray Huddleston, Connersville, Indiana]

EPISTOLAE {W. M. Woods}

This refers to the note of Philip E. Hager [VERBATIM II, 4].

I had never before heard of his ditch and delve. The counting rhyme, as I remember it from my childhood, goes: Eleven, twelve, dig and delve.

Dig and delve are more nearly synonyms than are his ditch and delve. And the assonance is more effective. The tongue attacks the next syllable from the position it was left in by the preceding syllable without any need for silent repositioning.

If Hager really wants to get into what he calls “specific binomials,” he should examine the language of the law, of lawyers: aid and abet, cease and desist, to wit and in particular, find and discover, disclose and admit, ad nauseam.

I wish to comment on the expression any more. My comments may have some pertinence to dialect geography. Bergen Evans and Cornelia Evans in their Dictionary of Contemporary American Usage (Random House, New York, 1957) give the examples He doesn’t come here any more and We go there often any more, and state that in the examples any more means simply ‘now.’

I believe the linguistic situation is more complicated. I believe that in the negative usage He doesn’t come here any more the term means ‘He used to come here [perhaps habitually], but he doesn’t come here now.’ In my experience, the negative usage would be so understood over most of the United States and perhaps in most of Canada.

My first acquaintance with the affirmative usage of any more was in middle-eastern Illinois and contiguous parts of Indiana–Robinson, Palestine, Olney, Illinois and Vincennes, Dugger, Bloomington, perhaps Indianapolis, Indiana. In that region, at least, the statement We go there often any more means ‘We used to go there often, then we stopped going there for some time, but now we go there often again.’ A specific example from my own experience is Did you know the Ten Cent Store has those jelly orange candy slices any more? [Note to Bruce D. Price: Not only scientists abuse the noun-adjective, or run-on noun; farmers do it too.] This meant that the Ten Cent Store once sold the candy routinely, then stopped selling it, is now doing it again.

In that region, the use of any more, either affirmative or negative, is often prefatory, as Any more, I go to bed before ten, or Any more, I can’t remember anything. These mean, respectively, ‘I used to stay up past ten, but now I go to bed before ten,’ and ‘I used to remember most things, but now I can’t remember anything.’ You will notice that the prefatory use of any more conforms to the Evanses interpretation of the affirmative use, meaning simply ‘now.’ The final placement of the affirmative any more has a different meaning, a more complicated meaning. [W. M. Woods, Oak Ridge, Tennessee]

EPISTOLAE {James Dunne}

For years I have been an avid reader of advertisements; the Madison Avenue boys would find me the perfect target for their endless nonsense. I have reveled in the puns, errors, idiotic claims and materialistic appeals of these creative writers. Ernest Dichter’s The Strategy of Desire (Doubleday and Company, Inc., 1960) became my laugh-inducing Bible for years.

Who would have thought that, with all this background in commercial falderal, I would find the most outrageous advertising claim right here in Pomona? A sign in a local jewelry store states the following:

Ears pierced FREE—While you wait!

VERBATIM is wonderful! Keep it coming! [James Dunne, Pomona, California]

EPISTOLAE {Kenneth Godfrey}

Since two recent issues of VERBATIM have contained lists of unusual names, perhaps you would be willing to add my collection:

Luther Orange Lemon, who was on Ms. Brown’s list [VERBATIM II, 2], was also on mine, because he was a man I knew in business. [Kenneth Godfrey, Orient, New York]

Here are a few from our collection:

Editor [LU]

EPISTOLAE {Paul S. Falla}

To the American example right down [I, 1] might be added W. S. Gilbert, The Gondoliers, finale of Act I: a right-down regular Royal Queen.

There is a good example of the “Gratuitous Negative” [II, 2] in Sterne’s Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy (1760 ff.), Book V, Chapter VII, which runs: “He is certainly dead.–So am not I, said the foolish scullion.”

Professor Fowkes gives words for turkey in many languages [II, 3], but he does not mention that the Portuguese for it is peru. I wonder if the Hindi can by any chance be derived from this. Incidentally, in Spanish un Perú means ‘a fortune.’ According to Corominas, the Spaniards used pavo (from Latin) for peacock until the turkey came along, whereupon they transferred this word to it and called the peacock pavo real (where real means ‘true, real,’ and not ‘royal,’ as might be thought). Italian tacchino is onomatopoeic, according to Olivieri’s etymological dictionary. He compares Serbian tuka ‘turkey’ and Turkish tavuk ‘hen.’

Mr. Sharp [II, 3] seems to be indulging in folk-etymology. …[The] obvious connotation of the name Smerdyakov is smerdet', ‘to stink,’ which is cognate with merde. Smert' ‘death’ is from a different root and is cognate with Latin mors: the reason for the Slav prefix s- is an interesting one. English smart is not connected with either of the above but perhaps with Latin mordeo ‘to bite.’ For authorities see the etymological dictionaries of Russian, Latin and English by Vasmer, Walde and Onions, respectively. [Paul S. Falla, Bromley, Kent, England]

EPISTOLAE {Valentina Litvinoff}

I am amazed that your commentators upon the subject have failed to connect Smerdyakov with the word which surely is the immediate association for any Russian: smerd'. It is an old Slavic word denoting ‘evil emanation, odor.’ Equally evocative is the verb smerdet'. Its meaning: ‘to stink.’

But Dostoevski drew upon more than one associative source: the word smerd (without the “soft sign”) is an ancient and pejorative one for ‘serf, vassal.’

Thus one need not reach farther than the actual first syllable of the character’s name. Dostoevski obviously wished less to suggest ‘death,’ as has been put forward, than–Dickens-like–the qualities of this man. [Valentina Litvinoff, New York, New York]

[Which is what we said at the very outset! [II, 2] —Editor [LU]]

EPISTOLAE {Ronald K. DeFord}

In the 1930’s the editors of the AMERICAN SPECTATOR–Eugene O’Neill, Theodore Dreiser, George Jean Nathan, Branch Cabell, Charles Angoff–raised hell with the newspapers for the spellings (still prevalent) kidnaper and kidnaping. Would they complain about your diagraming [II, 3]?

Turkeys do have a native name, guajolote, in Mexico; I was surprised that Fowkes [II, 3] didn’t mention it. But he also neglected the Spanish pavo, even though the species name of the wild turkey is gallopavo. A young domestic turkey is called cocono or coconito. Santamaria, Diccionario de Mejicanismos, also records the more local names cihuatotolin, conche, mulito, pipila, and totol. [Ronald K. DeFord, Austin, Texas]

_[On diagraming, etc.: The “rules” of American English spelling, notwithstanding O’Neill, et al., provide that the terminal consonant of an unstressed final syllable should not be doubled when an ending is added. British practice differs. Hence:

AMERICAN	BRITISH
diagraming	diagramming
labeling	labelling
paneling	panelling
programing (concert)	programming (from programme)
programming (computer)	programming (from U.S. usage)

Practice in America varies to some extent, but variations are considered departures from the “rule.”

_We have always considered the prevalent practice in America to spell programming _(computer) with two m’s _as attributable to the unavoidable conclusion that computer specialists are simply bad spellers. In school, we were taught to spell kidnaper and kidnaping with single p’s. —Editor [LU]]

EPISTOLAE {Woodruff W. Byrne}

Referring to Constants Rider’s letter on Spanglish [II, 3], the examples could be augmented by hundreds more from Ricardo J. Alfaro’s Diccionario de anglicismos (2nd ed., Madrid, 1964). which is a whole 480-page dictionary full of them.

The form keks ‘cakes’–I don’t deny that it exists–is certainly un-Spanish-looking. Spanish orthography would normally call for queques. In fact, the form panqueques (sometimes panquequas) is fairly common in parts of Latin America.

A few corrections: Accent marks are needed on béisbol, fútbol and vólibol. Also:

sueter should be suéter
champu should be champú
mitín should be mitin
lider should be líder
folklorico should be folklórico

Concerning the question, Where did the n come from, instead of m, in jonrón ‘home run’?, the answer is simply that Spanish phonology does not permit an m at the end of a syllable when followed by r, nor, for that matter, at the end of a word (with the exception of a few Latinisms, e.g., álbum, máximum, mínimum).

Another Spanish phonological taboo: words beginning with st- or sp- require an initial vowel, e.g., estudiar, español. That’s why the wine named Spañdada may be O.K. as wine, but its name is phoney Spanish. English, of course, has analogous taboos: we have no words beginning with sb- or sg- or sd-, though they are common in Italian. [Woodruff W. Byrne, Sarasota, Florida]

EPISTOLAE {Robert Gorham Davis}

I have always shared your reviewer’s delight in the hodge-podge of colorful information in Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable [II, 3]. But to judge by an example trustingly cited in the review, this information can be conspicuously inaccurate.

“Cupid’s golden arrow is virtuous love,” we are told, with Midsummer Night’s Dream cited in support. Ovid’s tale of Apollo and Daphne is given as evidence that “Cupid’s leaden arrow is sensual passion.”

Not so. According to Ovid, when Apollo spoke scornfully of Cupid as a bowman, Cupid in revenge shot a golden arrow into Apollo, which inflamed him with love for Daphne. But Cupid pierced Daphne with a leaden arrow, which made her desperately flee Apollo’s love and develop an aversion to the very word lover.

Curiously enough, Brewer conveniently prints accurately in Latin the key passage from Ovid, but both the Brewer editor and your reviewer must not have read it or noticed the crucial word fugat.

Midsummer Night’s Dream is equally unsupportive in the matter of virtue. Along with swearing by Cupid’s golden arrow, Hermia swears “by the fire which burn’d the Carthage Queen.” In the case of Dido as in that of Apollo, it is quite evidently the intensity and irresistibility of the love caused by Cupid’s golden arrow that counts, and not any distinction between the sensual and the virtuous. [Robert Gorham Davis, Columbia University]

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